They All Died Smiling

I stood in the subway station hoping my train would come soon. When I moved from the Ozarks for my new job at the Chicago Tribune, I learned something I really didn’t want to know. I discovered that urine smells different the longer it ages on the poles, cement, and benches of a public transit system. Also, I came to realize a revolting truth. The more people live in an area, the more disgusting they become. We never had public transportation anywhere I lived, so nothing prepared me for the stinking mass of humanity in a big city. Yuck. When I first moved here, I was afraid. These days I’m not so much afraid as disgusted.

Talking with someone would pass the time nicer than playing What’s That Smell. The woman standing next to me had the most amazingly sleek black hair wound into some fancy braid on top of her head. It wasn’t a normal one like you would do with a horse’s tail. I couldn’t help but stare and try to figure out how it was done. It looked like she pulled up a little bit of hair at a time and twisted it into some from another part of her head. Disgustingly thin, she wore Reeboks and an expensive-looking business suit, in typical Chicago commuter fashion. Her black leather purse had more bangles than a parade horse. Must be a designer bag. Probably helped hold her skinny self to the ground in the city’s famous gusts of wind.

I have no idea why decked-out horses came to mind with this woman. No, wait, I do. It’s because she reminds me of a high-spirited mare from when I was a young’un. Sass belonged to the Herschends, the family that owns half the town. I always desperately wanted to braid that horse’s tail. I couldn’t take my eyes off Sass when she pranced at festivals.

My hair, in stark contrast, had been blown every which way in the wind. It looked and felt like I went clear through a tornado and came out the other side a mess. I stuffed my unruly Chicago-blown tangle into the collar of my ski jacket. Maybe I should find out how to do my hair like Miss Fancy’s.

She must’ve noticed me staring. She cast a wary eye on me and sized me up from head to toe, as if memorizing my features for the police report she was going to make. Oh come on Miss Fancy, I can’t look that bad. Sure, my hair’s a mess, but I’m clean and dressed nicely. I’m obviously not a hobo. Better say something.

“Your hair is beautiful. Where did you have it styled?”

“I did it myself.” She backed up a step and fished a Vogue Magazine out of her bling bag. She pretended to read while keeping her eye on me. Now that was just plain rude. I should remember not to talk to people in the subway. And she would be reading Vogue, of all things. I didn’t think any normal person read such a pretentious publication, but, well, maybe she’s not all that normal.

I keep forgetting how people act here. Nobody talks to anyone they don’t know. That’s something else about Chicago. You can’t just talk to a stranger without them getting all suspicious. Back home everyone talks to everyone else whenever they want, and nobody thinks anything of it. You wave to people passing in cars, talk to everyone in the store, and visit with folks at other tables in restaurants whether you know them or not. That’s just how things are. Most folks in the Ozarks are friendly to anyone, and if they aren’t, you wonder if they ate lemons for breakfast