The Lip

This short story is posted in its entirety, however you have the option to purchase it with it’s funky little Chicago el artwork for your own reader.

Man, I was tired that day. I’m always tired after work, but on that particular day I had worked late and it was extremely busy, and to top it off, It was a hot summer in the city. It was late August; the entire month had been high temperatures and humidity. I welcomed the coming fall. At about 9:13pm, right before going down in the Roosevelt Street subway, I contemplated taking the bus. The bus was above ground thus cooler. The only issue I had with the bus is that it took so long to get home. I decided on the subway. I’d be home in less than a half hour, instead of an hour on the bus. I sucked it up and went down into hell. That’s exactly what it felt like in the subway. It was miserable. Within minutes I could feel the sweat dripping down my back, sticking my shirt to my skin. I leaned forward on the platform, looking for the train. I didn’t see it, though the train going south had roared into the station. The train platform became mobbed with people exiting the train. All I kept thinking is how tired I was. I wanted a seat whenever the train came. Was it a Cubs game? I figured surely the game had started by then. I quickly checked the CTA transit app on my phone. The Howard train would arrive in two minutes. Thank God!

***

My mind went blank from the heat, and then I heard the Howard train in the distance. I was so grateful. Soon the train had pulled into the station. The doors split apart and I got on. It felt good and icy on the car. The air conditioner was pumped up. It was a blessing. Not too many people got on. I sat down in the nearest seat, closest to the doors; the side seats, where I could look at the seats directly across from me. Nobody sat there. The train sped out of the Roosevelt station.

I was starting to relax a bit. The cool from the air conditioner was definitely the main contributor. I put on my headphones and looked down at my phone, opening iTunes and scanning my playlists. After making my selection and listening to contemporary jazz, the train pulled into the next station which was Harrison. The doors opened and people got on, but not many. I really wasn’t paying attention to anything, only listening to Paul Hardcastle. As the train left the station I knew someone sat down in the seats across from me, but I didn’t look up, instead I read a funny text that a close friend had just sent me. I texted her back. We went on a bit, texting each other until the train reached the Monroe station. Again, not too many people got on, but it was well past rush hour. As the train pulled out I looked around, finally noticing the young lady that sat down across from me two stations ago. Subconsciously, I found myself staring at the young lady, but didn’t know exactly why. Something was off about her appearance, but before I figured it out, I had to be respectful and direct my eyes away from her. I looked back down at my phone. It was rude to stare. Mama had raised me that way, besides, I was uncomfortable when people stared at me. But I was curious nonetheless. There was something about the young woman’s face. What had happened to her?  With my eyes on my phone, I was opening and closing apps, but my mind was still on the young woman sitting across from me. Nothing else seemed strange about her. She seemed fairly young, African American, dressed casually in jeans, sneakers and a yellow t-shirt. I looked up quickly and caught a partial view of her t-shirt at the bottom. It was stained with dried blood. What?!  The young lady looked in my direction and I quickly shifted my eyes back down to my phone. She caught on, noticed me staring. I didn’t know if she was staring back at me then. I didn’t know what to do and was embarrassed at the thought of her seeing me stare. Regardless, it was rude of me.

Still looking down at my phone, not really into it, I felt I had to do something with myself to appear normal, in case the young lady had been insulted by my stare. The train screeched into the station at Grand and State. A larger crowd of people got on. I looked toward the doors and saw several people look in the young woman’s direction. Almost every person that boarded the train cut their eyes over to her. What else was it about her? I had seen her blood stained t-shirt, but where was the blood coming from? My curiosity was becoming aroused again, but I kept my eyes glued to my phone. As crowded as the train was getting, in my peripheral vision I could tell that nobody sat next to the young woman.

A couple of stops past Grand and State, the train stopped at the Clark and Division station. Two older ladies got on. They were together, looked like friends, maybe work friends. I saw them immediately look at the young woman, gaping openly before they even took seats. They sat down in two seats that were cater-corner from where I was sitting and the young woman across from me. My curiosity about the young woman was becoming overwhelming. I had to know what had happened to her. I could only get limited knowledge from the people around me, those that were rude enough to stare at her. I didn’t want to stare at other people either, but looked around the train in such a way that I wouldn’t attract too much attention. I caught several sets of eyes, all trying to take inconspicuous glances at the young woman. When I looked at the two older ladies, they had started a conversation, but their eyes kept looking at the young woman in intervals. What was I to do next? My curiosity had reached desperation levels. I had to look at the young woman myself. I had to know what was the matter with her. I felt like a hypocrite; other people were obviously staring at her, even turning to other people, like me, to see their reactions, silently in unison, collecting a club of sneaky, judgmental glances. I started to wonder if I was indeed a hypocrite for not staring like them. Whatever the case, I did have feelings and didn’t want to make the young woman uncomfortable. Still I wanted to know, insanely.

***

By the time the train had reached the Fullerton station, I was ready to take a look at her. I had to. 6 more stops I’d be home. I wouldn’t rest until I knew why so many eyeballs were on her. All I knew about was her bloody t-shirt. She was still sitting across from me alone. Nobody wanted to sit with her. My peripheral vision had been working overtime, making me dizzy. I looked at the two older ladies. Before they had been talking loud, in the open about their day, homemade bread and the Clinton and Trump debates, but they started whispering, all the while taking glances at the young woman. They were talking about her. The shorter woman of the two even had a pained, worried look on her face. As I looked around the train again, old passengers and the new ones that got on at Belmont were gaping at her. Yes, it was my turn. Time for me to look, time for the mystery to be over.

The train doors opened at Wrigley Field, the Addison station. A woman walked on with a small child, a little boy. I took him to be about three or four years old. The boy immediately looked at the young woman. His innocent eyes grew wide with terror and his mouth opened as if he was going to scream.

“Mama?!” he cried.

His mother looked too, grimaced, and then pulled him away in another direction. “Come on!” she said.

That time I knew I had to look. I tried as inconspicuously as I could. It was her lips. Her top lip was normal, but her bottom lip was severely cut and swollen twice it’s size. I tried not to react, but the sight of it was unnerving. I looked back down at my phone. Oh God!  It looked like her lip had been sliced with a knife. Thick, dried, almost black looking blood was protruding through a large open wound. It had to be painful. It made her face look deformed. How could she sit there like that? Just staring into space. What happened to her? Had she been in a fight? Her lip was so savagely cut that it had to be a blade. Jesus! 

***

A few more minutes had gone by. We were pulling out of the Sheridan station. I was still looking down at my phone, but didn’t even see what I was looking at. Three more stops would be my destination. I felt so bad for her, but didn’t know what to do. Should I do something? Was it even any of my business? What could I do anyway? My eyes went up to her quickly and I scanned her lip. It looked like fresh red blood was starting to seep through the dried blood. And I didn’t know if it was my imagination, but it looked like her lip was even more swollen than minutes before. Oh no!  The young woman needed help. The expression on her face showed that she was in pain and she moved up to sit on the edge of the seat, starting to rock back and forth; yes, she was in pain.

***

We pulled out of the Wilson station. I was two more stops from home. New boarders at Wilson gaped at her. The old gapers were settling down, even myself a little. Everybody going back to their transit routines. That was it. Another strange sight on the CTA. There were plenty, had seen them myself. I had been riding the city  trains and buses since I was ten years old. I’m 52 now. That’s a lot of years on public transit. Chicago has one of the best public transit systems in the country. I’ve seen a lot of things, weirder than a young woman with a cut lip, but something about it bothered me. I appeared to be the only person worried about her. What had been gaping material a few minutes ago was now an after-thought, something others and myself would talk about later. I cut my eyes to two college age young men. They noticed her. They started hunching each other, laughing and both started doing something with their phones. They were trying to veil it, but were laughing silently, but hysterically. They were sneaking pictures of her. Soon, somewhere in Chicago, the country, the world, that wounded young woman’s picture would be uploaded for everyone’s amusement. A century ago, people stood in line at sideshows gaping at Siamese twins, bearded ladies, giants and little people. Now we’re amused online: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, etc., at a woman with a severely cut lip. Go over, talk to her, ask her if she’s alright.

I had lost track of everything. My stop was called out over the auto-recorded intercom: Argyle. I quickly looked at her and saw fresh blood dripping from her lip. I was alarmed. The train had settled into the Argyle station and I sprang from my seat. I ran to the doors, waiting for them to open. I wanted to look back at her so bad, but I couldn’t. I was just like everybody else. The only thing that mattered to me was my world, my stop, my relaxation at home. I saw the two older ladies get up. Was it their stop too?

The doors opened and I got out. I walked the platform toward the stairs, about to go down. As the train slowly pulled out of the station, I caught a glimpse through the window of the train: The two older ladies I thought had got off with me, were standing over the young woman talking to her. The train sped up and was quickly leaving my view. I headed down the stairs from the platform, hearing the familiar sound of the train screeching over my head. I let out a sigh of relief. Somebody actually cared.

The End

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