Abstract:
Chicago’s Blue Line runs every seven to twelve minutes until 5:00 a.m. and then every three to seven
minutes throughout the day. At least, that’s what they tell the commuters. The reality is before six, you
might have a long, cold, and even dangerous wait before a train comes along. Wayne Ellison knew
that better than anyone. He was a motorman on the Blue Line and, as usual, was running late. To make
matters worse, it was his last run of the night, and Wayne wanted nothing more than to get out of the
living tomb that was his workplace. His silver Ltrain rolled smoothly down a stretch of subway track
between LaSalle and Clinton. Ellison glanced at his speed. Ten percent over the limit. He goosed the
throttle. Fifteen percent over the limit. Wayne could feel the grind of wheels on track as the train hit a
long, sloping curve. He grabbed the sides of the control board and kept his speed pegged. Just when it
seemed like he might have to back off, the train lurched, then straightened out of the bend. Wayne
Ellison pulled into Clinton station right on schedule, one L stop closer to punching another day off the
clock that was his life underground.
A couple hundred yards down the tunnel, echoes from the train’s passage rattled the rails and
traveled along an auxiliary spur. A homeless man in a Bulls jacket grumbled and rolled over in his
cardboard bed. A second cursed at the choking layer of dust the train had kicked up. Nearby, a single
lightbulb vibrated lightly in its socket, turning fractionally in the porcelain grooves. Ever so slowly
the old socket released its grip. The bulb fell straight down onto the steel tracks and burst with a quiet
pop. A puff of white powder blossomed, then drifted in a light current of air, floating down the tunnel
