Blue Line

 He's sitting next to me in his Pacific Life windbreaker and stained Dockers. He looks like he could've been somebody at one point, but now is another broken man riding the Blue line. His messy hair indicates that today was a long day, and his furious note taking shows that it's not quite over. He's been jotting things down in his notebook since Clark/Lake. We're at California, or as I like to think of it, the last chance for success. 
 Once you get past California on the Blue line, hope begins to dwindle.You've said your goodbye to the business man with both an iphone and a Blackberry. That cute hipster girl has gotten off yet again without your number. After California, you're either a tired immigrant, or a depressed tourist whose vacation has ended. The smiles end after California. All that is left are weathered faces and clunky suitcases. I suppose I relate more with the tourists, for my stay in the world of possibility has ended for the day. 
 As the train moves from Logan Square to Belmont, I keep watching Windbreaker. His eyes are glassed over, as he appears to be in deep thought. His chewed-up Bic pen is slipping out of his hand, and I catch it before it hits the floor. As I hand it to him, he looks at me and whispers a barely audible "Thank you." Then he turns away and goes back to his own world.
  The train stops at Addison, and Windbreaker puts away his notebook. He half smiles at me and nods his head as he gets off. The doors close and the train leaves him. I wonder to myself what will become of this note taker.All I did was catch his pen, but I feel as if that's the most human contact he's had in a good while. As I ponder what motivates men like him to go on, the train approaches Jefferson Park. As I get up, I notice the man across the aisle staring at my New Balance shoes.