I board the blue line to the northwest side of Chicago . The trains are crowded in the downtown tonight—more so than usual, perhaps because of the rain. The October air is fresh, mixed with a cold breath of wind off the lake. The trees in the city parks are almost all golden-orange now, and you can literally lose yourself in a meditative bliss if you stand under the leaves for too long. You can easily enter a dream world, an innocent state of pure calm.

A good rain always heightens this freshness, this changing of the seasons, this magic of meditative euphoria. It calls human senses out from their hiding places like the full moon calls shadows out from the trees. All senses are reborn and become aware of the simplest moment.

I'm late leaving the garden behind the museum, causing me to arrive at the train station during the peak of madness. I had gone to the museum to see the Impressionists again, but somehow ended up in the garden creating my own painting with the autumnal sights and sounds; letting the smells of fallen leaves on rain-soaked sidewalks sweep through me like a divine breath.

I manage to catch my train before it leaves the chilly, wet platform. I slip on the wood and ram myself in the packed crowd in the train.

“Almost missed her,” says a man politely moving aside to let me in. “Yes,” I smile and step slightly to my right before I'm crammed up against a nicely dressed man who pretends not to notice me.

“Seems more packed than usual tonight,” he continues.

“I know. I can usually get a seat on Thursday evenings. Must be the rain,” I answer swaying with the motion of the train.

“Could be. That or the world has gone environmental and realized it must take trains and leave the cars at home.”

I nod. “That'd be nice.”

“That's what I do. I've used the train for 20 years. Don't need a car. I let my wife drive when she wants to, but I prefer the train. I'm not environmental or anything. Just like trains.”

I smile.

“You live up on the northwest side?” he asks.

“No, but there is this great, little bookstore I like just blocks from the Montrose stop. I go there after work when my thoughts have dried up and I need to read.”

He nods his head and adjusts his body that's sandwiched in between two middle-aged office workers. The looks on their faces show a bleakness, an emptiness, as if they are wearing masks and not human faces capable of expression.

I notice a young woman and a man—visibly out of breath—get on at Division. The elderly, train-loving gentleman and I move further to the right to let them in. My new acquaintance breaks free from the stone-faced paper-pushers, and looks down at his shoes.

The woman who has just boarded looks over at me and smiles, then turns back to face her companion.

As she moves, I notice a large raindrop clinging to her long, brown hair.

I imagine she and her friend had to run to the train station, trot down the stairs, and race to catch the train. Her hair is disheveled. The scarf that was apparently around her neck is now firmly grasped in her hand.

I find it amazing that the raindrop has held on this long. It is now catching the overhead florescent lights in the train. I look closely at it and wonder if I can see my reflection.

My elderly gentleman friend holds onto a pole and is tossed about by the ride. He looks like one of those comedians in an old black and white movie who is about ready to break out in a dance routine. He turns to me.

“I think I know which bookstore you mean. That little one on the corner right next to the blue laundromat.”

“Yes. Yes, that's the one. Neat little shop. I like the smell of the old books and magazines. There is something comforting about the wooden floors. I'm kinda fond of that tiger cat that sleeps in the window too.”

“The laundromat used to be a barber shop, you know. Had a master barber there. Old Gus didn't cut people's hair, he sculpted it. The guys they have now that call themselves barbers are about as sophisticated as these young kids that pound out noise and call themselves musicians.” He laughs and I notice his teeth are heavily coffee-stained. His lips are thin yet full of a unique warmth. I follow a small scar from his right cheek to the corner of his right eye. His silver hair laughs with an energy of quiet wisdom.

“Muggers! Deviant rascals!”
“What's that?” I ask.
“You're lookin' at my scar, right?”
“Ya — I. . .”

“Muggers did it. Crazy rascals down on 30 th and Cermak. My wife and I lived down there right after we were married. I came home one night … matter of fact, it was kinda like tonight. A rainy night in October. I walked right out from under a bridge and these two goons slammed me up against a concrete wall, put a knife to my cheek, ripped my back pocket off and sliced my face in the process. Funny thing is, I think they cut me by mistake. They were too nervous. Nervous and stupid. But not mean.”

I look at his scar, then glance again over to the raindrop. Yes, it is still in her hair. I can't imagine how it is able to maintain its position in her hair with this constant jerking of the train. It appears to be holding on with some kind of mysterious will.

“It really is amazing how there are some things we never forget, no matter how hard we try to pack them away in the deepest recess of the mind. It's as if we try to bury old bodies and hide them from the police. But the ghosts keep coming back. Edgar Allen Poe's tell tale heart keeps echoing with a laugh.”

I smile and hold on to the pole as the train hits a rough spot.

My friend continues, “Then there are some memories that return… some good ones… ones we never want to forget. Like tonight.”

“You mean our meeting?” I ask.

“You're a kind young gentleman to say such a thing. But I was referring to something else.”

“What?”

“Oh, you know.” He winks. “It's my stop. Have fun at the bookstore. Read some thoughts for me.”

The train slows to a halt and the doors begin to open.
“But what memory were you—”
“That raindrop, my boy. You've been staring at it since she got on. Don't ever let it fall … from your memory, I mean.”

He disappears onto the platform and into a crowd of umbrellas. A cool, wet breeze enters through the doors. I peek out to see if he looks back, but the train already starts to pull out. A large sign with big blue letters on it tells me we are at Logan Square . Four more stops and I'll be at the bookstore.

I turn to look for the woman with the raindrop. But she is gone. Had she gotten off at Logan Square with her raindrop? Or had it fallen on my on coat? Had it finally fallen off that long, brown hair?

I never make it to the bookstore. Why? I don't exactly know; but when I get to Montrose, I get off the train and walk over to the other side of the tracks and take the train back to Logan Square . I don't know what I am looking for—the girl or the raindrop? I know quite clearly I'll never find either one. Perhaps that is the beauty of it all—knowing they are gone. And yet, in some treasure box of my mind, she and the raindrop will always be here inside this night on the train.

I get off at Logan Station and walk down the rain-soaked, leaf filled steps to the street below. A smile climbs inside my lips. I think how I have just ridden a train with a raindrop that traveled through Chicago , clinging to the quiet strand of a woman's hair. It's winking liquid song echoing in my eyes.

The image of that funny gentleman comes to mind. I recall his wink. He seemed more like a magical little rabbit than a businessman. He did not disappear into the crowd, but into a strange autumnal air, into the air of heightened senses, into a night that married a raindrop to my memory.