Tales From the 22

The first really cold day – cold enough that I pull out my puffy white Princess Leia coat for my trip downtown. It hasn’t been cleaned – I was banking on not having to use it until January, so it’s a little dingy and I apparently used it as a coaster at some point last winter, as evidenced by the dirty round stain on the front right breast.


I shouldn’t worry about how I look in this get-up. Chicagoans take winter seriously, and even in my self-consciously snazzy neighborhood, pretty much every woman on the street is wearing some version of this coat. My ex-boyfriend used to call me “The Grub” when I wore it, and I guess that’s not an image I really want to fixate on, especially since I’ve been experiencing an acute case of “can’t keep my pants zipped” and “damn, this skirt fit last winter.” I want to be an alpine goddess, but instead I’m all grubby.


On the bus, I try to prevent a full-on downward spiral by taking deep breaths and looking out the window. “I am a literary icon….I am the Leader of the Rebel Alliance…” all kinds of little made-up mantras.

She gets on at Division. Tall, pretty, thin. Her hair is long, straight and black, in one of those messy ponytails that also look perfect. She plops her bag down on the seat in front of me and starts dialing her cell. Here are the things I can tell about her: she is some sort of a cocktail waitress, she just rolled out of bed and she hits the self tanner way, way too hard.

Then she starts babbling to her friend in that dumb white girl voice that so many people use these days.

“I’m so tired. I shouldn’t have stayed out so late with Brandon and those guys. But I’m not going to get to see him until, like, New Year’s. I mean, he’s going to be pre-partying and then football, and if he’s pre-partying, there’s going to be an after party. And when he parties he likes to get fucked up, you know? But I’m like, it’s going to be two days before Christmas and the day of my boob job? So I guess he’s not going to like, be there to take care of me? But whatever. I mean he gets fucked up. But I’ll be ready to go out by New Year’s. They do the surgeries on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and the woman said that I’ll be sore for like, four days after, but in about a week I should be fine, so by New Year’s it’ll be a week and two days, I think I’ll be fine. I’m so excited. So I don’t know if I’ll see him on Christmas, though. I’m staying out at my mom and dad’s so that I can like, be there after my boob job and for Christmas and whatever. He said he might come over. I’ll be sore, but it will be worth it. And I’ll see him on New Year’s anyway…”

Listening to her is like picking a scab, revolting and irresistible.

How did I get here? What’s the use of being all tortured and poor and feeling like a fatass on a public bus? Why didn’t I just quit eating and get implants and start serving drinks at Crescendo when I was 23? I want to be like her. Pretty and stupid.


At Hubbard, she starts pulling the cord frantically, still on the phone. “What’s going on with this bus? ” she asks her friend on the line. “Is this Kinzie?” She pulls. Pulls. Stop Requested appears on the front sign, so I don’t know what she’s waiting for. Maybe she can’t read it?

She pulls it again and again, looking out the window.

“Is this Kinzie?” she calls out to the guy standing at the back door, ready to get off.

“Yeah,” he says, and steps off the bus.


She leaps up, slings the bag over her shoulder and stands at the door as it closes in her face. Still on the phone, she stands there, staring. The light’s about to change and she’s going to miss her stop.

“Can you open this door?” She yells up at the driver as he’s about to pull away from the curb.


“All you have to do is lean on it!” booms the man in the seat next to me, distinguished in his white hair, herringbone wool coat and briefcase.


Dumb girl gets the message, pushes the door open and wobbles out into the street in her Uggs, still talking of boob jobs and parties at Stone Lotus and her boyfriend.


My seatmate turns to me, “That is a very foolish young woman,” he says in his loud lawyer voice.

“Yes.” I say, nodding. “Yes, she is.”


And I resume my mental diplomatic mission to Aldaraan.