ATTENTION, ALL PASSENGERS
ROBERT LOERZEL

"Attention, all passengers," a woman’s voice on the PA system announced as I came off the El train. I paused in my walk toward the steps that led down from the platform, listening with a sense of curiosity more than urgency. The speaker system distorted the woman’s voice so much that I could make no sense of what she said next. It sounded as if the words she said were: "The postman has spilled kerosene on the message stamp." Of course, I knew she said no such thing. I glanced at the one other man standing on the platform, and there was no sign of panic upon his face, so I assumed there was nothing I needed to worry about. I did look closely at the cement steps as I walked down, thinking perhaps the message was a warning about kerosene spilled upon the staircase. I am certain I heard the word "kerosene" in the midst of that message, but I saw no spills of any sort upon the stairs or anywhere else. And so I went on my way.

Sheila sent me a postcard from Florida. She said she was having a good time on her vacation. I put the postcard (palm trees) between a magnet and the surface of my refrigerator. I thought it was odd to hear from Sheila while she was on vacation, since I rarely spoke to her while she was here in the city. Sheila is not my girlfriend, although I once wished she was.

The phrase continued to repeat in my mind, the phrase I thought I had heard the woman saying. "The postman has spilled kerosene on the message stamp." The message stamp? The phrase signified nothing to me. I wished I had gone back up those stairs and sought out the woman who had delivered the message over the loudspeakers. But I had chosen to go on my way. After considering for some hours that peculiar phrase I may or may not have heard, I decided to investigate the truth behind it.

Linda saw me in the lobby of a theater and tapped me on the shoulder. I asked her how she liked the movie, and she said, Great. I didn’t ask her more about it, because I knew she would ruin the ending. She said something about herself, and I realized I wasn’t paying attention. I was wondering if she knew anything about the man who had spilled the kerosene. Linda was with a man she didn’t introduce to me, even when I looked in his direction, hoping she would notice that I wanted to be introduced to him. Linda is not my girlfriend.

Using my newspaper-reporting job as a guise, I pretended to investigate the CTA. I interviewed dozens of transit-authority employees, attempting to get at the bottom of this matter about the "message stamp" and the "kerosene." After weeks of digging, I only managed to uncover a conductor who was scribbling crayon messages on train windows whenever he believed no passengers were looking. I interviewed him at length to see if he was the "postman" who allegedly spilled this "kerosene," but he denied the allegation. He told me, however, that his brother used to work at the post office. He hadn’t spoken to his brother for years, and was unable to give me his brother’s phone number or address. I’m being stonewalled.

Jean told me I should get my life together. I told her I know. I said I wasn’t sure what to do. She made some suggestions, but I didn’t like any of them. She asked me about my girlfriend. Jean is my sister.

I read every word of the newspapers on the day after the incident involving the indecipherable PA system, but I found no mention of any accident involving kerosene or a message stamp, whatever that is. I began filing Freedom of Information Act request forms with the CTA, asking for documents pertaining to "kerosene," "the postman," "fuel spills," "faulty PA systems" and "the message stamp." I later received a large stack of papers pertaining to faulty PA systems. They told me there were no documents available on the other topics.

Isabella is my ideal woman, although she is unaware of this position she occupies. My girlfriend is unaware of it, too. I see Isabella every time I go into the video store on Damen Avenue. I never go to that video store when my girlfriend is with me. Isabella works behind the counter and knows my name because she sees it on my membership card, but she has never attempted to telephone me. Isabella may not be her real name, but I would call her Isabella if she agreed to be my girlfriend. I feel a pressing need to tell Isabella about the message I heard on the El platform, but I know it would be a bad opening line:

"The postman has spilled kerosene on the message stamp."

Officials at the Chicago Transit Authority refused to tell me who had been working at the El station that day when I heard the voice. They said that it was in their personnel records, which aren’t public information. I asked some people at the newspaper where I work if they have any good sources in the CTA. I must find a way to get around this stonewalling.

Nora called me up and asked to borrow one of my albums. She asked me how I was doing, and I told her, OK. She sensed something in my voice and asked me what was wrong. I didn’t want to tell her about the message stamp. Nora is not my girlfriend.

I loitered at the train station for hours, hoping to see the CTA employees as they came and left from their shifts. I read a newspaper and tried to avoid the stares of suspicious people. (I don’t think anyone was really suspicious.) I saw a woman in a CTA uniform, but she didn’t look the way I thought the woman behind the PA system would look. Voices are often deceiving.

Melissa approached me at work and asked me if I wanted to do something with her sometime. She didn’t say what. I didn’t look at her while I thought about it. I looked in another direction and tried to remember what she looks like. Then I said, Sure, maybe sometime. I wondered what she thought about my answer. I couldn’t tell from her reaction. I realized afterward that I did not think about my girlfriend as I was deciding what to say to Melissa. I did think about Isabella, however. Melissa has never been my girlfriend.

The second time I saw the woman in the CTA uniform whose face did not match the voice I had heard, I approached her and tried to make small talk. She gave me a strange look and began walking faster.

Cynthia asked me why I have been spending so much time riding on the El. I told her I was making an effort to overcome my fear of trains.

What fear of trains? she said. You never told me about that.

That’s because I was afraid to, I said.

But we ride on the El together every weekend, she said.

Cynthia is my girlfriend. I didn’t tell her about the message stamp, either.

When I read a book in a public place, such as a train, sometimes I hold the book in my hands so that other people will be able to see the cover of the book easily if they wish to do so. I am not certain why I do this. I saw a movie once, in which a woman approached a man because she saw him reading a book that she had once read, then she had sex with him. This has never happened to me.

A friend of mine from college who works at another newspaper gave me the name and telephone number of a good source in the CTA. I called up the good source and told him I was working on a story about faulty loudspeaker systems in El trains and El stations. He asked me why. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Look, he said. What do you really want?

I told him what I really wanted to know. He asked me to meet him in his office.

Cynthia has not been calling me as often as she used to. Whenever she calls me at work, I think of telling her about the message stamp, but I never do. She senses there is something I am hiding from her, and she grows more distant from me. "The postman has spilled kerosene on the message stamp." I think I am beginning to understand just how that postman felt. Cynthia is still my girlfriend, but I long for Isabella.

The good source in the CTA invites me into his office. So, he says, you were there on the day of the spill. I nod. He says, It’s a good thing that got cleaned up. I nod again.

I ask him how the spill happened. He gives me an evasive answer. I ask him what happened to the message stamp after the spill was cleaned up.

Oh, he says, the message stamp is fine. Do you want to see it?

Do you have it here? I ask.

It’s just in the next room.

Yes, I say, I would like to see it very much.

We go into the next room together and he shows me the message stamp. There’s still a slight scent of kerosene hovering about it. It’s much larger than I had imagined, and the shape is more complex than I had thought it would be. I want to touch the message stamp, but I am afraid the man will think my action is abnormal. I had been planning to ask him to explain the function of the message stamp, but once I see the message stamp, I feel no need for explanation. I only wonder how a thing of such great beauty has ended up in the hands of the Chicago Transit Authority.

Cynthia makes love to me when we go to my apartment after the movie. I feel very tired as we make love. I tell her, You should have seen it.

I should have seen what? she asks.

The message stamp, I tell her. Cynthia gives me a strange look and closes her eyes. I can’t wait for her to leave my apartment so I can go to the video store and hand my membership card to Isabella. I know Isabella will want to hear about the message stamp. I wonder if I can get my good source in the CTA to allow Isabella to see the message stamp? Then we can touch it together, and I will say: Cynthia is no longer my girlfriend.
 
  Story Ó 1994 By Robert Loerzel. Originally published in Hyphen magazine.

Web page design & art Ó 2000 By Robert Loerzel.