The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1996. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

Not that many people know this, but I have this strange little quirk about me. I guess you could call it a supernatural ability, albeit a minor one. I may have been born with it -- I'm not sure. I do know that I never realized I had this power until the rise of the Walkman in the early '80s.

What my power is -- whenever I'm near someone with earphones on, if I stare at the earphones and concentrate, I can hear whatever they're listening to, as if it's being pumped straight into my brain.

Like I said, it's a minor supernatural power. I can't change the course of events, and I haven't really figured out a way to make money with this ability, and it's not even strange enough to get me on "Unsolved Mysteries." Still, it's a fun little ability, and it keeps me occupied when I'm bored.

The thing that's most surprising to me is that the vast majority of people, like ninety percent of something, are listening to the exact type of music you'd assume they'd be listening to. The big dumb jock-looking guys are listening to Hootie and the Blowfish and the quiet, pale girls with the long curly hair are listening to Tori Amos and the rough-looking black men with athletic clothes are listening to gangster rap and the happy queer boys with the wraparound sunglasses are always listening to dance music. You'd think people wouldn't be so willing to reinforce their stereotype. But, maybe music is too closely tied to the personality to give up.

It's always a treat when I run into someone who's breaking the stereotype -- like this guy on the el this week, long frizzy hair, beat-up leather jacket, heavy-metal t-shirt -- but listening to Scott Joplin.

If I had a cool power, I'd be able to read his thoughts and know why he's listening to ragtime. But I can only hear the music, so I have to make my guesses like you all do.

If I'm feeling mischievous, I'll sit across the el from someone and start tapping my foot in time with their music. If they notice it, they usually turn down their Walkman, and then when I keep tapping, they'll take their headphones off, hold them out in the air and look at them like the apparatus just betrayed them, then turn it down a little bit again. If I keep tapping, they'll usually turn it off and look at me. When that happens, I keep tapping my foot to the same beat as before, leading them to think that I happened to be randomly tapping my foot to the same exact beat of their song by coincidence, giving them the pleasure of taking home the episode of causality and telling their friends that night and being the center of attention for a few seconds.

I've only had two disconcerting episodes with my power. Once, last summer, I was sitting across from a very beautiful woman with short blonde hair and a tan and an expensive summer outfit on. She was listening to her Walkman and smiling the whole time, staring off into space, and every once in awhile she'd laugh out loud.

This, as you may imagine, piqued my curiosity, so I tuned in. I came upon a tape recording of a man's voice, speaking like he was dictating a letter. As I listened, I couldn't really believe what I was hearing, so I started writing it down in my notebook. This is where I came in:

"I don't understand why it gives you so much pleasure to hurt me so much. I can't understand you. You scare me. But I can't live without you. If you leave me, I'll kill myself. And don't think I won't do it, either, 'cause I will."

She just kept laughing and laughing, looking through her new purchases at Marshall Fields.

This winter I was on my way to work one morning and I was bored so I tuned into the guy next to me -- about my age, nondescript, in a corporate uniform, staring impassively ahead at the opposite wall of the train.

He was listening to a tape he had made of himself on a live phone sex line:

"And now what do you do with me, honey?"

"Now I... push you, I push you as hard as I can. I hear you hit the wall."

"Do I fall down?"

"Yeah. Your ass hits the floor real hard."

"And is your cock out?"

"Yeah."

"And what do you do with your cock?"

"I slap you -- across the face. You're crying. I slap you with my hand, right across your cheek. You're screaming, but you love it."

"You're right, baby. I do love it. I can feel a hot red mark on my cheek where you hit me. Do you want to do that to me all over my body?"

I'm not sure which person in that conversation made me more alarmed. But then again. I stayed tuned in to the whole tape, so what does that say?

I can't listen to my Walkman anymore. I mean, I can, but I can't listen to music. Every time I step on the el, I tune my radio in exactly halfway between stations. Call it nervousness that someone else out there shares my power, I guess. But there's something about sitting on the train, listening to static as loud as I can, that makes me feel both safe and on edge at the same time.

Ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssstttt. That's what it sounds like.

Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssstttttt.