Strolling down Jackson in the bowels of Oak Park, I can hear the roar of the airplane overhead and the roar of the blue line behind me. To the untrained ear it's the same noise, the same roar, the same swift, onward motion.
There are subtle differences. The airplane soars over, going somewhere - running away and leaving it all behind. Just like your daydreams, or the latest love of your life. Full of escape and possibility and perky attendants, the plane has had enough and is leaving for better climes.
The el clatters along, rattling, jarring you to the bone like roller skates on old sidewalks or the fathomless pit of your soul when you realize you've made the biggest mistake of your life. The el, cranky and ornery and mean, rumbles through the night. Staying its ground. Getting the last word in.
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