ENDLESS LOOP

Rain on the windows of the El, each clinging drop refracting inverted images of buildings, neons, streets and figures on the sidewalk below. Loomis had reached a still, uncertain point in the journey. Would he go forward, back or remain inert, the world swirling around him? He’d been riding for two hours, and had no desire to move. His brain was silent. He’d stayed on the Ravenswood line where it circles the Loop, getting off each time at the Lake Transfer, crossing to the downtown side over the creaky steps, and picking it up again. He could see the train reflected in the facing skyscraper windows, his own face looking forlornly out, reflected on the inside of the El windows, along with the images of the gray outside world and the rush of reflections on his own eyeballs, almost frightening himself with a sudden knowledge of the infinitesimal details of the world around him. He could see women moving through the fluorescent light of the offices and wondered if he could ever meet them, if by chance they came out after work and boarded this train, this car, maybe even sat next to him. If he just waited long enough, something had to happen, right? The law of averages. The people looked small and miserable, scurrying about in the slick street below. Shiny cars, trucks and cabs honked at the intersections. People ate in restaurants, gazing dully out. They thronged in stores. They went about their business. Loomis watched. The train sparked on the tracks. Another train passed going the opposite way, flashing silver sides, beaded windows, blurry faces, then the street scene emerged again. He imagined a disastrous fire, an explosion, a riot, something to break the monotony. He ran through the litany of stops in his mind like a rosary: Washington/Wells, Quincy, LaSalle/Van Buren, then around to the north, the train leaning precariously on its girdered roost. Office windows flashed reflections of gray sky, of the shuttling train, of traffic lights, of the hundreds of faces in the crowds on each corner, of the crowns of skyscrapers, of billboards, of the mouths of bars, of people huddled against the rain on the platforms, of planes flying overhead. One giant phantasmic image of a wet Chicago afternoon where Loomis felt like he couldn’t go on, could give a shit about what the hell he was going to do after this, and might just stay here, making this circuit, through the night and on into the next day. The train made a last turn by the flashing Chicago Theater marquee and pulled into the Lake platform. He roused himself from his seat, got off and followed the other automatons toward the turnstiles, then walked up the wooden stairs, over, across and back down to the downtown side, stopping long enough to look down the long stretch of State Street there, the mass of people, the Marshall Fields’ clock, the piled traffic, a street preacher yelling through a megaphone, a purple neon martini glass. Then there was a rumble under his feet. He turned to face the train pulling into the station, with RAVENSWOOD in its title bar. He stood and waited for it to stop as it clicked past, then he crossed to the other side of the train, found a seat by the window, and looked out, holding his stomach, trying to trample a surge of anxiety, seeing the outside and inside reflections and reflections of reflections as they began to move and slide across each other (and the splash of blending reflections on his retinas, which still showed splashy afterimages when he closed his eyes), all the images refracted and reflected by the gusts of rain, the afternoon-long rain, sliding down the windows of the train, splashing over what felt like the whole world. The train banked, groaning, and rumbled south, the car filling with pewter light, the window framing a vista of dark slabs of downtown towers, and flashing with the myriad layers of reflections, all of the images repeated infinitely on Loomis’s retinas.