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December
7, 2005. I leaned forward in the Aeron chair. From Reception, I can see through this verticle rectangle of glass that gives a view straight through to the large windows looking out on the world. The building I work in is ... very tall. However, my office is located on the 11th floor, so I still feel as though I am connected to the downtown Chicago area. I can hear sirens, and sometimes I can catch the strains of any buskers or bands that might be playing on a street corner or in a courtyard. I can see the buildings around us, and I can look down below at the people walking around who are not small enough to appear as ants, and I can tell if they are using umbrellas, or if their body language indicates (mime-like) if they are Walking Against the Wind. So, as I was saying, I leaned forward in my chair, and I narrowed my eyes as I looked through that rectangle to the outside world, and I saw what could only be initially described as a dense fog. Flickering through the fog was a patterned motion, and I realized that what I was looking at was a proper snowstorm. Once my co worker came back from her break, I disconnected my headset and amplifier, and headed through the door next to the rectangle, and walked towards the large windows. It was a flurry, a fury, a tossed snow globe of dusk and greysteelblue. The buildings across the way, normally so clear and so close even on the rainiest of days, now appeared as vague geometric smudges. If I didn't know they were there, I might have doubted anything was there. The flakes populated the air thickly and merrily. I found myself shrugging. My boss was kind and let us out of work 15 minutes early, as it became apparent that the snow was sticking well and good to the surface below. The accumulation was fairly dramatic, and I resigned myself to a long commute home. Hat. Pulled down, straightened, front brim turned up. It's a floppy black knit hat that I rescued from the Lost and Found box at Barnes and Noble 5 years ago, when I still worked there. I took some Woolite to it, and it's become one of my favorite winter hats. Coat. Shrugged on quickly, buttoned, smoothed down with flats of palms. Scarf. The softest scarf ever, knotted loosely once in front. When it's snowing like that, it's got to be just about freezing and not much worse, so the scarf was less a necessity, and more of an accessory. Mittens. Clutched in one hand with transit card. Turned the right way, thumbs-up, ready to be slipped on. Elevator down, and out, into the lobby. Chrome and marble and glass, shiny and reflective. The bright lights of the lobby help with denial: they're so bright in the winter's early evening that it's almost too much effort to squint one's eyes to see to the darkness outside. Push that rotating door, out into drifts and piles of snow already, and people looking a little bewildered and slightly annoyed. I think Chicagoans are generally good at sucking up the frustrations and exertions of a Midwestern winter, but that first real snowstorm is always a bit of a shocker, especially when it dumps as much snow in so little time as it did last night. I grimly grinned at fellow commuters, and stomped off towards the nearest bus stop. There are several options at the bus stop across the street. The first bus that came along was actually a line that I do not take, but for some reason I suddenly felt no longer like wanting to deal with the train. I was feeling cranky and somewhat down, and I wanted more than anything to delay getting home, if I could. This bus would take me as far north as I needed to go, and upon confirmation with the driver, I could then take another bus west. It would take a long time, but that was immensely appealing, considering my mood. So, I hopped on, and clambered towards the back section. It was an articulated bus, so I spent a few stops standing on the hinge platform, watching the passengers further back than me appear to swing wildly to and fro as the bus took corners and changed lanes. The windows were fogged up completely, and every time the back doors popped open to let people off, the world outside was nearly unrecognizable. The air was still absolutely rampantly ecstatically thick with flakes, and they'd swirl into the bus and reveal darkness, lit dimly by streetlamps. Great expanses of snow. No landmarks easily indexed with the eye. I waited a goodly amount of time for the second bus, there at the Lake Michigan end of the line. Frustratingly, one of the buses ready to begin its westward jaunt was changed at the last minute to head back south again and pick up more yuppies. The Russian woman next to me spat out a string of obscenities in a low, continuous mutter. I scraped snow into little piles with my boots. But I thought, a lot. And for a good while, I felt a bit more at peace. I was being left alone, and no one knew me, and no one wanted anything from me, and I wasn't being judged by anything except maybe by envy, since I was able to grab one of the single seats along the right side of the second bus, for the entire way. My journey, from office door to the mat in front of my apartment door, took approximately 2 and a half hours. I was hungry and feeling tired, but I also felt refreshed, a little more prepared to greet the next day. These are strange rituals of winter, I know, exacerbated and illustrated with slush, with salt, with the sound of stamping feet and the smell of wet wool. It's all welcome to me. There is no romance in your life until you've stood on a street corner waiting for the light to change, and the snow is all around you, and there are dozens of vehicles, but nothing seems to be making a sound. Everything is muffled. You can finally hear yourself think, in the midst of the first real storm of the season. There is music. go
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