I attended Chicago Public high school and quickly became acclimated to riding the CTA bus each morning to my classes. It was about a 3-block walk to the bus stop, where I waited for clearance in traffic before I ran across Western Avenue to my bus stop. (Even though a long-standing Illinois law calls for vehicles to stop for pedestrians, that usually doesn’t occur.)
I took the 49A bus, heading further south down Western Avenue. At 111th street, I transferred to the 112 Vincennes, which dropped us students right across the street from Morgan Park High School.
However, I remained unskilled at navigating CTA El trains. I can still recall one of my first CTA elevated train rides.
The year was 1979 and my mother decided it was high time to show my older sister and me how to get ourselves downtown if needed. We lived on the far southwest side of the city, where we walked several blocks down to catch the 103rd bus, which would take us east to Vincennes, and eventually take our trio to the 95th street bus station, where it sat atop the Dan Ryan expressway.
Back then, we called it the “Dan Ryan El”
We followed our mother dutifully, as we rode the El on that hot summer’s day before my sophomore year of high school began. Mom showed us how to bring exact change for the bus fare — the driver gave no change. That sign was apparent (and still is) on all CTA buses. El chofer NO tiene cambino.
“Sun visors. Incense. Double belts,” a 20-something-year-old vendor walked through the CTA cars, hawking his wares. His voice was low, calm and deliberate — his sales delivery was perfected. His hips seemed to move in sync with his words, as he worked his way through the cars, trying to spy an interested customer.
Sun visors. Incense. Double belts… he repeated, over and over.
His products were easy to spot. A myriad of PVC transparent sun visors ran along his left arm — a virtual rainbow of color selections.
His opposite arm displayed several double belts — the oh-so popular accessory with us gals during that zeitgeist. We wore them with our jeans and t-shirts, to highlight our waists and our sense of style.
Lastly, the vendor displayed a profusion of incense sticks, which he wore in a suede pouch about his neck. It seemed as if he had quite a collection of scents to choose from. He strode through each car, hawking his products to the CTA riders on the Red Line – patiently waiting for anyone to make a purchase. Nice and easy, no pressure whatsoever from him.
This vendor didn’t need a license to sell his products — at least, licensing wasn’t exactly enforced. Then, it was simply part of the ambience of riding the El train to and from downtown Chicago.
I kept my 14-year-old eyes on the traveling merchant, as he continued through the connecting train cars. This type of off-the-cuff peddling was new to me. Quickly, I was impressed with the young man’s efforts… making some ca$h for himself… in whatever way he could.
We arrived downtown, at the Adams Street stop. Taking the steep staircase down to Wabash, we walked one block toward State Street, turning north toward Madison Street. There, Mom took us to Wieboldt’s Department Store, where she bought each of us a pair of knee-high vinyl boots which we could wear to school.
We thought we were somethin’ in those boots. For Christmas that year, I received a pair of boot socks, with a fuzzy top cuff, which I creatively folded over the top of my boots. With that final touch, I was clearly rockin’ it as a tenth grader.
After leaving Wieboldt’s, we followed Mom once more like dutiful ducklings — back to the El stop on Adams, where she pointed out the opposite staircase in order to return back home once more.
It was steamy and sultry that afternoon. Our El car was an oven, with the A/C completely out of order. One rider took it upon himself to open the rear exit door to let in a blast of outside air. It was still sweltering — but at least we passengers felt a bit of relief.
I watched for more vendors, just in case the double-belts guy came through again. I even had some ca$h of my own, in case I wanted to treat myself.
But the fella never returned.
The three of us rode that El train in silence, sweaty and tired while we each tightly held onto our shopping bags. Heading south toward 95th Street, we’d then transferred to the 103 Bus, which would take us close to home.
That was a warm, muggy afternoon, that somehow I’ve never forgotten, thanks to my mom…
to Wieboldt’s Department Store…
and to the peddler with captivating sun visors, incense and double belts.
Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST
PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST 