Many a Board of Trade guy has gotten on the wrong train.
The first time I did was in the summer of 1988, on a Friday night, drinking Old Style with the older guys I worked with at Continental Grain. I was twenty-one, living back at my Oldman’s house in Oak Park, thinking I knew more than I did.
I jumped on the Lake/Dan Ryan line heading west and passed out somewhere between confidence and stupidity. Back then, Lake Street ran straight through the West Side and tied into the Dan Ryan which headed south. I slept through Ridgeland, all the way to the end of the line at Harlem/Lake. The train turned around and headed back toward the Loop with one drunk kid stretched out, learning a lesson the long way.
By the time we turned south again, rolling past Old Sox Park, past 47th, stopping at 63rd, an older Black woman leaned over and told me plainly: "You’re on the wrong train, in the wrong part of town, for a white boy.
She wasn’t rude.
She wasn’t dramatic.
She was a guardian angel.
I thanked her, got off at 69th Street, and stood on the platform waiting for a northbound train. My eyes wide open and my heart pounding. I didn’t sleep a wink the rest of the way home. I was scared the whole ride, and I deserved every second of it.
When I finally walked in the back door, my dad was sitting in the family room, awake.
“Where the hell have you been?”
I told him the story. He shook his head once and said, “Go to bed.”
I never passed out on the CTA again.
Years later, I made one more train mistake. I took an express by mistake out to Aurora when I was living along the BNSF line. Terese came and got me: George packed in the back seat. I figured I was headed straight to the doghouse, but George was having trouble sleeping, and that long drive knocked him right out. Sometimes grace shows up when you least deserve it.
I didn’t pay an expensive price for either trip. I learned and I remembered.
The longer you stay on the wrong train, the more expensive it is to get home. Luckily, I didn't get robbed and thank goodness George was cranky that night.
Today is National Bacon Day. I bake mine in the oven. Nothing says good morning like a couple of sunny-side-up eggs, hash browns with onions, buttered rye toast, a cup of black coffee, and four or five strips of bacon cooked medium to medium-well.
Sunrise today was 7:17 AM... still late but getting there. We are on the last fumes of ’25.
Finish strong.
Take the A Train Chalkheads, have some bacon, and don’t sleep through your stop.
