Identifying the Corpse on the Blue Line’s Third Rail

I turned around. There were wakes of glistening human coolant running down this woman’s forehead. They were almost as long as her airbrushed and bedazzled fingernails. It was too hot for a weave that thick. She kept tapping at it, itchy from all that sweat spewing out from the top of her head. The nails, the hair — how does she function in this kind of heat? There’s no way she worked a desk job, or any job that requires her to type on a keyboard of any kind.

You do?

“I see this shit all the time working for the CTA,” the sweaty woman said. “He’s just some gutter punk.”