Of course I remember the Archer Express. If Archer Avenue was El Camino Real of the southwest side, the Archer Express was the king's coach. I don't remember it going on California but then there were several variations on the main route and I would never take a bus that didn't go all the way to Kedzie.
In the morning, in the mid-eighties, Kedzie and Archer was the place to be, funneling the hard working denizens of the southwest side into their offices piled high one atop each other, pushing pencils, tapping keys, putting their fingers to the gigantic wheel that is the American economy. On the way in I noticed that all us oldsters were kind of bright and eager, going to solve some work problem, land that big contract, ask the boss for that much deserved raise. The youngsters, generally on the lowest rungs of the employment ladder, were dead-eyed and snoozing, spent from last night's revelries.
On the way out at the end of the day, the youngsters were all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, having regained their pep during the long slog of their boring jobs and now were eagerly anticipating another night of revelry, eager to get home and eat a bite and fly into the night with their dancing duds and dance the night away. It was the oldsters who were spent sagging in their office duds, their mouths a little open, drooling, snoring softly. The work problem had not been solved, the big contract had not been landed, and the boss had not given them that raise, their only anticipation was for a bit of grub a couple hours of tv and off at last to that comfy bed.
These were drear days for me, having come back from Austin dead broke and living in my parents' attic. The job paid pretty well, but I had no interest in it. The closest thing I had to friends was the people I worked with who I didn't like very much. I didn't see any future. I wrote a poem.
Paper Warriors
Red skies at morning sailors take warning
While the dawn is still grey we take our places
Like pins lined up along the streets
Waiting for our busses.
Big fat busses that pause at the corners and kiss us
With warm open mouths and take us inside
Where we sit, straight and straight-faced, shoulder to shoulder
With the Mexican girls going to Catholic High School
War-painted, hair-piled, pink knees bob from their short plaid skirts
We do not notice
Downtown the Sun is burning the clouds from the face of the Lake
Filling the east-west streets with fire.
We look down, our eyes shielded by the brims of our hats
We look down at our shoes which will soon be marching forward
We are a mighty army
Downtown the busses kiss us off and we begin our march to our tower
From the realm of the sky, stone eyes look down upon us
Big cats and dragons look down at us
Unblinking eyes from lands of air that never were
In the office is the paper
Like worms it goes in and it goes out
Like worms it eats our guts right out
All day we fight the paper wars. We are paper warriors
This is the stuff of our days, between bus rides, between kisses
In our stone towers, behind glass, we move papers
At sunset we assemble in quiet squads at the corners
Under darkening skies, between towers, bent and tired
The bus creaks and rocks us, our cradle
Droops us, and sends us drifting off past swollen red lids
On tinder ships with paper sails on a rocking pounding nighttime sea
Bold broadsworded pirates sailing alone and free
Red skies at night sailor's delight.
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