Pilsen and the Metallic God

Pain and putrid perfume protrude profusely from Pilsen. Dark and dangerous areas plagued by anger and hysteria. A microcosm of death, hatred, and violence where the only thing undying is intolerance. When the town calls up to God on it's knees like an altar boy who has recently lost his faith and needs to find a new way whispers, "Save me". God will stand tall like a giant of a man and say, "heh figures." That's the way Frank Miller would write this assignment and that's also why you don't know who Frank Miller is and why he finds himself out of a job. Me on the other hand would go about this assignment a lil differently.

It's 6 in the morning and the Pink Line passes through Pilsen, rattling its sleeping town awake. Steel scrapes against steel like an angry god gritting its teeth at its idle and sleeping worshippers waiting for them to pay tribute via Ventra. The metal monster of a train with eyes of headlights and wires, and carts connecting to each other like tendons and sinew. It's the DNA of Pilsen. The veins of the city, in which its passengers are the blood cells pumping to and from the body of Chicago, passing through the kidneys, the brain, and the heart of it. And my heart lies in Pilsen.
As the Pink line reaches the Damen stop it pauses, waiting for its passengers, after a minute or two it starts up again. A "CHUCKA! CHUCKA! CHUCKA!" comes from the metal god like the drum intro to Sweet's "Ballroom Blitz" except more powerful, and frightening. Pilsen in a nutshell. A nutshell you'd hate to crack open. As the train continues to chug along its accompanied by the several instruments Pilsen has to offer. The St. Paul church bell rings fiercely enough to make Quasimoto and all of Notre Dame blush. Then the rest of the band joins in and play their parts flawlessly: the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, riffs are that of the car engines starting, horns honking, and tires braking. The chorus follows as the Paleteros and the Eloteros ring their bicycle bells and yell, "Paletas!" "Elotes!"
Then the soft bridge, as the birds chirp along. The whole song ending with a crescendo of loud yells from the neighborhood. "I'm late for school!", "I'm late for work!", "You forgot your lunch!", "Dos elotes por favor!" an amalgam of awkward noises thrown into an orchestra with no maestro and told to play. Yet its still beautiful in its own way. It's the theme song of Pilsen and like True Blood's theme song the only thing I look forward to.

When I rise to meet the day, I exit my home and head up the old wooden steps that look like they're on their last legs... or on their last steps. I mean... it might be the last time I use my legs if these steps don't last. Thankfully they do, and I open my frontgate a solid black recently varnished gate that's clearly seen more care than the stairs I'd been walking on. But that's because it carries our family crest, a giant Pineapple. Yes, my family crest is a giant pineapple. My last name is Piña and yes as in "Do you like Piña Coladas and getting caught in the rain?" Which yes I do and no I don't to those questions respectively. And yes I will cease to using the word "yes".
When I close the gate I close my eyes with it. I rest my chin on my chest and breathe in. I don't breathe in air and my lungs don't house any oxygen, instead they trap the sounds, the people, the smell, the very soul of Pilsen, and I can only hold it in for so long before I exhale and let it all go. With that I open my eyes and see my neighbor slash uncle exit his home. A 63 year old retired carpenter with a Corona in hand and a lit cigarette in mouth and its still only 7 o'clock. I know what you're all thinking. "Talented."
He asks me, "Adonde vas?  A trabajar o' a la escuela?" or "Goin' to work? Or school?"
"A la escuela!" I answer back, "To school!"
"Es gud ju wan a beer, Alberto?"
"Naw. 'toy bien," its not the first time he confused me with my brother and it wouldn't be the last.         

Heading toward the train I walk on the sidewalk where my cousin, "Christian Perez, and I used to play soccer when we were younger, I walk passed the house where the "Aleman" lives, a big German woman who looked like an evil Mrs. Adams and sold drugs. She used to yell at us whenever the soccerball would land in her frontyard. And in a couple of years the same place Christian would buy his weed. I walk by the alleys where backyard fiestas were held. Where the only chaperones in the party were music, dance, and drink, and the same alley where Christian became part of the S.D. family to help provide for his family when his father couldn't. Finally, I walk towards the Pink Line entrance just two blocks away from Christian's dad's favorite bar "Valle's", where Christian would walk him to and carry him back home from.
The same bar where right outside on a late Thursday night Christian was gunned down waiting for his dad to get his fix. These memories always go through my head as I hop on the metallic god. In my cart I see the usual suspects Iggy who named himself after Iggy Pop and his hipster friends, waging a war on Old Spice and all other deodorants out there. They're good people chill, never cause any trouble, and got a good taste in music even if though they smell like B.O. and dress like 1970's biker rejects.
Georgie is on the train too a 4'8 about 100 pound Satan Disciple who looks like a cross between Eminem and Napoleon Bonaparte on speed. Mrs. Cecilia a single mother in her mid-50's trying to put two daughters through college on her school secretary job. White hairs streak through her black hair resembling that of a skunk's, and bags under her eyes that seem to have been gathering sand for years. Mr. Monarez is there too, a father in a family of  seven working construction. He's undocumented reaching the age of 70 and has no pension. The only thing he has to show for his work are tired old hands suffering carpel tunnel. A 4-inch nail lodged and fused to his femur and a family that loves him. There're several others I can name for days but we'd be here for weeks. So I'll leave you with this instead. The metallic god has chosen to name its destination wisely. The Loop. Because everyday the people of Chicago the people of Pilsen the people that we know everyday. Go around and around and around. We're all passengers going in a Loop.