Monday, July 23, 2001

Don’t try this at home

Liz taught me a clever way to amuse oneself on the subway, and we played together all the way from Wrigley Field to the Loop. It's very simple: during the clattering cacophony raised by the train while it is running, talk quietly to one another and, as the train slows to enter a station, one person raises his voice and says the most improbable thing they can think of.

You should follow your outburst with a chagrined look, as if you did not expect your conversation to be heard over the noise. The object, inasmuch as it can be called so, is to see who can draw the most entertaining looks from the other passengers.

As the train pulled into, North & Clyborn, the first underground station past Boystown, Liz opened with "...and so I told him I wouldn't sleep with him any longer unless he divorced that shrew Jennifer Aniston!"

This barely warranted a glance from the midday commuters.

My initial contribution, after a particularly noisy prelude to the Chicago station was "...found myself standing naked outside the Planetarium with only 35 cents clutched in my hand!"

A few heads popped up, and a 30-something, Brooks Brother-clad businessman nervously looked away as I caught his eye while he disembarked.

"You're good," Liz said.

At Grand, she came back with "...I'm sorry your Holiness, I'll do the thing with the raspberries, but the whip is a no-go!"

Two elderly women clutched their purses a bit tighter and changed seats.

At Washington, just before we hopped off the train, I delivered my best performance. I whispered urgently to Liz, gesticulating wildly with my hands and, as the rumble of the cars subsided, practically screamed into her face "...but I told the mayor we just can't have that much anthrax vaccine by Friday!!" As we passed through the doors, I glanced back at the remaining passengers with a look I hoped conveyed gravitas and panic.

Liz and I stood on the platform and watched the train roll away, giggling at the stricken looks on the faces staring beseechingly after us.