To Whomever's Number I Gave Out, Sorry Dawg

So I haven't posted anything in a good long while. I went all the way through April without peeking my head out to see what all the fuss was about. I've got one post planned, that really should've gone up two weeks ago and hell if I know if I'll continue my sad excuse of a March Madness thing. You remember that right? Nope? Well who could be surprised. Certainly not me.

In a desperate, desperate, excuse to toot my own horn here I'll give you an excerpt of something that happened in my life recently. So there I was, making my way back from Reckless Records on The Blue Line to get to Jackson or LaSalle, I hadn't decided yet. It was probably LaSalle, seeing as how I was determined to A) Get dinner and B) Grab my copy of Zombie, Spaceship, Wasteland because I had the opportunity for its author to sign it. The weather was probably in the 60s, this fine April Friday and was the first time in memory that not even a hoodie was a necessity. It was spectacular weather, lemme tell you. It was weather so nice it was able to make this kid a little less harsh.

On top of  already good spirits due to exceptional weather conditions, I was also able to find the Waking Life soundtrack (thus making my way back from Reckless) as well as a modestly priced copy of A Scanner Darkly (not that it's in high demand or any demand, frankly). So yes, Mr. Linklater, I am a fan, if you are somehow reading this. Nope, he's not. I would've gotten an email by now. So there I was on The Blue Line to get to Jackson or LaSalle. I chose my seat to what I thought was perfect calibration: single seat, back of the train, in one of the last cars. Truly ideal.

I have my earbuds in, pretending like I'm listening to music (you can't really hear for shit while on an underground train, but keeping the earbuds in keeps the illusion alive to other passengers; there's your handy CTA traveling tip for the day) and reading my book. This isn't the aforementioned Zombie, Spaceship, Wasteland but Chuck Klosterman's Sex, Drugs, And Coca Puffs(*). The fact that I was reading this particular book has little or nothing to do with the bigger picture, I just wanted to let you know what book I was reading right now. I think I've made it perfectly clear to any other persons around me that I just don't really want to be interacted with in any fashion. This was not the case, apparently.

*Kelsey Ball, if you're reading this, I don't think I expressed enough thanks when you gave this to me so many years ago, so let me make this public declaration to make up for that: Thank you very, very much for one of my favorite books ever.

As I meekly read about Chuck Klosterman's deep fascination of serial-killers, a girl sat down in the seat in front of me. I don't really think anything of it, even though there were a lot of empty seats in the car along with the fact that we hadn't just made a stop for people to get on the train. I was in my own little zone and I just wanted to read some Chuck, dammit! Then she says something to me, and because my eardrums are obscured due to illusion-creating earbuds and "you can't hear for shit on [those] train[s]", I didn't hear what she said. I did, however, hear in my head something along the lines of "God. What does she want?" in a very stand offish tone.

The conversation went, probably, as follows:
Girl: "Hi"
Me: "Hi"
Girl: "So my sister over there.... She sent me over here to get your number."
Me: "What? Oh. Uh. Okay."
(I should note that that was exactly how deadpan I said it. There wasn't even an ounce of bashful charm that I usually put into conversation)
Girl: "So yeah...." *pulls out phone to type number in*
Me: "Um (___)"
*Beat*
Me: "___"
*Beat*
Me: "2927"
(If you have my number and you're checking it right now to see if those are the last four digits of my "digits", then I'll get to that in a second; there's dialogue that needs to be finished!)
Girl: "Awesome. And what's your name?"
(At this moment, I have to make an important decision: fake name or real name. I'm pretty lousy at coming up with names, Dr. Ruth PiñaColoda-Davis withstanding.)
Me: "Sam"
Girl: "Well cool. Thank you."
Me: "Sure, no problem."

She then, presumably walked back and sat down next to her sister. I don't know, because my head went straight down to my book again. Fun Fact: now I wasn't reading. Now I was planning my escape route, unless I wanted things to get complicated like a zany-romantic-comedy, because I had given this girl not my number. When it comes to giving your number to people I, frankly, don't trust(*) I never give someone elses's number, because the only numbers I have memorized belong to immediate family. And even if I knew one of my friends' number, my name's out there and it could get back to me; I'm on this chick's grid (relatively speaking)! So when it comes to giving out my number, I recite my number, but change one of the last four digits, this way it doesn't look like I'm giving false information.

*In recent cases, so far in my college career at least, it's been to two guys who knocked on my door pitching me a pretty awesome investment thingy involving energy drinks or batteries or something. I think one faked a British accent to make me more likely to get interested. The other case being this crazy chick on The Blue Line. Why is she crazy? Anyone who seeks the possible company of the opposite sex on the CTA is, by every definition, crazy.

So now this chick and her sister are armed with a fake number, an easy to look up area code, a first name and that's about it. But we're still in the same train car. This information is hitting me all at once, so I've made the executive decision to start packing up shop and exiting at the next stop. As I write this, I now think this is a pretty risky plan, because what if The Blue Line Sisters are getting off at this stop as well? It didn't really matter at this point, because I was convinced that I'd get some kind of text from unanmed crazy chick or her sister and if they didn't get a response from me in a timely fashion, what if I was re-approached? The old "I don't get reception underground" excuse can only get you so far.

Like a coward, I put my backpack on, turned on Pavement's Crooked Rain Crooked Rain (Disc 1) and waited by the car doors to blow this popsicle stand. However, I was a little trigger happy in waiting by the doors. I was standing up there for a good 30 to 45 seconds waiting for the train to approach whatever stop it was going to approach (it was Clark And Lake, which is quite a distance from Jackson or LaSalle). What was I doing during these nerve-racking 30-45 seconds? Well I was listening to Pavement; I was either looking down or at the doors hoping they'd open sooner rather than later; I was feeling eyes pierce me every now and again from another part of the train from The Blue Line Sisters; I was probably thinking: "I bet this looks pretty enduring of me, just waiting by the doors like this after 'giving a girl('s sister)' my number. I'm like Gosling to them now. Notebook Gosling too, not Drive Gosling or Rhys-Ifans-Impressionist Gosling." or more likely *in a Brian Posehn-like voice* "Ugh, stop looking at me."

And then finally-finally-the train started slowing down and came to a halt. You know in cartoons, specifically Road-Runner, when you run so fast, you leave a little silhouette of smoke where you once were and a sped-up pull whistle sound effect goes off? Well that didn't happen, because A) That'd be ridiculous, silly! and B) That would've made me look guilty, but I got off that train and out of that station just a notch less than Road-Runner's signature move.

Eventually I got to a Brown Line station to get back to my room to drop my Waking Life CD off and get Zombie, Spaceship, Wasteland. But while waiting for a train at Washington And Wells, a little out of breathe and sweaty, because I thought I could make the train I just barely missed, a stupid but not entirely out of the realm of possibility thought came into my head. I'm almost a little ashamed to admit that I actually thought this, but after what I've just written, nothing's necessarily hush-hush about the evening of April 26. So now I'm sitting on a bench, listening to Crooked Rain Crooked Rain (Disc 2) and think "Wait a second. I don't think that chick ever saw my face. Really all she got a look at was my stupid hair. Huh. So this is what real chesty chicks must feel like at a bar or something."

I kid you not, I dared to compare my evening of annoyance to the plight of of large chested females around the globe. And you know what? I think I'm justified in the comparison. So be prepared members of the opposite sex, next time you complain about some "scuz(*)" hitting on you for that particular reason, know that I too know the hardships of being this so called "eye candy." And know, that I know, that it hurts. ("So all that for a pretty decent boob joke?" is probably what you're asking yourself right now. And to answer your question, yes. And all of this did, indeed, happen)

*Question: do you ladies still say "scuz?" Just want to know so I'm up to date on my lingo. I think you do, but you can never be to careful.

So to whom I've formally dubbed "Nikki"(crazy chick), please know that it wouldn't've worked out. It wasn't you and it wasn't me, it was just poor timing. And poor location. And it was you. Actually I don't think I ever saw you on the train. So was your sister just using you as a ploy, a defense mechanism?! Is your sister "Nikki?" Now I wish I had given you my number, just to clear this mystery up.