The name on the package was Russ.
Russ used to be my supervisor when I worked for the Chicago Trolley Company (1998-2000).
Russ didn't like me very much.
I didn't like him.
Russ was kind of a dick.
And I was kind of a spazz.
One time I flipped out in the trolley barn before going out.
See, my trolley's stereo had eaten one of my tapes.
It was a cassette of a Pavement bootleg (Appetite For Deconstruction) that I had just gotten in a trade with some kid in Ohio or Montana or somewhere.
At the time (1999), this cassette was new and very important to me.
So when it got eaten by the trolley, I fucking flipped out.
Russ laughed and made fun of me.
In retrospect, rightly so.
But at the time, it was like making fun of 9/11.
Also, at some point I called the trolley supervisors "nazis" over some stupid bullshit.
Like I said I was a spazzy Pavement troll.
But Russ enjoyed making my life difficult, particularly about dress.
"You look like shit," he told me one time based on the tasteful collared shirt I was wearing underneath my trolley jacket.
"Those aren't khakis," he would point out when I wore tan colored jeans instead.
One time Russ, who was in charge of assigning the trolleys, issued me an old borrowed trolley with air brakes.
To operate a vehicle with air brakes requires hours of training and a certain kind of license. My training was a couple of laps around the stockyards.
I had to use this monster to pick up the bride's party for a wedding.
Then drive around Michigan Avenue for pictures.
I did a competent job, but competent is not what is demanded of anyone on a wedding day.
Any time I had to brake abruptly, the whole trolley jerked like a bronking bull.
If you've ever been on a city bus with a new driver, it was like that.
Everyone on board gave me dirty looks, like I was an incompetent fucking asshole.
They complained about the fumes from the old diesel engine.
I smiled drowsily.
That day I worked my ass off, and got no tip.
Because of that ugly, diesel-fuming, bronking trolley.
The one that Russ purposefully gave to me.
I dunno, I have forgotten about most of that stupid shit.
But I do remember our relationship as adversarial.
So when I saw his name on the package, I hadn't decided how to feel.
It's been ten years.
I was ready to let go of the silly nonsense that defined our relationship.
But it's been ten years, and I was still in the humble position of messenger.
Then again, he's working in a gift shop.
So I decided to bury the hatchet and just be human when I saw him.
Unfortunately, the gift shop was closed.
Even though it was supposed to have opened two hours ago.
Maybe he saw me coming and got scared.
So after all that, I never saw him.
Our relationship would remain unresolved, like a broken suspended 4th chord.
Russ and I are a Cdim9.
That made me tired, and it was around 11am, so I took a nap in the van under the El at Randolph and Wabash. When I awoke, the traffic was horrendous for no reason. The radio informed me that a murder-suicide had occurred at the Old Navy on State Street, just a block away.
Also in the same breath, they mentioned that the chief of Metra had committed suicide using one of his own trains to run him over.
Sounds like that Sinatra song could use a rewrite.
Chicago, Chicago
That toodlin' town
On State Street, that great street
I saw a man
He shot his wife
And then himself
Dum-dum doodle-ee dum-dop
Chicago, Chicago
That skoodlin' town
Where bodies of honchos are found
Oh Metra
It'll getcha
The town that Mayor Daley wants to shut down
Doom-dom deedle-deep dop doom
After work and band practice, I went home and fell asleep on the couch.
On the couch I had a nightmare.
I was driving in rush hour traffic, when it just stopped.
Then it began moving backward.
Most cars lost control and crashed.
When people got out of their cars, they were coughing and choking.
Most people collapsed to the ground.
They were dying.
Some sort of terrorism with gas was happening.
I ran out of the car and back, looking for Lauren in a Jonestown sea of bodies.
I pictured having to discover Lauren.
So I woke up.
Verdict: Loss
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