Re-run here five years later as reminder and because I like it . . . the telling, that is . . .
On this day I set my sights on the 7:38 #22 bus at Clark and Balmoral, destination the church of my choice at (roughly) Chicago and Ogden/Milwaukee, which is (roughly) a half hour by auto, an hour by bus. Not doing auto (a) for change and (b) driving takes more out of me that I want to expend so early in the day.
However: Getting to the Clark Street assignation early, I unfortunately decide what the hay, tempted by the appearance on the scene of the earlier bus, thinking I’d get to church earlier — for the 8:30 mass. Alas . . . but let the scene play out.
My Clark bus reaches Lawrence, 8 blocks on, at 7:30, moving right along, hustle, hustle, driver doing his stuff, no nonsense. And before we know it, Montrose, mile and half to go to my transfer. Then Irving, a mile. Making good time — on a Saturday morning, what did you expect? Too good as it happened: remember, I’m early because I took that bus before the one I was told to take. Now I was heading toward the long wait.
Crack! What the . . . ? My cane. Made god-awful sound, slipping from its moorings to the floor.
Finally Belmont, where I get off. It’s also Halsted, because Clark has been bending east, drawing closer to the lake as the lake front moved west. Ah the intricacies. Halsted would straighten me out, put me on the straight and narrow toward Chicago Ave. and the church of my choice.
Alas again, I am arriving too soon and now enjoy 15-20 minutes of standing in nippy weather watching all the cars go by (not many, at that) waiting for the bus which would have been pretty much just arriving if I’d followed the Google map lead and taken the later #22 bus.
Lesson: Follow instructions.
It’s chilly but not bitter, but I have to stand, ok? Leaning on cane and pole and fence can do so much for a nagging lower back, ok? OK. I manage, and finally my bus comes and the young man and young woman stand back for me to get on first and we’re off and running, I to Chicago Ave. two and a half miles away, on a route that I’d driven enough to become weary of, and here is where busing pays off. I sit and watch the signs go by, taking a bus “and leaving the driving to us,” as transit lines all over.
At Fullerton, a mile on, a homeless black guy gets on with cart stuffed with his belongings. Took a seat across from me after paying fare with COINS. Yes sir. Not me, of course. I use my CTA debit card, automatically replenished for me out of my Visa Card, whose bill I pay monthly via my Chase Pay. It’s the way to do it, believe me. Had got my CTA card with its low-cost senior-discount built-in usability downtown, in a State of Illinois office where the nice black lady took my picture. It’s the way to do it, I say.
I did have to admit this paying-with-coins business put my time on the street corner in perspective, however.
Down Halsted now, very much a retail street, not a big box to be seen. Eateries too, and bars. Lots of vintage atmosphere, variety of appearances. Not a wide right-of-way. Nor heavily running bus routes either, as noted already.
Now the homeless man is on the phone, arranging something, checking on details. Quiet, businesslike, no mumbling, no ‘hood patois. Shit happens to us all, of course. Did to him at one point, was my guess.
I look up at this point and finally notice the box of fresh masks on the flat baggage shelf on your left as you enter. Took note. On a return-home bus I noticed another. It’s a bus thing, I later realized. Get on a bus, there they are, on your left. the little box of masks.
Then North Avenue, a mile from destination. Once there, I hoof it to the church of my choice, whose steeple is clearly seen a few blocks to the west. Snow is almost all melted, it was a clear day and a nice quarter-mile walk. End of trip getting there.
The mass is low and in Latin, with English epistle and gospel readings from the pulpit and sermon. Quiet time, all in typical reverential manner to which this congregation from far and wide has become accustomed. It’s why they (as I) chose and remain with it.
I am distracted often enough by family members fore and across the aisle, including a brother-sister pair, I’d say 4 and 5 years old, interacting with each other in a sort of pantomime of play. Not a sound from either, no pushing or shoving, the mother of them and three others, all older, acquiescing in what might distract a worshiper from the day’s main event. But one could pay them no heed. This was no squabble, but a sort of try this by the boy, the younger, and think about it now from the girl. Lovely actually, a sort of silent sermon played out before one’s very eyes.
Return trip, I take an alternate route. Not the walk back to Halsted but the Blue Line subway a half block west. Short subway run to the first stop, then up, up and away to daylight at the second, which leads me to a long walk down several flights, and there I am on the triple corner of Milwaukee and North and Damen. I sit on a bench and wait.
The bright and shiny apparently new bench was squeezed pretty close to the traffic. (Keep your feet up, Charlie!) On my left is the two-story-high CTA station from which I had climbed down. I did so not before noticing an alarming message recently pasted inside the train, announcing a “new federal directive,” a “federal mask mandate” calling for wearing a mask while on public transportation! $250 fine for first offense! “Up to” $1,500 for repeaters. (It’s a Joe Biden rule, one of his record-breaking number of exec orders.)
Well, sitting there at Damen and the other two streets, I have to think about that. Federal government? but CTA is for CHICAGO Transit Authority, not U.S. And this bus I’m waiting for does not leave the city, much less cross state lines. It is not an interstate operation! So why that pasted on that “L” car — and as I am to discover moments later, on the Damen bus? And as I read even later, on every CTA means of locomotion in Chi-town — and in the Land of Lincoln aka Illinois and THE WHOLE DARN COUNTRY FOR ALL I KNOW.
And get those fines! $250 for starters, $1,500 for repeats. Imposed by the national government, not city, not county, not state — to be enforced by the Transportation Safety Administration, the same who pat you down at the airport, but now nowhere to be seen. All busy at O’Hare, one presumes, leaving maskless offenders unattended. Sigh.
On my way back up north, Damen to a few blocks from my house. On the bus I see the helpful fresh-mask box. Take one, it’s free, a sign might have said. Or if you’re a little bit cynical, take it and put it on if you know what’s good for you.
Look about, there could be a TSA man (or woman) on this vehicle prepared to read you your rights while cuffing you, with fine at his (or her) disposal . . .
Blithe Spirit 