It’s what Royko hung on Jerry Brown. Never more fitting here.
A Blue Line passenger, a white man 30 or so, in nice (expensive-looking) brown leather jacket and giving the appearance of an easy-going, inoffensive, non-confrontational fellow, dark hair neatly cut, neither swarthy nor bearded — a passenger, in short, who calls attention to himself in no way — rises at Pulaski, westbound, stands at the door as the train slows and stops. It’s in the middle of a weekday afternoon, the car is sparsely occupied.
Doors fold open before him, he steps toward the concrete platform, but as he does so reaches overhead and on the backlit glassed-in diagram of train routes overhead slaps a five-inch-square white label that sticks firmly, on which are inscribed black-marker pen scribblings. He does it in a flash, barely pausing as he leaves the car, and is gone.
The doors unfold and close, the train pulls away. The label’s markings, examined, show themselves as indecipherable…
View original post 125 more words