Friday, June 27, 2008

Making Up on the South Shore

The woman caught my eye right away as she stepped onto the South Shore train.  We’re riding the 8:55 to Randolph Street and I’d just settled in to one of those face-to-face seats with my morning Starbucks and the paper, all relaxed, a whole day awaiting in Chicago.  Then this petite but strong statured woman gets on at Carroll Street.  She’s got a casual, natural look, dark hair thrown across her forehead and a simple leather bag slung over her jean jacket.  She sits down right across from me.  Great face: honest, confident, no makeup, a few character lines, and just below her dark eyes a small, mysterious scar on the bridge of her nose curving down toward her cheekbone. 

As we’re approaching the Beverly Shores station I glance over and see the woman looking into a pocket mirror.  Yes, you’re pretty, sister. Don’t worry about that. Then she reaches into her bag and pulls out a big pink tackle box, sets it on her lap and opens it up, revealing a whole assortment of little tubes and jars.  She selects one tube, squirts some stuff onto her fingertips and starts rubbing it onto…her face. Whoa! What are you doing? I think they call the stuff foundation...which I never understood because a foundation is supposed to be made of wet cement and hold your house up, not your face.  All the way to Dune Park she’s wiping it…no, pressing it into her face, hard, like you press putty into a window frame.  Wiping, wiping like Lady MacBeth trying to rid herself of a horrid spot on her cheeks and on and on she goes as we zoom toward Ogden Dunes. Oh come on, I’m thinking. You don’t need that!  She glances over at me. Oops.

All the way to Gary station she’s rummaging around the tackle box.  She pulls out a round container like a shoe polish tin and a pad and now she’s wiping that stuff on over the first coat.  Another layer?  Furiously wiping it on…over and over, like when you spread on a second coat of drywall mud after you sand the first coat and she must be wiping her skin red and I’m no dermatologist but sister there is no way that can be good for your pores.  She drops the drywall tin into the purse and I start breathing again but then she pulls out a clear plastic zippered pouch filled with utensils and selects a bristle brush and a flat lid box and poofs that on over the damp mud and a little cloud of flesh colored dust rises all around her and poof poof poof she’s whapping it on and where’s her face? Augh! Her mystery scar is gone, the character lines gone, the depth of her skin now an opaque unicolor like someone spray painted her face!  By East Chicago she’s completed the rehab project, she latches the tackle box and drops it all into her shoulder bag. Whew. She had enough stuff in there to embalm and caulk Ramses II into a pyramid.

Pulling into Hammond station the woman looks in the pocket mirror again. She frowns. Oh no. She’s into the zippered pouch again, pulls out a silver twist pencil, changes her mind, puts it back…pulls out a gold twist pencil and Phase II begins.  Wax eyebrow crayons, lip varnish, emo eyeliner, eyelash thickener…

I must have blacked out.  Because next thing I know, the train is slowing, the conductor announces “Van Buren…Van Buren Street next” and this perky, unrecognizable woman across from me presses her lips together, smiles, pops up out of the seat and stands at the door.  Ready for the world, I guess.

Me?  I’m still back in my seat, slumped over, exhausted and confused.  I could probably use some makeup, before we get to Randolph Street.

Broadcast by Jeff Nixa on June 27, 2008
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