Sometimes I do things I can not explain.

Carrie Bradshaw(suck it up, folks, Sex and the City is here to stay) called it her S.S.B. You know, her "Secret Single Behavior".

I like to clip my toe nails on the floor of the bathroom in my underwear while listening to music. I like to pile my magazines yet to be read by the side of my bed so it looks like I have read them. I like to sing really loud to my new favorite songs while pretending I wrote them.

It's what I do, let it go.

But sometimes I do things that necessarily don't involve being single... they involve being me.

For three months I taught high schoolers creative writing on the southside. Now, when I say southside, do this: Extend your arm straight so your elbow is not bent. OK. Good. Now, see the very tip of your middle finger? Cool. That's where I live in the city of Chicago. Now, you know where your shoulder is? Yeah. That's where the school I taught was at. Right there. Far.

But in those three months I had to take public transportation. The El. The Red Line. But, my co-teacher Molly, had to transfer to this. So, I would have to get off at a stop to wait for her so we could ride the train together.

Now, at the time, I would have denied doing this because it just seems strange. But, now that I think about it... I miss it.

I would leave earlier than I would have to so I could get to this stop. It's the Jackson Red Line stop. It's bright and renovated and is in the middle of the city. But, I would get to that stop early so I could sit on the benches... and enjoy the show.

There's a guy there who is homeless. I mean, he says he's homeless, but then you see his kick-ass DJ equipment and speakers and microphone and the CD's of his music and you might think otherwise. But he's homeless.

He's a rapper. He's this tall lanky African-American guy who has eyes that look like they could pool out words instead of tears if he cried. You can just look at him and know he is going to say something that would change you.

So, for three months I would tell Molly I'd see her at three, but I would get there a half hour early so I could see this guy. I wouldn't talk to him. I'd actually sit on the bench close enough to hear him rap in to his little speaker system with my journal and just write. He has these pre-recorded beats. Good beats. Think Lauryn Hill beats. And then he throws the words. And they are good. They are about homelessness and not being listened to and about the people he has met and about the things he had been through: murder, rape, losing his wife to a sickness. All the while trains whiz by and people get off and on and the beats he's rapping pick-up when it's quiet.

Finally, Molly would pick me up and we would get on the train to go teach and I would look forward to going back to hear the guy the next day.

I thought about buying his CD. I thought about giving him more money. I thought about talking to him and finding out who he was. This is the Wisconsin in me. We like to reach out and talk. Let it go.

The funny thing is... I miss him. A part of me wants to go and just sit there and listen and be that weird person you occasionally see hanging out at the subway stations and not really getting on the trains. The other part of me doesn't get why I care so much.

But sometimes there's no explaining why we do the things we do... we just have to do them because we are supposed to. I like clipping my nails the way I do. I don't know why. I don't get how it came to be that way, but I love it. The same way I don't know why this guy's music gets to me so much. But that's how it is.

It's the real S.S.B. --"Secret Subway Behavior."