It was already late on an already light-deprived early winter Wednesday when I went underground to move between neighborhoods. Back above ground for a short walk on a neon street to the dark room with the bright screen that filled that one wall. Then the movie with the big star, the one about people invading dreams and espionage. Now back underground in this fluorescent cavern, the obscenely big Logan Square Blue Line station. LCD Soundsystem was pulsing through that thin white cord connecting my Ipod to my eardrums. It was now after midnight and I could not for the life of me figure out why this particular train station was so goddamned big. What, 300 yards long? Why? I felt my feet in my boots stapled to the solid concourse but above that everything was shifting, oozing, unsettled.

The silvery snake of the train roared into the station. I wasn’t sure if I was hearing it or feeling it but I could see the whole length of it, that station was so absurdly long. When the doors opened and invited me in, I used my legs but I might have floated on to the car nearest me vowing to research the history of the Logan Square Blue Line station. I’d probably forget. In those moments I didn’t know exactly where the memories went.

There were a few hipsters already in the car, and I nestled in to the left side of one of the two-seated benches that faced the aisle. I briefly laid my head against the plexiglass bolted to the stainless steel lower wall. That didn’t work. I toggled back upright and folded my arms tightly against my chest and looked down, the grooved floor filling my vision.

I did not feel stable in the particular gravity of that particular night. I vaguely blamed it on the movie hangover. But, no. It had been one of the days. I vaguely blamed it on the hipsters. I was un-ironically clean shaven. I wore contact lenses. I wore Levis that had been washed on the bottom and a tan long sleeved t-shirt under a solid green North Face coat on the top. No unkempt beard or thick-rimmed Alan Ginsberg spectacles or flannel shir or skin tight black jeans. But, no. It was not them either. It was my brain bobbing in a stormy ocean with funky Ph. The lack of sunlight and the movie and the music instead of hearing my surroundings just made it seem like maybe this time it came from outside of myself.

The train catapulted back above ground, greeted by miniature white suns on dirty poles. Metal wheels violently rolled over metal rail, trying invade my disconnect with pure noise. I tried harder to hear what was pulsing through my headphones. It was James Murphy singing about his band making music and not making hits. It was one of my favorites and I wished I could hear it better and that I was as cool and as comfortable in the world as James was.

I sat there with my arms crossed, one arm extended up to my upper lip, looking importantly down as if deep in thought. Always my best defense. The train stopped for a passenger exchange at the California Station and the doors spring to life. I could hear the song better now. An older black man shuffled on board carrying a pal full of window washing stuff.

He sat, at first, facing me on the seats directly across the aisle. He put his pail down next to the seat, in what would be the leg space of the seats perpendicular to his. Then he got up and crashed himself on those perpendicular seats. From there he nimbly twisted around and tried to lay down on the seats he had just vacated. The doors closed and the  train again gathered momentum for it’s journey  to the south and east. A lurid smell of some kind of alcohol reached me. I lowered the volume on my headphones.

I watched the window washer try to get comfortable as if watching an old-time cartoon. My eyes flicked up to catch a frame and then back down. Over and over. I tried to keep the appearance that my eyes were focused thoughtfully towards the floor that way I would appear to be relaxed and unafraid. I didn’t want the window washer to think I was afraid just because he was black and drunk and smelled bad. I didn’t want the hipsters on the train to think I was afraid for the same reasons. I diverted my eyes over at them in much less frequent intervals too. They appeared aloof.

The window washer settled in what looked like a comfortable position but then jerked up abruptly to reach down and pull a dirty wooden handle out of his bucket. The handle, grimy and about two feet long but with no wiper attached. He looked at the stick carefully and with reverence. He grabbed it tightly with both hands and I was impressed that he was able to hold his upper body somewhat upright while he slowly swirled the handle out in front of him. He was mumbling something.

I kept him in my field of vision with continued furtive glances. Each one bounced back from the window washer like radar. I did not feel in any danger, but also knew my intuition was out of whack. I didn’t want a future conversation to go something like ‘yeah he was drunk and possibly crazy and waving a stick around, but I didn’t think he would actually hit me.’

My glances revealed a worn, coal black face, with deep forehead ridges above bloodshot eyes. He had substantial thickety facial hair that sprawled well up his check bones, black with healthy doses of grey, especially on the neck and lower cheeks. It almost looked like part of his upper lip was missing, but I couldn’t tell without staring. It was probably just swollen or maybe some kind of sore.

I thought I heard him mumble something like ‘I will be your hero’. He looked like he was about to pass out, before reawakening to face his imagined foe, twirling the stick with new vigor. He now held the handle out above his legs with his right hand, the one closest to me, and started making some kind of movie martial arts gesture with his left.

Grab the stick first if he tries to stand up and hit me with it. He’s drunk and wearing a heavy coat so he won’t be able to generate much torque. It might sting my hand a little but nothing will break or be permanently disfigured. Ignore your racing heart. Pull the stick away from him and back up into the open space between the two doors. Extend your other arm, palm up. ‘Take it easy ok? I’m not going to hurt you.” That will disarm him. “I can’t give you the stick back, I’m sorry.’” He pleads that he needs it to make a living and can’t afford another one. I consider giving it back to him when I get off at the next stop, but then I think about the hipsters. I quickly look behind me to see that they are not paying any attention to what’s happening. I agree to give him the stick back when I get off. I don’t know if I’m lying or not. He thanks me and sits down, but doesn’t stop looking at me. He’s using his eyes as lasers now, but I am immune. I stay standing and grab one of the support poles. I resume looking down at the floor, using my exceptional peripheral vision to keep tabs on him.

The window washer slowly and clumsily twirled the stick some more and then suddenly slammed it back down in the pail. It hit the molded plastic with a harmless hallow ‘thwack!’.

A type of serenity overcame the window washer again as he tried to inch himself back so he could rest his head against the stainless steel divider. A quick scan of the hipsters revealed continued nonchalance. It was hard to tell without spending more time visually with them whether this was genuine or feigned.

No one got on or off at the Western station. I kept my eyes on the window washer for slightly longer periods but still from a downward trajectory. He now had the back of his head flush with the stainless steel divider and probably would have been uncomfortable if he wasn’t drunk slash delusional. He was mumbling again, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. He was now doing martial arts moves with both hands. His motions were caricatures but were soft and controlled.  He was smiling and his eyes were white and red and wild. I could not tell if he was winning his battle.

I vault up and block his right-handed thrust with my right forearm. I’m forced to the back of the car, less space and no way of exit except through my attacker. I look behind him and see the hipsters looking at me wondering what I did to provoke this mentally ill window washer. I don’t think. I react. I look at the window washer strongly, firmly so he knows I could win a physical struggle. Then I instinctively relax my shoulders and un-tense my body posture, and look him directly in the eyes and give him a slight smile. I’m careful not to smirk. I do that sometimes. My right arm, still outstretched in a defensive position, begins to lower. It works. Before I can say anything compassionate, his body begins to slacken and he smiles back at me with surprisingly white and intact teeth. It gives him an unexpected dignity that I’m sure I reflect back. He comes out of his attack posture and mumbles something. I only half hear the word ‘good’ as he sits back down. I move past him with casual caution and stand next to the door, grabbing one of the support poles. Before I can look back down at the floor I realize the train is slowing and it is my stop. I think about staying on an extra stop to make sure that he didn’t think I was still afraid of him. That’s got to be the worst feeling – to be feared when you just want to be seen and heard and loved. But it’s my stop.

The door sprang open at the Damen station and I got up and gave the window washer one more glance. He had stopped the hand movements and I couldn’t tell if he was still conscience or not. A few of the hipsters were getting off too and I paused to let them off, standing for a moment over the window washer. Then I walked off of the train as I normally would. Calmly victorious.