the city so small

Brown mystery sludge oozes from the cracks in the underground El station walls. The city doesn't hide its age. As the train roars towards the station and the pieces of debris flutter away from the tracks, the city closes in. I often feel claustrophobic here even when I'm outside. The Midwest feels so open, the weather changes so quickly. It's flat here, with low-lying buildings that extend for miles and miles from the downtown skyline. The city goes right to the edge of the lake. Human construction as far as you can see.

The new "luxury" condos that are popping up everywhere do not help; they slowly replace the character-laden three-flats with nondescript blandness that apparently appeals to young people with money, I assume because it appears "clean." The stand selling girly magazines definitely does not appear clean, but I yearn for an 'I Spy Sexism' sticker every morning as I pass it. The over-priced beer at the formerly cheap taqueria ($4.50 for a bottle of Heineken?) makes me sigh. And my favorite park, now severed in thirds by a new playground is no longer a refuge.

The corruption, so common that it isn't even talked about. Or when it is, the question is sunnyside or over easy, not what will you have today. I gag when I think about it, the city's residents suffocating from something they've never lived without.

The train gets stuck on the elevated tracks. It weaves when a passing train approaches. I can see the operator out on the tracks doing something, she gets back on the train and it creaks and heaves towards the station. I breathe deeply when we're stuck, because you never know what will happen in Chicago.