Chapter 1: The Struggles of Commuting in a Blizzard

When it snows in Chicago, the scene resembles the onset of an Ice Age. The unfortunate truth is that we're not equipped for such extreme weather. Our gear is subpar at best.

We’re not ready for an Ice Age because our equipment is lacking? Chicago's buses are relics from Sweden, a remnant of a time long gone. It feels like the world is ending, and we’re riding on discarded vehicles from another nation.

As Steve Buscemi quipped in Armageddon, “You know we’re sitting on four million pounds of fuel, one nuclear weapon and a thing that has 270,000 moving parts built by the lowest bidder.” The only things more dubious than secondhand buses are secondhand rockets. Hand-me-downs from my brother Fred might be awkward, but at least they don't endanger my life. Sure, they might be ill-fitting hoodies, but those can be salvaged with a belt or a staple gun.

Sweden has disposed of its old buses as if they were an ex-lover who developed an embarrassing IKEA obsession after disappearing for decades. Chicago, used to accepting leftovers, shrugged and said, “We’re not picky. It’s still somewhat attractive in a Midwest way.”

However, just because these buses are outdated in one location doesn’t mean they’ll magically function better in another. They careen down our icy streets like tipsy teenagers on greasy sleds. Deep down, we sense we're riding in a substandard vehicle, yet what choice do we have? Should we bond with Steve Buscemi instead?

In moments of peril, you begin to notice the faces of those around you. Who knows? You might find yourself uncomfortably atop one of your fellow passengers during a collision—especially when you’re not even wearing your best underwear.

On one bus ride, we narrowly avoided several accidents. A fellow passenger cracked an inappropriate joke about death, and another woman shouted, “That’s not funny!” Show me a man who tells a poorly timed joke, and I'll show you a woman on the brink of disaster who is decidedly unimpressed.

One guy, clad in a Patagonia jacket and high-end Uggs, slid closer to chat with the bus driver. I’ve heard that can help—having a trust fund, that is. Another fellow was conversing with an invisible companion. Well, I could see them, but I have a rather peculiar diagnosis.

When trapped in a death trap, people tend to bond quickly—not in a romantic sense, but rather by sitting in closer proximity. It’s reminiscent of shy individuals at a wedding, trying to connect.

In a moment of desperation, I found myself saying, “A little help down here, almighty?” Would divine intervention save me from the looming crash? Or was it a scenario akin to Carol King’s “it’s too late, baby,” similar to using a ziplock bag for protection?

I can hear you thinking, “Yeah, I tried a zip-lock bag once too. Now my girlfriend’s pregnant.”

Ah, Sweden.

Thanks to Gary Chapin for his invaluable edits that really sharpened this piece.

Read more stories by Amy Sea (and countless other writers on Medium). Your membership supports the work of Amy Sea and many others.