Karl Klockars

It’s not that I hate the CTA. I love the CTA. They get me where I need to go, with a general minimum of trouble. I can put my head down and read a book, maybe nod off a bit, and then I look up and I’ve already gone further than I meant to! It’s magic. Transportation at its most literal.

And where else can you have the possibility of watching people vomit between their legs, pour french fries or pork rinds all over their lap, put on makeup and spill coffee all over themselves, and maybe if you’re lucky, even see someone crap themselves in the little alcove most people like to call the “hobo corner.”

Even throughout all the terrible things that the CTA has done to all of us, like making us fifteen minutes late (okay, up to two or three hours but there was that one fire), smelling bad, kicking our puppies and stealing our ice cream cones and making out with our significant others in front of us – we still have no choice. It’s Stockholm Syndrome one stop at a time. We prefer the CTA to the alternative – having to drive around with all the other damned fool surface-street drivers.

I can accept that tradeoff. That we might not enjoy the smell of urine on certain el stops. It happens. The layers upon layers of graffitti on bus stops. It’s modern art! The yelling children and obnoxious kids on either train car or bus compartment – it’s another version of birth control. I really do enjoy the CTA. It works for me. I have an ipod and a book or maybe just a pleasant daydream. I can entertain myself fine, thanks.

So it bugs me when I see them doing dumb things that they should really know better than. It’s like watching a younger sibling about to fall down the steps. You want to stop them from falling, but it’s just a little too late. And it’s not like falling will teach them anything – they’ll just get up, cry a little, and then go play with their G.I. Joes.

I’m so glad that the CTA had the forethought to rebuild many of their stations with the ability to hold every drop of water that gets rained on it, making a nice slip-and-slide every time it’s wet. I’m thrilled that after a hundred years in existence, turning from steam-trains and railcars into modern train technology, we still can’t manage to make a Red Line run at under 150 decibels and at more than ten miles an hour.

I’m very proud of the fact that there exists, in this town, a group of people so influential that the train runs at all of a dozen miles per hour or so between the area of Belmont and Fullerton, crawling at 6am so that the residents of fancypants Lakeview and Lincoln Park can get a few more hours of sleep. One day, I hope to get the Brown Line to crawl past the Rockwell stop, and maybe play a lullaby every now and again.

It’s thrilling to watch the day-by-day decay of the outside tracks on the Brown Line, as well. Each time we drive through the Gold Coast Corridor it’s fun to play “see whose startled by the trees whacking against the side of the train.” And then to imagine the entire train going ass over teakettle as we whip around the turns by North and Clybourn, as the entire thing tilts to a 45 degree angle, held on by force of will, inertia and the weight of Red Eye newspapers properly distributed.

And I’m continually convinced that the CTA’s shit performance is less of an example of poor equipment, poor hiring practices and lack of funding. Rather it’s a petulant, pouting example of “Fine. If you don’t give us everything we want, we’ll slow down. We’ll break. We’ll bitch. We’ll be filthy. We’ll show you exactly how bad things can be and you’d better give us what we want!” And then Frank Krueze will hold his breath, stamp his feet, and pout until his mommy gives him a lollypop.

Whaaaaa.

But I kid the CTA. The biggest mistake in my life revolving around the trains is mine.

I’m a cheap bastard. If I had just taken advantage of the free Chicago Card Plus offer earlier this year, I’d be about 70 bucks richer, one quarter at a time. But no. Apparently more than being cheap, I’m stubborn. Too stubborn to pay the five bucks for the card, knowing full well that it’d pay for itself in about a week and a half.

But now I have remedied that situation. I have joined the masses that can shove their ass pocket up against the turnstile, have it magically beep, and they’re free to pass. They can plant their purse up against the sensor in the bus and not have to figure out how much they have left on the card, worry about change, worry about transfers, figure out which way to put it in the machine, and other such touristy worries.

I have joined the technological transportational revolution, and have simultaneously opened up my bank account to the City of Chicago. Hm. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all. Alas. Time to keep an eye on my balance sheet and keep checking the rolls of contributions to make sure I haven’t made any unsolicited donations to any alderman or city council members. Not that they’d ever do that.

Not for nothing, a fantastic way to come up with a few extra bucks would be to sell residential property underneath the tracks. Well, not sell. Lease. To trailers. It’d be loud and dark and nasty, but it’d be a good starter home for 20k. Think about it, powers that be.

Anyways, I have a few good memories of the El. There was a place called Demon Dogs that was underneath the El stop at Fullert-wait. Never mind. And the McDonalds by the Loyola stop was always pretty okay. I think that’s about it.

Well, thanks, CTA. Without you, I never would have had the memory of that one girl throwing up all over her legs on New Years Eve. We wouldn’t have that one scene in Risky Business that people still seem to want to re-enact, no matter how dirty and unromantic a train car may be. And we’d also never have an example of how shitty a municipal service can operate and still have its citizens put up with it.