There are a few obvious problems with being pantsless on Chicago public transit on a January morning.
Problem number one: It is very difficult to find underwear that match the shade of purple one’s legs become after being exposed to the subzero breeze off Lake Michigan. Problem number two: People tend to ask questions, and those require complicated explanations that the cold has left you unequipped to answer. And problem number three: No matter how hard you try to avoid it, there are going to be some awkward flesh-on-seat squelching noises.
None of this stopped me from participating in the 9th Annual No Pants! El Ride on Jan. 10, along with more than 100 other people. Organized by Improv Everywhere, a New York-based performance art troupe, the event was what it sounds like-we were expected to get on the train and take off our clothes.
My group of about 15 would leave our dorm fully clad, ride the El to Berger Park and meet the other participants. We would be assigned stations on the southbound Red Line. When we reached them, we would shed our pants, exit the train and wait for the next one, which we would all ride together to the end of the line. Then we would disperse. Under no circumstances were we to tell the uninitiated the true reason for our partial nakedness. If asked, we were instructed, we should lie. I came up with the uncreative excuse that my pants were all in dire need of washing, which had the somewhat dubious merit of being true.
At last we boarded the El. As the first rider on our train stood up, stripped to his underwear and stepped out into the frigid winter air, the woman in the seat next to mine gaped. But as the parade of boxers (and, on a brave few, tighty-whities) continued, her astonishment gave way to numb acceptance. When I pulled off my own jeans, she didn’t even look my way.
I tried to predict what kind of underwear my fellow passengers would be wearing. When in doubt, plaid boxers were a safe bet. There were, however, a few surprises, such as when the chubby, bespectacled man a few seats over whipped off his pants to reveal a pair of turquoise and purple briefs that left very little to the imagination.
My stop came. I stumbled outside, for a moment thinking it wasn’t going to be too bad. Then a gust of wind hit the backs of my knees. For 10 minutes or so I endured the cold and the stares of fully dressed passengers. A woman asked the boy next to me about all the people in shorts, and he calmly explained that his closet had been stolen last night. Finally the next train arrived.
As warmth seeped back into my legs, I noticed that the normal people tended to react to our presence in one of two ways: Those who made an effort not to interact with us, such as the woman who got on the train, took a look around her, and dove for the single seat between El compartments and those who went out of their way to nod, smile and acknowledge our presence.
We reached the end of the line, got off and congregated in the station. There were cheers, hugs and photo opportunities with the signs for the Field Museum, which had little pictures of dinosaurs on them. People who wear their underwear in public seem to be fond of dinosaurs. Then the Northwestern group headed back to school Most of us, including me, put our pants back on at the Davis El stop. But a few chose to saunter back to campus in their primal state. This generated mixed reactions from Evanstonians-I saw at least one woman snatch her child out of our path and turn its head away. But as we neared the end of our journey, we ran into a large group of students waiting to have their picture taken by the Rock. They took one look at us and burst into applause.
Looking at the cheering students, I felt as if I had performed an act of community service. Our boxers may be different colors, but our shivers unites us. Score one for humanity.
