Being part of a series involving Chicago and its surroundings.

It was sometime after 9 on a Thursday night and there were only a handful of people on the bus, which was heading north on Ashland. Because the bus was so empty, everyone on board was privy to one half of the cell phone conversation being conducted by a young man sitting near the back door. He had a longish, cleanshaven face, wispy but rather long chestnut brown hair, wore a ratty cardigan and jeans and dark purple Chuck Taylors. His shoes looked like they’d just come out of the box. The volume at which he he talked you would have thought the party he was addressing was sitting on the other side of the bus. But there was no one there. It was a monologue.

“I really want to live in Wicker Park. It’s a nice place. But I don’t know. I just don’t know.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I mean. Last night I went to the Gold Star. I was, you know, just having a beer, checking out the jukebox, whatnot. I tried getting a seat at the bar. There were no seats at the bar. So I go up to this table, there’s a girl sitting there. I mean, it’s a big table though. So I sit down. And this chick turns her head and just burns me. Zaps me with her eyes. Not a single word. But it’s like I just farted three ways from Sunday. Apparently I’m just too Gap to hang.

“Too Gap.

“Too Gap to hang. Right. Because I shop at the Gap. Right. You know, my wardrobe isn’t thrift store chic. The kind of look those hipsters have. Not because they’re poor, but because they can afford to dress that way.

“I’m just different because I work forty hours a week and I don’t sit at home at night and knit caps out of brown yarn. So I didn’t stay there long, finished my beer and took off.

“It’s a cool place. But it’s getting unaffordably cool. I’m not there yet.”

The bus stopped at Fullerton and he got off, and then the bus was very quiet.