| | The visit to the dentist isn’t as painful as I imagined it would be. I guess my plaque buildup is on the low end, and of course, I get the usual lecture about flossing. I get done around five, so I’m still in the throws of rush hour.
The trains are especially poopy today, and we just sit at the stop for a long time, before the announcer comes on and informs us that the el will be stopping at Belmont and then turning back south because of “police activity at Argyle Station.” Oh, home sweet home.
I don’t really care much – I’ve got a seat and plenty of reading material. I decide not to take the bus option. Last time I did that it didn’t do me any good.
By the time we finally get to Belmont and disembark, I’m being herded toward the exit with the throngs of commuters, en route to these mythical “shuttle buses.” I think shuttle buses are like unicorns, Snuffleupagus and hookers with a heart of gold. I’d like to believe they exist, but I have serious doubts.
I’ll never know, cuz the conductor announces that train service has been restored, so I laugh and pop back on.
Later in the evening, as I’m heading to the Jewel to meet the Duke, I see two coppers talking to Miss Ollie. Miss Ollie owns Ollie’s, a local dive bar. I had always wanted to go there, and one cold winter night when we didn’t want to venture far, we decided to try it out. We smoked out and trudged up there. Pooter’s like, “Let’s do a drive-by,” and we peek in the windows as we passed.
“Well…” she said, “it appears to be a hangout for the bruthas.” We decided to be the only Whities in there, and we hadn’t been in there long before a tall, skinny Black woman came up the stairs from the basement. Someone called her Miss Ollie, and that’s when we realized the bar was named after a woman. She was great and chatted with us for awhile.
My other Miss Ollie story is that one morning as I passed by the bar, and a seldom-used side door opened up. Out came a butch lezzie…followed by Miss Ollie. “Why, I do believe Miss Ollie’s a dyke!” I exclaimed (even though no one was with me).
Anyhoo, this evening she’s talking with the two police ossifers. I beeline over to them. “So what was the deal at Argyle Station?” I ask.
One of them, a Hispanic fellow, sizes me up. “It’s already on the news,” he says.
I’m thinking, Well, that don’t do me much good right now, buddy. I’m not a fuggin’ walking TV set.
I don’t say anything, though. I just look at him expectantly. I try not to focus on the single white hair that’s sticking out of each of his nostrils.
Finally, he opens up a bit and says a woman died on the tracks. And kee-rist, getting the story out of him and his partner is quite a task. Eventually, after a few minutes of confusion, I think the woman was trying to go from one car to another, a process that puts you outside briefly. She lost her footing and fell under the train.
“She got dragged underneath for awhile,” the other cop offers helpfully.
(The above account, like many entries in this blog, is truthful in that it happened to me, and that’s how I remember it. Of course, that doesn’t mean the cops knew what the hell they were talking about. Here’s the Uptown Update blog entry, which has links to sources and nifty shit like that.)
|
| | Posted 7/22/2008 10:53 PM - 14 views - 2 comments
- recommend
  - recs0
- give stars
- votes0
- share
- email
 - sent0
|
