The first time I noticed The Nicest Train Operator in Chicago was when, as we pulled away from the Wrigley stop on the Red Line, the train announcement took the form of a kind of city poem: "Wrigley. Cubs. All aboard. Batter up."

The next time I noticed him was on a Wednesday. As we pulled away from the Lawrence stop, he said, "For sure, it's not a Monday." He doesn't shout. He speaks in a clipped rush, as if whispering a secret on the run. Certain details about him were self-evident: As he pulls into a station, he waves to everyone on the platform; he has the soft, benevolent face of a grandfather; he wears a blue striped conductor's bib and hat; occasionally, he shakes hands.

But that's all I knew.

I called the CTA to ask about The Nicest Train Operator in Chicago. I was promised that I would receive a return call. I received no return call, so I called back and explained: I was looking for a driver on the Red Line; I run into him maybe twice a week, heading north, around 7 p.m. He probably has been driving for years. I was looking for him, I continued, because everything's lousy and everyone is miserable, yet this man is a bright spot, a credit to the CTA, a guy who goes out of his way, several times in the course of my anonymous 40-minute ride to Rogers Park, to wish passengers a nice day.

He reminds them not to forget their belongings; he implores them to do their homework. He says, "May the Force be with you," and he says, "Nighty night," "Rain's better than snow," "Scooby-Doo." Once, when the winter evening had edged toward 60 degrees, he sneaked in "Springtime is two weeks from now."

But he is not a chatterbox. Sometimes he goes a half-dozen stops without a single bon mot. He does not intrude on personal space. He brightens it. He is one of those rare souls who cares enough to loosen the monotony -- and anxiety -- of the everyday by injecting a bare minimum of humanity.

And he works for the CTA.

I explained all this to the CTA, and the next morning I received a call, and these were their words: "We cannot help you at this juncture."

It was not a recording or a computerized zombie call. A human being said that to me.

That night, however, as luck would have it, as I stood in the station at Grand and State, The Nicest Train Operator in Chicago appeared, his head poking from his window. I introduced myself. He said his name was Michael Powell and he has been with the CTA since 1978. He was friendly and professional, but he said he didn't want to hold up passengers -- so we parted.

Later I learned a few more things: Powell is 54. He went to the University of Illinois. He became a driver less than six months after graduation. He met his wife, Elaine, because she had the same reaction I had: She was a passenger on his train and she was curious about this guy who made the unusual announcements. They were married 29 years ago and they have three children. Powell also has a basement full of model trains. He calls his conductor suit his "Choo Choo Charlie outfit," and he told me that he loves driving a train for the CTA so much that he would do it for free. "But, of course, you can't," Elaine says firmly.

He has gotten into some trouble because of his quips, he said. But nothing major. (The CTA never did explain why they wouldn't respond to questions about him.) He said he knows to keep the comments secular, that he shouldn't say "Have a blessed day" or "God bless." When his mother died in 2003, he said he thanked passengers for their prayers, but that's all.

He told me if you were to ask other drivers about him they would say he's a nut but a nice guy. He sounds comfortable with that. Indeed, if there's anything disconcerting about Powell, it's that he comes off unusually emphatic -- genuine, with a side of naivete. When I asked why he began with his one-liners, he replied: "I don't know. It's who I am. I even hate to close the train doors on people."

It strikes me as a shame that Powell has never been a passenger on his own train. He has never heard the belly laughs of surprise when he says, "May the Force be with you." He has never seen the smiles when he sends off exiting passengers with a brisk "Go get 'em." He never saw the woman who sat across from me and wore a scowl until she heard "Have a pleasant evening." Then she looked at the ceiling of the train and grinned, not because it was funny, presumably, but because warmth is unexpected.

I called the CTA to ask if it discourages warmth, or sincere pleasantries, or if it reprimands for delivering them. Their people told me they would have to check. Seven hours later they had an answer: They do not discourage pleasantries.

I called the transit union. President Robert Kelly told me the CTA's probable unease was that acknowledging one driver's quips, regardless of how innocent, might embolden others. God forbid.

Still, I bet he's right. On a recent morning, the operator of my southbound Red Line train wished a good morning to the Purple Line train as both trains sat side by side in the Belmont station.

The operator was not The Nicest Train Operator in Chicago.

But he's in the running.

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cborrelli@tribune.com