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Hoods and Masks by Barbara Redcay The young men are dressed in dark colors that offer little contrast to their dark skin. They are large in appearance and reveal a glimpse of hard faces under the new fashion craze of their hooded sweatshirts. It’s 5:15 p.m. in Chicago. Beneath the evening traffic on State Street, I’m waiting for the CTA Red Line. I look down the tunnel and see the light of an oncoming train. The commuters on the platform begin to shift positions. Ranks tighten and we all stand where we think we might be close to an opening door. Standing next to me is a woman with white hair whom I guess to be in her late fifties. My luck is running, the door opens before me and I step into the car. In my best commuter posture, I walk to an empty seat with a determined step. My territory claimed, I scan the crowd before pulling out my book to read on the ride home. We assume our positions, set up our boundaries and don the masks of commuters. Whether sitting or standing, today’s commuter creates personal space by wearing ear buds connected to the now standard white wires to deter conversation, reading a book to avoid direct eye contact, or the ultimate mask of sensory withdrawal—closed eyes and a semblance of sleep. As I settle in for the ride home, I sense something on the riders’ faces not so well hidden behind the masks of their evening commute. I see the woman from the platform scored a seat directly across from me. To her left, in the seats perpendicular to her, I note four young people—two couples, one behind the other in the last two rows of the car. The young men are dressed in dark colors that offer little contrast to their dark skin. They are large in appearance and reveal a glimpse of hard faces under the new fashion craze of their hooded sweatshirts. The young women with them look like the girls I didn’t make eye contact with in ladies’ rooms in high school. I put on my mask, pull out my book and read. The two young women are now smiling and giggling with each other. From their conversation, the commuters on the train learn that the couples are on their way to a Cubs game—a seasonal interruption to our usual commute on the Red Line. I go back to reading my book. One of the young women pulls out a camera to take a picture of the couple seated behind her. The couple puts their heads together and smiles for the flash. The young man’s hood slips off. The young man with the girl using the camera hasn’t moved. He is slumped in his seat with his hood covering all but his chin. The girls are checking out the digital photo. Over the top of my book, the scene unfolds before me. I catch a look on the face of the woman from the platform. Her mask is slipping. I’m fascinated, what is she going to do? She puts her book down. She offers to take a photo of the two couples together. The young women love the idea and the camera is handed to her. The man, whose date holds the camera, sits up slightly, his hood still covering his face. A glance and a smile pass between this young woman and the newly designated photographer, who asks him to pull back his hood. To my surprise, he does. I notice other riders giving sidelong glances from behind their masks. The woman gives them instructions to lean forward, move apart, and tells the two in front how to position themselves so the camera can capture all four of them. “Smile,” she says. And they smile. Before taking the shot, she lowers the camera and with laughter in her voice, she says to the man who just lowered his hood, “Look at your dimple! You have the cutest dimple!” The couples laugh. Like dominoes falling, one by one, the commuters smile, too. A click and a flash. The woman hands back the camera with its image of the foursome as they laugh their way to a Cubs game. In that moment, Hoods and Masks have fallen ... and I am left with a picture, too. You might see Barbara on the CTA—she could be the one who looks you in the eye and smiles. After all, even if the destination is the purpose, you can still have fun along the way. You may write to Barbara Redcay at bredcaywrites@gmail.com.
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