Before the Chicago Transit Authority adopted a color-coded rail system, I routinely rode the Dan Ryan line. One day in the early 1990s, a man who appeared to be houseless laid on the floor like a crumpled bag of potato chips.
A teenager boarded the ‘L’ with a boombox — remember, it’s the 1990s — and loudly played music. Then he started rapping about his absent father. The irritable man on the floor yelled for him to stop. The teenager ignored him and carried on with his performance. Again, the man interrupted.
