I want to go to Africa. I want to make love to a beautiful woman on the plains near the lions and the giraffes. I want to stay in a house built on stilts and go outside on a gorgeous veranda, high up, at twilight and watch the elephants grazing. I want to sit still in the jungle like Jane Goodall and watch the monkeys.
I think about Africa often. Too often, is what the doctor tells me. But you know, when I was a kid I read that book, Leo at Liberty, the true story of a couple who raised a baby lion in Libya after shooting it’s mother and using her for a rug—and I fell in love with the continent. Then later, I saw some safari pictures in some magazine or other—maybe it was Nat Geo? And damn, I was hooked.
Next year, when the cash from my latest film rolls in, I’m going to go there, so I admit I’ve been thinking of Africa a lot lately. What can I say? It chills me out—especially during this busy season when my movie is about to come out and the tabloids are willing to take your picture in the Go-Lo gas station toilet if it means they get a nice shot of your hiney. But that quack my agent has me seeing thinks I should concentrate only on the HERE and NOW.
I have to catch the bus at six-twenty, and then catch the el at six-forty-five so I can get to the Lawrence stop near the hospital just before seven. Wonder Woman gets off there too, on the other side of the tracks, right at seven. She will go down the stairs and stand beneath the el at the corner of Lawrence waiting for her bus, which will arrive at seven-ten. I will be there to see her off.
By the time I’m up and dressed it’s already after six, so I grab my sunglasses fast and head out. I know it sounds dumb, but even though it’s still dark, I need to wear them so I don’t get asked for autographs. Oh, you know, sometimes I still find people staring at me with that could-it-be?? look on their faces, but I don’t get bugged nearly as much as a lot of my friends.
The hall smells like burnt sugar AGAIN, so I hold my breath, locking the door and jog down the four flights of stairs. Out in the street it smells like rotten food from the Happy China Palace dumpster, but it’s more natural than the weird burnt sugar smell, right? So I gulp in a great gasp. Mmm…chow mein?
I know what you’re thinking, but living where I live, just off of Noyes, isn’t really so bad. And as an actor, I feel that I have to keep it real, you know? My agent doesn’t understand at all. That’s why he recommended I start seeing my quack-quack.
“With money like yours,” he tells me all the time, “with money like yours it is crazy that you live in this shithouse!” Dude makes me laugh.
Wonder Woman is a nurse—though not at my hospital, unfortunately. I first saw her on a Tuesday six weeks ago, when I went to my shrinky-dink early. I wouldn’t have noticed her at all if it wasn’t for the old man. I was walking down the steps from my el stop and he fell right in front of me with a soft splat, like a sack of garbage chucked on the curb.
Out of nowhere—she appeared.
She pushed me aside, got down on her knees and she kissed him—hard. Then when he didn’t get up, she jumped on top of him and pounded on his chest and then she kissed him again. And after a minute of her kissing and pounding, that old dude woke up, let me tell you! Everybody clapped, and she kept them all back and stayed with him there for a whole half an hour until the ambulance came and the ambulance guys took him to the hospital. I knew right then that she was Wonder Woman.
She is tall and strong and kind of sparkly—and she always wears a baby-blue shirt with Snoopies or little candies on it—but her face is cleverly plain. I tried to start a conversation with her one day by whispering to her that I knew she was the real Wonder Woman, and not Gal Gadot. She has not spoken to me since.
Of course, she has no idea who I really am. If she did, she would just die. Chicks really dig me. But for now, I’ll stay incogniter. It’s more fun this way for now. Someday though, I’ll tell her about all my movies and take her on a ride in a limousine.
So, I walk up Noyes in the dim, purple, pre-dawn, and the morning traffic hasn’t really started yet. There are a few delivery trucks, the whore, and a couple junkies around, but that’s it. None of the super-heroes are out yet. Dawn’s a good time for them to be resting, I guess.
You know, there is this one tree that grows between the Happy China Palace and the Go-Lo gas station on Noyes, right up out of the concrete. They remind me of these awesome trees in Africa, called balboas. They’re these huge, twisted, desert monsters that live and thrive where hardly anything else could. I always think of the balboas when I pass this tree on Noyes, even though this one’s kind of scrawny. Like a lot of folks, it’s had to put up one hell of a fight to make it on this block. So, I pass the brave Balboa, and cross over to the White Hen, ‘cause I feel like a Yoo-Hoo, and a brown paper bag whacks into my leg.
You don’t have to believe me, but stuff is always flying at me and sticking. So, this paper bag and I waltz across the street together, with me twisting and kicking to get it off me. They don’t like it when you do that, so eventually the bag gives up and flies off up the street. Since none of the superheroes is around yet to demagnetize me, I hunch and pull my coat collar up to make it to the White Hen.
“Hey Joe.” The guy behind the counter can’t use my real name or people will know it’s me. I lower my sunglasses to wink at him as he rings up my Yoo-Hoo.
“Spot me the dollar? I’ll get you some comps to my movie opening.”
“Jesus Joe, this isn’t a damn charity!” He has to act this way in case anyone’s watching.
“Right, Buddy!” I say in a disguise voice, backing towards the door with my Yoo-Hoo and knocking over the Hostess stand.
“Oh fuck,” he says.
“Sorry about that!” I start to pick up the Snowballs and HoHos.
“Just get out of here, Joe!”
“You got it!” I say, loud enough for any recording devices to hear.
Out in the world again, I am pleased to see one of the superheroes is out, because just their presence tends to demagnetize me. Seriously. Anyway, the one out this early, beautiful morning is Bicycle Bob. Every day, all day, he walks the streets reminding people to wear their bicycle helmets. His own helmet is black and gold.
“Hi,” he says, coming over to me.
“Hi Bicycle Bob!” I answer, and he squints at me.
“I’m… Bob,” he says at last. “You know, you should always wear a helmet if you’re going to ride a bicycle.”
“I know,” I say, and then lower my sunglasses again to whisper to him. “And I want you to know, I wrote to the police commissioner commending your actions again this week.”
His face is blank. Superheroes are so modest.
“I was a lawyer,” he tells me. “Then this minivan hit me when I was on my ten-speed. I had four surgeries. If I had been wearing a helmet, it never would have happened.”
“Wow.” I nod. “Dude.” I have heard this a million times. But this is his beat, and it’s my duty as a citizen to hear him out at least once a day. He’s great though, because he always pretends he’s never seen me before.
“Seriously, don’t ride a bike without a helmet,” he calls as I head toward the bus stop.
“Ok Bicycle Bob!” I wave over my shoulder. I don’t want to be late.
Early morning sunlight tries to reflect off the grimy windows of my very dirty bus. One of the most frustrating superheroes is Our Lady of the Bus. She gets us where we’re going, but she is always rude and tired. Some of it is because she carries the fat of the American Poor, who eat only junk food in large quantities, and her clothes are too tight.
Today, her hair is drawn into a fierce knot on the top of her head, pulling her eyes into dark slits. Her mouth is pursed and tense and she is loudly chewing two pieces of Banana Hubba Bubba, which I can smell from here. But we’re safe with her, and at least it doesn’t smell like garbage or piss in the bus.
Besides, I bet the Chicago sunrise this morning is almost as pretty as the ones in Africa. You know, I bet at night the sky in Africa is deep blue or black with lots of stars. Here in Chi-town the night sky is always orange. I hate that.
“I’m gonna get me some coffee,” Our Lady of the Bus says pulling over. She rises, shooting me and the rest of the passengers a glare that dares us to comment. No one says a word. Who would? The guy across from me, grizzly and grey, in an old army jacket and torn sneakers, is asleep, and the mousy, babooshka’d woman in the back I don’t think speaks English. I would love to stand up and tell her who I am and to get moving, but I respect the superheroes—and I don’t want to blow my cover.
My watch says six-thirty-nine and it’s only four blocks to the El. Do I walk it? If she passes me, I’ll feel like an idiot, but I have to get to the El by six-forty-five if I’m going to get to Wonder Woman before seven-ten.
“Thanks for waiting.” Our Lady is back, and wow. She was civil. I don’t believe it. We’re off again, and there are no stops between now and mine!
Her coffee is sloshing. Ow. She sets the cup somewhere in front of her, takes out her gum, wraps it in paper and tosses it into a small, dirty-orange, plastic garbage can. Man, don’t you wonder what it must be like to drive a dirty bus around a dirtier city, day in and day out? She’s such a badass, no wonder she always looks pissed. It’s gotta be a sacrifice. I mean—she doesn’t have to live like that. Me neither. We have options.
“Have a nice day,” I say, getting off. She grunts.
The el stop does smell like piss. A lanky black man is mopping the cement floor with a black mop that just appears to be spreading the grime more evenly. The nice Pakistani newsstand man waves at me and calls, “Yoooor let. Jest mist wan.” Bingo.
On the platform it is still and quiet. An old lady is asleep on a bench far down from where I stand. Drinking a Yoo-Hoo really helps cover the piss smell, so I pop mine open and take a gulp. A hundred pigeons are hanging out on the roof of a bank across the street. For no reason, half of them keep taking off and circling way out and above my head and then back to the bank.
I can’t stop thinking about me and Our Lady of the Bus. For some reason, thinking of her has brought on a fear that comes over me occasionally like a presence, or a cloud. I wish I was in Africa. I wish one of the superheroes was around. I wish I hadn’t missed my el and was waiting for Wonder Woman already.
An el roars by going the wrong direction. The pigeons make another round across the street and back to the bank. The sky is getting brighter and more people are gathering on the platform.
My el pulls in at last, and I get on with a great, heaving, “Thank you!”
“Good mo-orning Ladies and Gentlemen! Weh-lcome to the Lo-ove Train! Next stop, Howard!”
I can’t believe it—Love Man is driving the el today! He is my all-time favorite superhero. Most of the time you can’t even understand the guys when they announce the stops, but everyone understands Love Man, and when they hear him, almost everybody smiles, too. “Howard, Ladies and Gentlemen! Thank you for riding the Lo-ove Train. This is Sunny Howard!”
Now I am sure I will get there in time to see Wonder Woman. I won’t see her get off the train today, but I can at least wait at her bus stop with her. Then when she leaves, I will walk the rest of the way to my hospital.
“Next stop, Be-eautiful Bryn Mawr!” As Love Man makes his cheerful announcements, I look out the window through a greasy splotch left by someone’s hair, trying to catch glimpses of the lake down the side streets and reading the graffiti off the buildings and rooftops.
You know, Wonder Woman’s plain little face would be so much prettier if she relaxed, same as Our Lady of the Bus, but I get it. Being a superhero is tough. Maintaining that mild mannered attitude, when really your kiss can wake someone who’s passed out? Think about it.
“Good morning, you’re riding on the Lo-ove Train! Next stop, Belmont.” You know, maybe I should talk to Wonder Woman today. Maybe I should tell her it’s me. We could go up to the 96th floor of the Orange Crate and sip cocktails. She could have a strawberry daiquiri.
“Wessen, Ladies and Gentlemen! This is beea-utiful Wessen!” You can tell it’s getting later, because the amount of people getting on the train increases with every stop. I check my watch and it’s six-forty-seven and there’s a whole two stops to go before mine.
It seems like the el is really taking longer than usual. I think maybe if I close my eyes and concentrate, we will get there faster, but I can’t concentrate long enough without checking my watch, so it’s not working.
“This is Lovely Lawrence, Ladies and Gentlemen,” Love Man sings at last, and I’m pushed off the el by a well-groomed man who is obviously having trouble with the large stick he has up his butt. It’s seven-oh-two and there’s no sign of an El on the other side of the tracks. She should be downstairs waiting for the bus, so I run.
“Watch it, asshole!” a kid in headphones barks, and a woman carrying a baby gives me a nasty look and snorts,
“How ’bout excuse me?”
“Jesus!” someone says.
I can handle it. They just don’t know who I am. Or who’s waiting for the bus downstairs.
Down under the el a bus is just pulling away, but I catch a glimpse of the front and breathe a sigh of relief. I know Wonder Woman wasn’t on it. Hers is the 9X.
There’s an empty seat on the bench on the sidewalk and I take it. I am amazed at how dead everyone looks here under the el. No one is talking to anyone else or looking at anyone else. Everyone is tight inside their own little universe, looking at a phone, or looking at the ground, or looking at the sky.
My watch says seven-oh-six. I’m sure she’ll arrive any minute.
But what if she doesn’t?
I should have told her who I was before now, or followed her once to know where she goes. Maybe another superhero could help me with this, but I can’t think of any except Love Man, and he’s probably to the Loop by now.
A man in a grey suit sits beside me. He smells like aftershave and shampoo. He opens a laptop and starts typing. Tap, tap, tap. I wish I had something as cool as that to take my mind off the fact that it’s seven-oh-nine. Tap, tap, tap. Maybe I’ll get one when my next check from the movies comes in. I lean over to take a peek and he says,
“Do you mind?”
“No problem.” Here is another guy I would love to tell who I am.
Another bus pulls up and O.M.G., it’s the 9X! I climb up to stand on the bench so I can really search for Wonder Woman. Another el is going by overhead and the noise is deafening. The 9X pulls away with a great squeal and a belch of exhaust. I can’t believe she missed her bus.
More people flood down the stairs but I stay standing on the bench because I have a better view from up here. I still don’t see her. Man, I wish a superhero was around. I’d ask them what to do. I mean, this has been our routine for five and a half weeks, every Tuesday.
Then I think of it. I’m late. And she’s late. And Love Man was driving the El.
I will tell Wonder Woman who I am today.
When she comes down from the el, I’ll go right up and explain it to her. We’ll go up to the 96th floor of the Orange Crate at last, and I’ll buy her roses and a strawberry daiquiri. Then I will take her on a carriage ride around the city.
Another bus is here, but it’s not a 9X. I swear, if she will just come out, I will finally forsake this stupid lifestyle to take care of her the way someone should. I will ask her to kiss me and wake me up to the possibilities of life with her magic, the way she woke up that dude that passed out.
People are staring up at me. I tell them, “I’m looking for somebody. Okay?”
When we are up in the Orange Crate, I will ask her to go to Africa with me, even if it means that I miss my movie opening. We’ll go on safari and stay in one of those hotels on stilts I saw in Nat Geo. We’ll make love in tall grass. An el roars over my head. Thunderstorms on the plains of Africa.
Shit. Maybe she really isn’t coming. What if she never comes again? Then I will never get to take her to Africa, or kiss her, or anything. I step down and sit on the bench.
There are pigeons nesting in the metal braces of the bridge the el goes over. Babies are crying in one of the nests and a mom keeps flying in and out, bringing them stuff. I can only hear them now, when it’s quiet. There are way cooler birds in Africa, all colors and sizes with different beaks and different noises that they make—but I may never get to show Wonder Woman that stuff now.
Another bag, this time a blue, plastic Walmart one, flies against my chest. I am tired and sad though and I don’t care that my magnetism has kicked in again. The plastic bag figures this out after a minute and drops away from me as though its feelings are hurt.
You have to feel sorry for the pigeons. Everyone hates them except Pigeon Man. He runs around, shooing them out of the street when cars are coming and feeds them stale bread under the brave Balboa on Noyes. They get all over him and cover him with pigeon poo, and he doesn’t mind at all.
Still, I would rather get to show Wonder Woman the African birds. Only, I’ve lost my chance now. I may never see her again. My stomach hurts. It is seven-twenty-five and another el and bus are pulling up simultaneously, drowning out the baby pigeons. Just in case, I climb back up to stand on my bench.
Suddenly, Wonder Woman appears in a tide of people flowing down the stairs from the El. She is not smiling, but she is beautiful in her Snoopy shirt, like a puff from a dandelion. She glances up at me as she passes my bench and I don’t think she is happy to see me. She keeps going until she reaches the curb.
Now is the time. I will get down off this bench and walk right over and take off my sunglasses and tell her who I am. The sun is just catching the back of her head, that light brown hair, and if I turn her to face me the light will be on her face and it is perfect timing, it is so romantic. But—
I cannot move.
I want to go to her and take her in my arms and tell her. Tell her who I am and about Africa. Africa. Africa. But my feet are frozen to this bench. I start breathing heavily and some of the people around me are staring again. I should try to call out to her, but my throat won’t make the sounds.
I don’t understand how this can be happening, because she is a superhero, and terrible things aren’t supposed to happen around superheroes—but maybe it is that she’s faced away from me and doesn’t realize I need help? Maybe if she just turns around for a second, her superpowers will allow me to move and to go to her. I try so hard—to move or shout—but it is impossible. Impossible.
Wonder Woman scratches the back of her right shin with the left toe of her sneaker. Her hand wipes away a stray wisp of hair. She taps her left foot on the sidewalk, sighs, and leans out into the street, looking for the bus—but when she leans back, she does not turn and look at me. I don’t think I would want her to now, anyway. I am pretty sure no one can see the tears under my sunglasses, but you never know. If I could move, I could wipe them away.
Another 9X pulls up and everyone gets on it but me. In the middle of the throng, Wonder Woman climbs on. I watch her drop her money into the little box and walk deeper into the bus. Then she is riding away from me up the street.
My dumb doctor’s appointment is at eight.
But I don’t know how long I will have to stay here before I can move again.