A Recipe

All day long, his words simmered in her consciousness, "You never make me croissants. If you loved me, you'd make me croissants." It was ridiculous of him, she knew. In fact, sometimes she'd roll the words over in her mind like prayer beads and smile at his ridiculousness--the childlike neediness. But as the hours passed, she was surprised to discover all at once--his words had come to a boil in her mind and she had to turn off the repetitive accusation before it boiled over. That was why she found herself at the grocery store after work. Flour, butter, milk, sugar, yeast.

No, she'd never made him croissants, it was true. She wondered at the meaning of it--her face reflected in the chrome edges of the refrigerated shelves.

At home, in her kitchen, she decided to put on the kitschy apron (a housewarming present from a friend) and felt a lovely sense of domesticity flood her body.

Two and three quarters cups of flour later and the things baking in the oven--she had to take stock of the mess she'd made. She'd floured the floor, the table, the counter top, herself. She laughed--did a little shimmy dance barefoot swishing a path through the flour on the floor. She wiped off the counter and the table, washed the dishes, shook out the apron, letting the flour settle on the floor with the rest. Pulled the croissants out of the oven when the timer rang. The whole house smelled like love. Smiling, she removed the apron, ironed it crisp with her hands, folded it and placed it high on the shelf. She made a pot of coffee and sat down with her creations.

"You never made me croissants," began to bubble up in her consciousness again, but she took a bite of that buttery loveliness and smiled.

Nope, she thought.

Don't even think about it.

This happened on Wednesday.

So, I'm on the train by 6:15am. Maybe after the Loyola stop, I'm not sure, there's this black man, skinny, tall, older and drunk who keeps talking shit to this woman sitting across from him. The thing is, she keeps talking back to him. I can't tell if he's truly belligerent or not. There is another woman sitting nearby and I'm in the middle of the car. Behind me in the back of the car are two other men. I'm trying to read student work. I have a pen in my hand and I'm really trying to NOT listen to the back and forth. I don't understand why this woman keeps saying stuff back at the dude. Anyway at some point the other woman sitting nearby tells the dude to leave her (the woman who he has been targeting) alone. This goes on for a while. She tells him to shut the fck up. This raises the drama-rama. The man grabs his bottle (conveniently wrapped in a black plastic bag) and makes like he's going to hit her with it. This is when I dump my backpack on the empty seat next to me, and jump up and yell (VERY LOUDLY).

I am unclear the order of what I said, so I will include all the statements that I remember making at some point in this exchange.


don't even think about it.
sit down.
put that away.
don't even think about it.
you will act like a gentleman and either sit down or get off the train

Meanwhile, I should add that I am now standing next to the woman who he is directing his anger at. This is not the woman he was talking to earlier. This was the woman who was sitting nearby and who took up for the other lady. She's young, black, with a puffy fro, and I realize (because she has taken off her jacket like a tough chic ready to throw down on the playground and I can see that she is wearing a security guard uniform) that she is a security guard.

But she is taking the tough chic stance and she is cussing him out. I, on the otherhand, have not sworn once (surprise). I am fixated on his movements and what he's doing with the bottle. (Because he could just be threatening, but because he's drunk, his behavior is unpredictable.) I have already figured out what move to make. (Yay aikido). All I have to do is be there, right up under his armpit the moment he raises his arm and I will topple this man over backwards. And he is drunk and I am not. I am fast, he is wobbly. Anyway, I'm not scared. But I'm very very aware.

At one point he sees the pen in my hand and makes like he thinks I'm threatening him with it. This I think is funny, because I just never let go of it. I am certainly not thinking of it as a weapon. "You ain't gonna do anything with that," he says to me, like my pen is a wimpy weapon.

"You're right. I'm not," I say implying something far more dangerous and mysterious.

Meanwhile, Security Guard Lady is threatening to pepper spray him (though she doesn't seem to have said spray out.)

Finally (and it seemed like we would never get to the next stop) we approach a platform and we are both telling him to get off the train.

He does. People start flowing in. They have no idea why these two women are standing in the middle of the aisle. He makes like he's going to get back on. Security Guard Lady yells, "I wish you would. I'll put my foot so far up your a$$..." But the doors close and he continues to mouth threats at us through the window.

I go back to my seat. My backpack still open, but unperturbed. I settle back down. Later, I start a coughing fit and realized that I strained my throat.

Let me tell you that my voice filled the entire train car. And my voice must have sounded strong. Because he wasn't quite sure if I was scary or not.

Finally, at Monroe, Security Guard Lady got off the train. She looked for me before she got off, mouthed "Thank you," to me. I called out to her, "You have a good day."

Let me tell you, we shared a moment, that Security Guard Lady and me.

And that was the beginning of my day.