[This was up for a while on Jonathan Messinger's literary website thisisgrand.org which displays work highlighting the mass-transit commuter experience in Chicago. From what I gather, he's currently reworking the site but his hands are full with his publishing company Featherproof Books. Here's my submission that saw the glowing light of computer screens in Spring 2004. Or more like: This is a newly revised draft]
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HOT SEAT
(49) - Northbound - :/:/:/:/ Pouring Rain :/:/:/:/
I boarded at Division, simultaneously shaking out my umbrella as I fumbled for my fare card. It was very cold out and the windows were steamed up like a high school parking job. There were two middle-aged men in the front portion of the bus, both seated in the handicapped-reserved section, which everyone does unless there is someone present who actually needs the convenience of the indicated seats. Without hesitation, I too sat upon the wheelchair logo.
Minutes later, a leather-skinned, wild-mustachioed, bug-eyed, tie-dyed, bandana’d, flag-bearing man in his 50s stepped on at the North Avenue stop. He stumbled drunkenly toward the gentleman to my left, glanced at the gentleman to my right, stopped and sharpened his focus on me:
“_r_ __u h__d______d?”
I pulled off my headphones.
“Are YOU handicapped?” he asked again, speaking curtly.
“Um… no,” I replied. “Would you like for me t–”
“Get the FUCK out of my seat!” he snapped.
He was not handicapped, so far as I could tell, but I moved anyway; two rows back to the able-bodied section. He turned around in my old seat and inquired:
“What have you done for your country?”
“…Well, I’ve entertained a few people.”
“Oh, so you’re an entertainer? What, you sing and dance?”
“Yeah. More or less.”
“So what is it? More or less?”
“More,” I said.
“Fuck that. You should enlist.”
“You mean in the military?”
“Yeah!”
“Yeeeeeah, I don’t think so.”
The other two gentlemen were growing more curious/concerned.
“Why the fuck not? What the fuck’s the problem?”
I paused. “I just don’t think I’d do very well there.”
“And why not?”, his steep brow indicating there would be no suitable answer.
We passed underneath the Blue Line.
“Because I haven’t had the proper training.”
“Oh, they’ll TRAIN you. They’ll train YOU. I was in Vietnam.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
His eyes were on fire.
He then rose out of my original seat and started toward the door. The bus arrived at Armitage and the doors flung open. He stepped off the bus.
A second passed.
Then suddenly he poked his head back in, looking directly at me again:
“You’d better do something for your country!”
He vanished into the storm. The two gentlemen looked back at me, waiting for my response. I declared, comfortingly:
“Don’t worry guys. I’ll do something.”