Taking a brief hiatus from the blogging.
There's my stop.
.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Sprawl
It's a wet, slushy day. He clunks toward the back of the bus, where I'm seated in the middle seat on the long rear bench. Young and somewhat punkish, he is obviously coming from work - his pants are dirty and well-stained with paint. He hasn't shaved in a couple of days and his face is lined with peachy stubble. A soiled black ball cap covers his thick brown hair. He looks angry and emits a "don't bother me" aura.
His choice of seat is the sideways bench over the wheel well, and he spreads himself out with his loose posture and expansive personal space boundary. Thirty seconds later, he changes his mind and sits instead on the same bench as me, but on the extreme left. Slumping sloppily, he stretches his leg over the arm of the sideways bench in front of him and places his shoe on the cloth seat.
This irks me, as whoever will eventually sit there will end up with a wet bottom. But what can I say?
He takes off his hat and waves it idly in front of him; bad hair day. Eventually he slouches further, taking his foot off the bench and straddling it with his outstretched legs. "That can't be comfortable," I think.
There's my stop.
His choice of seat is the sideways bench over the wheel well, and he spreads himself out with his loose posture and expansive personal space boundary. Thirty seconds later, he changes his mind and sits instead on the same bench as me, but on the extreme left. Slumping sloppily, he stretches his leg over the arm of the sideways bench in front of him and places his shoe on the cloth seat.
This irks me, as whoever will eventually sit there will end up with a wet bottom. But what can I say?
He takes off his hat and waves it idly in front of him; bad hair day. Eventually he slouches further, taking his foot off the bench and straddling it with his outstretched legs. "That can't be comfortable," I think.
There's my stop.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Bus Mafia
There are three of them lounging at the back of the bus - very young, olive-skinned men, no more than 20 years old.
I first notice them when I take my seat, as one of them is so relaxed he has his arm hung over the back of my bench. He reluctantly pulls it back when he determines that I won't tolerate it there.
I quietly observe their interaction for a few moments. They are loud, boisterous, and somewhat annoying. One of them, obviously the "leader" of the group, is literally lounging across a four-person bench, reclining on his backpack, arm propping up his head, like an ancient Caesar. He is clean shaven, except for an attempt at a moustache. At first glance it looks more like a smudge, but with closer examination I can see distinct individual hairs. About eight of them.
They're chattering away. For a moment I think it's French, but their inflection is far too violent. I conclude that it's Italian.
Eight-Hair is the funny one, judging from how the other two laugh at everything he says. I suspect it's vulgar humour and am glad I don't know Italian. Arm-slinger always laughs the hardest. The other one tries to inject his own funny comments from time to time, but elicits no more than polite spurts of chuckles from Eight-Hair and Arm-Slinger. I wonder how these three developed their friendship. Perhaps they're brothers; they look similar enough.
There's my stop. As soon as I get up, Arm-Slinger slings his arm over my seat again.
I first notice them when I take my seat, as one of them is so relaxed he has his arm hung over the back of my bench. He reluctantly pulls it back when he determines that I won't tolerate it there.
I quietly observe their interaction for a few moments. They are loud, boisterous, and somewhat annoying. One of them, obviously the "leader" of the group, is literally lounging across a four-person bench, reclining on his backpack, arm propping up his head, like an ancient Caesar. He is clean shaven, except for an attempt at a moustache. At first glance it looks more like a smudge, but with closer examination I can see distinct individual hairs. About eight of them.
They're chattering away. For a moment I think it's French, but their inflection is far too violent. I conclude that it's Italian.
Eight-Hair is the funny one, judging from how the other two laugh at everything he says. I suspect it's vulgar humour and am glad I don't know Italian. Arm-slinger always laughs the hardest. The other one tries to inject his own funny comments from time to time, but elicits no more than polite spurts of chuckles from Eight-Hair and Arm-Slinger. I wonder how these three developed their friendship. Perhaps they're brothers; they look similar enough.
There's my stop. As soon as I get up, Arm-Slinger slings his arm over my seat again.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Whoops
The young man, in a red jacket, black cap, and grey work pants, steps off the bus and makes a hasty shuffle down the ice-covered sidewalk.
He's carrying his gloves in one hand and a large Tim Horton's coffee in another.
The bus is still stopped, as the light is red. As the man reaches the street corner, he slips and falls. I hear a number of the bus passengers exclaim, "OH!" as they see him fall. Fortunately, he reaches out with his glove hand and stabilizes himself so it's not a total wipeout, but he's obviously somewhat embarrassed as he continues on his way.
The impressive thing to me is that he didn't spill his Tim's. In my days as a taxi driver, I've seen drunks be just as agile with their beer or whiskey bottles when they fall, often landing flat on their backs without spilling a single precious drop of their elixir.
There's my stop.
I step very carefully.
He's carrying his gloves in one hand and a large Tim Horton's coffee in another.
The bus is still stopped, as the light is red. As the man reaches the street corner, he slips and falls. I hear a number of the bus passengers exclaim, "OH!" as they see him fall. Fortunately, he reaches out with his glove hand and stabilizes himself so it's not a total wipeout, but he's obviously somewhat embarrassed as he continues on his way.
The impressive thing to me is that he didn't spill his Tim's. In my days as a taxi driver, I've seen drunks be just as agile with their beer or whiskey bottles when they fall, often landing flat on their backs without spilling a single precious drop of their elixir.
There's my stop.
I step very carefully.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Squish
It's the first real snowy day. I'm late for my first bus and with my clear view to the bus stop from several blocks away, I see that it's perfectly on time, so I'm stuck until the next one comes along.
By the time it arrives, there are six other people crammed into the shelter. I scramble on board, but as I anticipated there is standing room only, until 2 stops before my transfer point.
When I board my second bus it is mercifully empty, as usual, and fills up, as usual, near the apartment buildings as the school kids jump on. Also as usual, none of the young people sit with me.
But then he gets on the bus: weighing in at close to 300 lb, he is medium height, middle aged, and obviously nursing a bum leg. With nowhere else to sit, he joins me. But he sits sideways in the seat, and tries to stretch out his leg while constantly nudging backwards.
It's amusing at first, but as he keeps pressing back, and I keep getting smudged against the window, I'm growing increasingly uncomfortable. It is with great relief and an internal "Yay!" that I see us approaching the school, and the kids begin to pile off.
There are at least a dozen empty seats now, including the priority seating with its ample leg room. But he doesn't move. And he keeps pushing back. I'm starting to get a little freaked out.
But it's soon clear why he didn't move after everybody got off at the previous stop.
His is next; there's his stop.
By the time it arrives, there are six other people crammed into the shelter. I scramble on board, but as I anticipated there is standing room only, until 2 stops before my transfer point.
When I board my second bus it is mercifully empty, as usual, and fills up, as usual, near the apartment buildings as the school kids jump on. Also as usual, none of the young people sit with me.
But then he gets on the bus: weighing in at close to 300 lb, he is medium height, middle aged, and obviously nursing a bum leg. With nowhere else to sit, he joins me. But he sits sideways in the seat, and tries to stretch out his leg while constantly nudging backwards.
It's amusing at first, but as he keeps pressing back, and I keep getting smudged against the window, I'm growing increasingly uncomfortable. It is with great relief and an internal "Yay!" that I see us approaching the school, and the kids begin to pile off.
There are at least a dozen empty seats now, including the priority seating with its ample leg room. But he doesn't move. And he keeps pushing back. I'm starting to get a little freaked out.
But it's soon clear why he didn't move after everybody got off at the previous stop.
His is next; there's his stop.
This Is Winter
Snow is peppered on the grass outside my work as I begin my journey home tonight, but it's sleet that's currently falling and collecting in the depressions normally reserved for rain. It's deceptive, this cumulative sleet - there's no discernible visible difference between a mere surface coating and two inches of depth, so I get my right foot quite wet as I make my way to the bus stop.
Mercifully, today we have here, for the first time, a real bus shelter. From May to September, we had nothing. Then they put up a shelter with just two walls on the narrow east and west sides of the shelter, which made me wonder how effective it would be against the cruel north wind when winter hit.
But that one is gone today, replaced by a bus shelter than any bum would be happy to call home. There are already three other people inside it when I get there, and a fifth arrives shortly after me so it gets rather cramped. We're in good spirits though, as Old Man Winter has finally shown up and we find that, as always, we're up to the challenge. We joke about Toronto needing to call in the military when they got snowed on in 1999 (that never gets old!).
The bus is there on time and we eagerly pile on and find seats. As I gaze through the fogged up window beside me, I think about how much we Canadians hate winter, and love to. It's our toughness, our mettle tested, our boast to the world. Only Russia shares this badge of honour with us, but they always seem so sad. We laugh, frolic in the snow, and think up sports around it.
This is winter. This is Canada.
There's my stop.
Mercifully, today we have here, for the first time, a real bus shelter. From May to September, we had nothing. Then they put up a shelter with just two walls on the narrow east and west sides of the shelter, which made me wonder how effective it would be against the cruel north wind when winter hit.
But that one is gone today, replaced by a bus shelter than any bum would be happy to call home. There are already three other people inside it when I get there, and a fifth arrives shortly after me so it gets rather cramped. We're in good spirits though, as Old Man Winter has finally shown up and we find that, as always, we're up to the challenge. We joke about Toronto needing to call in the military when they got snowed on in 1999 (that never gets old!).
The bus is there on time and we eagerly pile on and find seats. As I gaze through the fogged up window beside me, I think about how much we Canadians hate winter, and love to. It's our toughness, our mettle tested, our boast to the world. Only Russia shares this badge of honour with us, but they always seem so sad. We laugh, frolic in the snow, and think up sports around it.
This is winter. This is Canada.
There's my stop.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Voyage of the Bus Rider
Our paths cross at the street corner opposite the stop from where my bus ride home begins.
He's an older man, with long white hair, covered with a black toque with grey trim. He wears a black fall jacket and blue jeans. The light turns green, and we start across the intersection. "Can you believe there's a winter storm warning for tonight?" he asks. The stiff wind is indeed full of winter's bluster, and ominous clouds from the east are hastening over the city.
"We've had it pretty easy so far," I reply.
"Yep," he agrees. "It's been a nice fall. Say, did you hear about that accident this morning?"
"The two police cruisers that collided? Yeah, what happened there?"
"I'm not sure," he says. "It was bad though. The engine of one of the cruisers was literally in the front seat, from what I've heard."
"With speeds like that, you can be sure there was a high speed chase of some sort. The intersection was still closed this afternoon when I went by, and they had spread sand everywhere. Probably a ruptured gas tank."
The bus arrives in short order and we board, both taking seats near the front. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a book.
"Can you believe I'm actually reading this?" he laughs, pointing at the title: Voyage of the Dawn Treader, one of the books in C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia.
My face lights up. "I just read that a few weeks ago! It's a great book."
"You can sure tell he was religious though."
"Oh yeah, for sure. Those books are highly allegorical."
He nods, locates the bookmark, and resumes his reading.
He's enough of an interesting character that I almost press him to continue the conversation, but then I think better of it - if anybody had interrupted my recent journey through Narnia, I would have been seriously peeved.
Instead I read my Discover magazine.
There's my stop.
He's an older man, with long white hair, covered with a black toque with grey trim. He wears a black fall jacket and blue jeans. The light turns green, and we start across the intersection. "Can you believe there's a winter storm warning for tonight?" he asks. The stiff wind is indeed full of winter's bluster, and ominous clouds from the east are hastening over the city.
"We've had it pretty easy so far," I reply.
"Yep," he agrees. "It's been a nice fall. Say, did you hear about that accident this morning?"
"The two police cruisers that collided? Yeah, what happened there?"
"I'm not sure," he says. "It was bad though. The engine of one of the cruisers was literally in the front seat, from what I've heard."
"With speeds like that, you can be sure there was a high speed chase of some sort. The intersection was still closed this afternoon when I went by, and they had spread sand everywhere. Probably a ruptured gas tank."
The bus arrives in short order and we board, both taking seats near the front. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a book.
"Can you believe I'm actually reading this?" he laughs, pointing at the title: Voyage of the Dawn Treader, one of the books in C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia.
My face lights up. "I just read that a few weeks ago! It's a great book."
"You can sure tell he was religious though."
"Oh yeah, for sure. Those books are highly allegorical."
He nods, locates the bookmark, and resumes his reading.
He's enough of an interesting character that I almost press him to continue the conversation, but then I think better of it - if anybody had interrupted my recent journey through Narnia, I would have been seriously peeved.
Instead I read my Discover magazine.
There's my stop.
All By Myself
My second bus home appears at the stop about a minute late. It's jam-packed with raw humanity, but as this is a major transfer point, about 2/3 of the passengers spill out, like sand from a broken jar.
As I board, I notice a man who had been forced to stand near the front takes the only (newly) empty 2-seat bench for himself, so I join him in hopes that the rest of his bus ride is short and he'll soon disembark himself, leaving me the seat all by myself.
Then, at the next stop, another half of the current passengers get off and another bench is emptied. I spring into it, abandoning my previous plan.
There's something about me which makes me the last person anybody wants to sit with on a bus. No matter if it's an old woman, a young lady, a teenage boy, a middle-aged man... they all opt not to sit with me, a 30-something white guy. Here's what I think they're thinking when they see me:
Very funny.
There's my stop.
As I board, I notice a man who had been forced to stand near the front takes the only (newly) empty 2-seat bench for himself, so I join him in hopes that the rest of his bus ride is short and he'll soon disembark himself, leaving me the seat all by myself.
Then, at the next stop, another half of the current passengers get off and another bench is emptied. I spring into it, abandoning my previous plan.
There's something about me which makes me the last person anybody wants to sit with on a bus. No matter if it's an old woman, a young lady, a teenage boy, a middle-aged man... they all opt not to sit with me, a 30-something white guy. Here's what I think they're thinking when they see me:
- Old woman: "Ooh, he looks far too handsome to want to sit next to an old lady like me."
- Young lady: "Like, if I sit next to him, he is so going to hit on me. Whatever!"
- Teenage boy: "That dude is lame."
- Middle-aged man: "If I sit next to him, I'm going to be reminded how young I'm not."
Very funny.
There's my stop.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Standard Time
The first thing I notice when I get off work and walk to my bus stop is that the sky is vivid with the amorous hues of a prairie sunset. Soft purples and wisps of red-tinged white clouds slide slowly across the fading dusty blue of the sky. My view of the sunset is remarkably unimpeded by the city, as I'm looking directly west down a low-traffic street. The drab power cables and obnoxious, tallish buildings in the background do their best to cast a damper on the living sky, but its sheer height overwhelms them and makes them look all the uglier.
There's my bus.
It's not until I've been riding for about 10 minutes that I realize I only saw the sunset today because daylight savings time ended this past weekend. For the first time since I've started busing in May, my bus ride home is subjected to the shroud of darkness. It's not long before it's fairly black out, and suddenly the press of the crowd on the bus makes me feel a little claustrophobic.
It's like we're a compressed capsule of flesh hurtling through the night, origin and destination unknown. I desperately long for the peace and relative quiet of the bus stop, never mind at home.
There's my stop. Phew.
There's my bus.
It's not until I've been riding for about 10 minutes that I realize I only saw the sunset today because daylight savings time ended this past weekend. For the first time since I've started busing in May, my bus ride home is subjected to the shroud of darkness. It's not long before it's fairly black out, and suddenly the press of the crowd on the bus makes me feel a little claustrophobic.
It's like we're a compressed capsule of flesh hurtling through the night, origin and destination unknown. I desperately long for the peace and relative quiet of the bus stop, never mind at home.
There's my stop. Phew.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
"I See You!"
Also waiting for a bus at my transfer point downtown, she's in her mid-20s. Her long, brown hair hangs in two thick braids. She's both plump and big-boned, wearing a jean jacket, black pants, and high black boots.
As I'm taking in my surroundings, I see her look at me as she makes a call on her cell phone. Then quite unexpectedly I hear her say, "I see you!"
My instinct tells me she's referring to me at the same time as it tells me she's not, but by the time I've reconciled the contradiction I have already looked at her. She has turned around and is waving at a friend who works in a ground-floor office in the building next to the bus stop. "I just sent you a text message," she adds. Their conversation spirals downward into girlish giggles about how cool it is to see a person through impermeable glass, talk, and send written communication all at the same time.
It's almost like they're really communicating.
There's my bus.
.
As I'm taking in my surroundings, I see her look at me as she makes a call on her cell phone. Then quite unexpectedly I hear her say, "I see you!"
My instinct tells me she's referring to me at the same time as it tells me she's not, but by the time I've reconciled the contradiction I have already looked at her. She has turned around and is waving at a friend who works in a ground-floor office in the building next to the bus stop. "I just sent you a text message," she adds. Their conversation spirals downward into girlish giggles about how cool it is to see a person through impermeable glass, talk, and send written communication all at the same time.
It's almost like they're really communicating.
There's my bus.
.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Finally
He shares my last bus on my way to work nearly every morning. He never speaks, and always has a slight grin on his face. This makes me suspect he's got some slight degree of mental disability; he's got that sort of peaceful shine that "normal" people don't have.
But for months now he has somewhat frustrated me, because whenever he gets to the back door of the bus, he has the hardest time activating its switch.
For those of you unfamiliar with rear bus doors, one common design features two half-doors that open out. Each door has a long, convex, yellow rubber sleeve running from top to bottom.
I'm not sure if it contains pressurized air or an electronic trigger of some kind, but whatever the case, if you press either sleeve with about the same amount of force you'd use on a TV remote button, you hear a hiss of rushing pneumatics and the doors open (assuming the driver has activated them).
For some reason though, this fellow feels that he has to press both sleeves at the same time, which isn't the case. Sure, it works if you do, but it's completely unnecessary. To make this more complicated, he has very small hands, and he will only use one of them. For about a week when we first starting sharing the bus, I would stand impatiently behind him, watching him try to stretch his hand across to both sleeves, with neither switch activating because he's splitting the difference and not properly pressing either one.
I would give him 3-4 seconds, which is an excruciatingly long time to wait when you know the bus driver could at any moment figure, "I guess those bozos at the back door changed their minds and don't want to get off after all, so I might as well continue on my way." Before that could happen, I would reach over the short man and press the sleeve myself to open the doors. But that just felt so rude.
So I've taken it upon myself in the intervening months since I first observed this to get to the back door before he does so I get to hit the switch. And I'd conspicuously make quite a show of how simple it was - I'd raise my hand high enough so he could see over my shoulder from behind me, and extend my index finger sharply, the rest of my hand closed in a tight fist. Then I'd smoothly move my hand directly forward and lightly touch one of the yellow sleeves, then pull my hand back as the air began to rush through the system.
There's my stop. Today he is seated closer to the rear door it than I am, and he gets up well before the stop, sending a jolt of dread into me. Oh no, I think to myself. Not again.
I decide to let it go and do the reach-over again.
But he surprises me. In one fluid motion, he pokes his extended index finger at one sleeve and pulls it back as the door starts to swing open. He has learned! My subtlety (or perhaps lack of it) has paid off.
It's nice to know that I won't have to race him for that door anymore.
.
But for months now he has somewhat frustrated me, because whenever he gets to the back door of the bus, he has the hardest time activating its switch.
For those of you unfamiliar with rear bus doors, one common design features two half-doors that open out. Each door has a long, convex, yellow rubber sleeve running from top to bottom.
I'm not sure if it contains pressurized air or an electronic trigger of some kind, but whatever the case, if you press either sleeve with about the same amount of force you'd use on a TV remote button, you hear a hiss of rushing pneumatics and the doors open (assuming the driver has activated them).For some reason though, this fellow feels that he has to press both sleeves at the same time, which isn't the case. Sure, it works if you do, but it's completely unnecessary. To make this more complicated, he has very small hands, and he will only use one of them. For about a week when we first starting sharing the bus, I would stand impatiently behind him, watching him try to stretch his hand across to both sleeves, with neither switch activating because he's splitting the difference and not properly pressing either one.
I would give him 3-4 seconds, which is an excruciatingly long time to wait when you know the bus driver could at any moment figure, "I guess those bozos at the back door changed their minds and don't want to get off after all, so I might as well continue on my way." Before that could happen, I would reach over the short man and press the sleeve myself to open the doors. But that just felt so rude.
So I've taken it upon myself in the intervening months since I first observed this to get to the back door before he does so I get to hit the switch. And I'd conspicuously make quite a show of how simple it was - I'd raise my hand high enough so he could see over my shoulder from behind me, and extend my index finger sharply, the rest of my hand closed in a tight fist. Then I'd smoothly move my hand directly forward and lightly touch one of the yellow sleeves, then pull my hand back as the air began to rush through the system.
There's my stop. Today he is seated closer to the rear door it than I am, and he gets up well before the stop, sending a jolt of dread into me. Oh no, I think to myself. Not again.
I decide to let it go and do the reach-over again.
But he surprises me. In one fluid motion, he pokes his extended index finger at one sleeve and pulls it back as the door starts to swing open. He has learned! My subtlety (or perhaps lack of it) has paid off.
It's nice to know that I won't have to race him for that door anymore.
.
The Sky
Today my thoughts and eyes are drawn to the sky passing by outside the bus.
A crowd of pigeons rests on an apartment rooftop. The apartment owners, apparently tired of pigeon poop falling on their tenants, have erected chicken wire sloping down from the roof to the next ledge down. This prevents the birds from landing anywhere directly over the front door.
And in an effort to scare the pigeons off the roof entirely, an artificial owl has been placed on the rooftop. I wonder how long it took the area's pigeons to realize it was nothing to fear. The owl is quite covered in pigeon poop by now.
A few blocks later, a seagull lands atop a lamppost in a grocery store parking lot. This startles and annoys the other seagull atop that post, and he flaps his wings and heads west, looking for another perch from which to spot food dropped by humans. My bus keeps up with him for a while but he eventually vanishes from my sight, behind a tall building.
We stop at a red light. Out my window I see a Safeway plastic grocery bag, snagged by one handle on an overhead power line. The wind is puffing the bag up, but still it remains caught on the line and merely spins in futility as the moving air spills out of its free side. I've seen shoes tossed over power lines, but never a bag - this was definitely a fluke. How did it get there, and what sort of protrusion did it snag so as to remain snagged? Will this bag be there for days, weeks, months from now?
There's my stop.
A crowd of pigeons rests on an apartment rooftop. The apartment owners, apparently tired of pigeon poop falling on their tenants, have erected chicken wire sloping down from the roof to the next ledge down. This prevents the birds from landing anywhere directly over the front door.
And in an effort to scare the pigeons off the roof entirely, an artificial owl has been placed on the rooftop. I wonder how long it took the area's pigeons to realize it was nothing to fear. The owl is quite covered in pigeon poop by now.
A few blocks later, a seagull lands atop a lamppost in a grocery store parking lot. This startles and annoys the other seagull atop that post, and he flaps his wings and heads west, looking for another perch from which to spot food dropped by humans. My bus keeps up with him for a while but he eventually vanishes from my sight, behind a tall building.
We stop at a red light. Out my window I see a Safeway plastic grocery bag, snagged by one handle on an overhead power line. The wind is puffing the bag up, but still it remains caught on the line and merely spins in futility as the moving air spills out of its free side. I've seen shoes tossed over power lines, but never a bag - this was definitely a fluke. How did it get there, and what sort of protrusion did it snag so as to remain snagged? Will this bag be there for days, weeks, months from now?
There's my stop.
Furrow
The old man's general disposition over the course of his entire life is displayed via a prominent, permanent furrow, pressed deeply into the flesh on his forehead.
One could suppose that all he has ever done is frown, and that his only mood has been 'grumpy.'
But surely he must have smiled once. On his wedding day, perhaps, or after a good joke, or when winning $20 in the lottery?
Everybody must have a good day from time to time; at what sort of things could the world's grumpiest man smile at?
One could suppose that all he has ever done is frown, and that his only mood has been 'grumpy.'
But surely he must have smiled once. On his wedding day, perhaps, or after a good joke, or when winning $20 in the lottery?
Everybody must have a good day from time to time; at what sort of things could the world's grumpiest man smile at?
Monday, October 27, 2008
The King of the Bus
Normally I take two buses home, transferring to the second one downtown. For my second bus, I can get on a popular one that is usually packed, or else if the timing is right, I can get on an alternate bus that makes me walk a block more, but the bus is usually empty and the drive is much more scenic. This bus route is one of Winnipeg Transit's best kept secrets.
Today, my alternate bus gets to my stop first, so I jump on board. To my delight, it's completely empty (save the driver). With the fall chill morphing into a winter's nip, I sit in the middle of the very last row of seats to be closer to the engine's heat.
I stretch my arms out beside me, consuming much more space than necessary, and enjoy the rare moment of complete privacy on the city bus.
During my ride, a total of six other people get on the bus, and they all get off at stops well before mine, which is the last one on this route before the bus flips its sign and heads back the other way.
Aside from the repeated crescendo of the diesel engine, the bus is quiet. There is no chatter between the sparse passengers, no coughing, no overflowing iPod music, no ringing cell phones. Instead, the noises of the bus itself begin to fill the relative silence.
Big diesel engines vibrate a lot, and vibrations through a steel frame tend to cause everything that's threaded together to wiggle loose unless glued in place with Loctite. Including, apparently, the nuts & bolts used to hold the side panel on the seat in front of me, to my left. And when nuts loosen and fall off, the thin metal sheeting they previously held firmly in place becomes free to rattle against its frame, in perfect sync to the engine's vibrations.
It's especially loud when the bus is idling at a red light, and when it's at speed. Mercifully, when accelerating or decelerating, the vibration nearly vanishes, but this bus seems to hit a lot of red lights. RAT-AT-AT-AT-AT-ATTLE.
I stretch out with my leg and try to press against the sheet with my foot, but instead of merely accepting the pressure, the metal pops out the other direction like the lid of a Snapple bottle - with the accompanying snap/pop. I quickly draw my foot back, and catch a glimpse of the bus driver glancing up to his rear-view mirror to see what I'm doing to his bus. I try to pretend like nothing happened. Just a solo passenger, gazing out over his empty kingdom ahead.
The bus reaches the end of the route, and I rise and make my way to the front of the bus. Normally it will stop and sit for a few minutes to catch up to its schedule, and that's when I'd get off. Today, however, the driver must be behind, for he barrels right past the last stop and starts the reverse route immediately.
"I'll get off here," I tell him, gesturing at the upcoming stop.
"You've still got to pull the cord," he says.
"Sorry?" I say, somewhat confused. It's not like I interrupted another conversation with my verbal request.
"You've still got to pull the cord, so the bell rings," he repeats, oblivious to the absurdity of his comment. He stops anyway.
Here's my stop. Goodbye, my empty little kingdom.
Today, my alternate bus gets to my stop first, so I jump on board. To my delight, it's completely empty (save the driver). With the fall chill morphing into a winter's nip, I sit in the middle of the very last row of seats to be closer to the engine's heat.
I stretch my arms out beside me, consuming much more space than necessary, and enjoy the rare moment of complete privacy on the city bus.
During my ride, a total of six other people get on the bus, and they all get off at stops well before mine, which is the last one on this route before the bus flips its sign and heads back the other way.
Aside from the repeated crescendo of the diesel engine, the bus is quiet. There is no chatter between the sparse passengers, no coughing, no overflowing iPod music, no ringing cell phones. Instead, the noises of the bus itself begin to fill the relative silence.
Big diesel engines vibrate a lot, and vibrations through a steel frame tend to cause everything that's threaded together to wiggle loose unless glued in place with Loctite. Including, apparently, the nuts & bolts used to hold the side panel on the seat in front of me, to my left. And when nuts loosen and fall off, the thin metal sheeting they previously held firmly in place becomes free to rattle against its frame, in perfect sync to the engine's vibrations.
It's especially loud when the bus is idling at a red light, and when it's at speed. Mercifully, when accelerating or decelerating, the vibration nearly vanishes, but this bus seems to hit a lot of red lights. RAT-AT-AT-AT-AT-ATTLE.
I stretch out with my leg and try to press against the sheet with my foot, but instead of merely accepting the pressure, the metal pops out the other direction like the lid of a Snapple bottle - with the accompanying snap/pop. I quickly draw my foot back, and catch a glimpse of the bus driver glancing up to his rear-view mirror to see what I'm doing to his bus. I try to pretend like nothing happened. Just a solo passenger, gazing out over his empty kingdom ahead.
The bus reaches the end of the route, and I rise and make my way to the front of the bus. Normally it will stop and sit for a few minutes to catch up to its schedule, and that's when I'd get off. Today, however, the driver must be behind, for he barrels right past the last stop and starts the reverse route immediately.
"I'll get off here," I tell him, gesturing at the upcoming stop.
"You've still got to pull the cord," he says.
"Sorry?" I say, somewhat confused. It's not like I interrupted another conversation with my verbal request.
"You've still got to pull the cord, so the bell rings," he repeats, oblivious to the absurdity of his comment. He stops anyway.
Here's my stop. Goodbye, my empty little kingdom.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
"Do You Have the Time?"
My title today is the question the mid-30s native lady seated beside me asks.
I pull back my jacket sleeve and stretch my wrist out in front of her so she can read my analog watch herself. She nods and thanks me.
"I guess I could have just looked at it myself and told you," I offer. "But it always takes a few seconds to figure out the time. I miss my old digital watch. It was much easier, and it had a calculator and a calendar on it, which was really handy if I wanted to figure out what day of the week November 11th falls on, or something like that. Which I often need to do. But maybe that's just how I process the world."
She pauses, then lets out a slow, "O-K," inflected with an unspoken "whatever."
"I kinda need to wear this watch though, as my wife got it for me."
"Ah," she says, then elaborates. "I needed to know the time because I need to be at my nail salon before it closes. I don't know if I'll make it. I could maybe go to another place closer."
I notice a nail salon out the window as the bus pulls up to a stop to load a large group of passengers. "There's a place right there," I point out.
She seems hesitant. "Should I?" she wonders, almost getting up. "It's probably all Africans and they'll give me those long curvy nails."
"Rowr," I say, making a clawing gesture like a cat in a fight. She laughs. I add, "If you're more comfortable with your old place, I wouldn't risk somewhere new."
"But I've got to get my nails done before tonight, or I won't feel like a woman," she responds, as the bus pulls away from the stop.
"That's something I can't relate to," I say.
"Guys can still get manicures and pedicures. It doesn't mean you're gay."
"Oh, I know, it's probably good for my hands," I say, holding mine up and inspecting my cuticles. "I've just never seen the need to get one."
"You have nice hands," she says. "But I know this one guy who is real femmy. His parents are super-rich and he still lives with them. He plucks his eyebrows super-thin, and his girlfriend has $8000 implants."
"See, I really can't relate to that kind of thing," I reply. "That sort of living just seems shallow. I prefer people who are genuine and authentic."
"Mine are real," she says, opening her jacket for me to get a closer look at her... ahem... chest area. My peripheral vision confirms that she is wearing a shirt, but I keep firm custody of my eyes. "Oh, you can look," she says. "I know you're married, but it doesn't matter."
"I'm not going to look," I say, laughing to mask my slight discomfort. "You're making me blush."
She laughs too.
There's my stop. Thank goodness.
I pull back my jacket sleeve and stretch my wrist out in front of her so she can read my analog watch herself. She nods and thanks me.
"I guess I could have just looked at it myself and told you," I offer. "But it always takes a few seconds to figure out the time. I miss my old digital watch. It was much easier, and it had a calculator and a calendar on it, which was really handy if I wanted to figure out what day of the week November 11th falls on, or something like that. Which I often need to do. But maybe that's just how I process the world."
She pauses, then lets out a slow, "O-K," inflected with an unspoken "whatever."
"I kinda need to wear this watch though, as my wife got it for me."
"Ah," she says, then elaborates. "I needed to know the time because I need to be at my nail salon before it closes. I don't know if I'll make it. I could maybe go to another place closer."
I notice a nail salon out the window as the bus pulls up to a stop to load a large group of passengers. "There's a place right there," I point out.
She seems hesitant. "Should I?" she wonders, almost getting up. "It's probably all Africans and they'll give me those long curvy nails."
"Rowr," I say, making a clawing gesture like a cat in a fight. She laughs. I add, "If you're more comfortable with your old place, I wouldn't risk somewhere new."
"But I've got to get my nails done before tonight, or I won't feel like a woman," she responds, as the bus pulls away from the stop.
"That's something I can't relate to," I say.
"Guys can still get manicures and pedicures. It doesn't mean you're gay."
"Oh, I know, it's probably good for my hands," I say, holding mine up and inspecting my cuticles. "I've just never seen the need to get one."
"You have nice hands," she says. "But I know this one guy who is real femmy. His parents are super-rich and he still lives with them. He plucks his eyebrows super-thin, and his girlfriend has $8000 implants."
"See, I really can't relate to that kind of thing," I reply. "That sort of living just seems shallow. I prefer people who are genuine and authentic."
"Mine are real," she says, opening her jacket for me to get a closer look at her... ahem... chest area. My peripheral vision confirms that she is wearing a shirt, but I keep firm custody of my eyes. "Oh, you can look," she says. "I know you're married, but it doesn't matter."
"I'm not going to look," I say, laughing to mask my slight discomfort. "You're making me blush."
She laughs too.
There's my stop. Thank goodness.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Swagger
I'm seated right behind the rear door on the bus, against the window.
My stereotypes kick in as soon as I see him swagger onto the bus; he's in his mid 20s, white, with an angry aura and an angrier goatee. Tall and thin, he's dressed all in black with his hoody up, and as he gets closer to where I am I can smell the reek of cigarettes on him. A large backpack hangs loosely off his back.
He stops right in front of the back door, and is completely oblivious to everybody around him trying to exit through it at the next stop; both his bulk and his intimidating aura present a barrier to those trying to get around him. Eventually they get by.
A few stops later, he reaches directly in front of me to pull the stop cord hanging by my window. But his angle is all wrong, and he can't get the right leverage to activate the ding so he gives up.
I reach up and pull the cord for him.
He meets my eyes, smiles, and says, "Thanks." Suddenly his dark cloud seems to have diminished a bit.
There's his stop.
My stereotypes kick in as soon as I see him swagger onto the bus; he's in his mid 20s, white, with an angry aura and an angrier goatee. Tall and thin, he's dressed all in black with his hoody up, and as he gets closer to where I am I can smell the reek of cigarettes on him. A large backpack hangs loosely off his back.
He stops right in front of the back door, and is completely oblivious to everybody around him trying to exit through it at the next stop; both his bulk and his intimidating aura present a barrier to those trying to get around him. Eventually they get by.
A few stops later, he reaches directly in front of me to pull the stop cord hanging by my window. But his angle is all wrong, and he can't get the right leverage to activate the ding so he gives up.
I reach up and pull the cord for him.
He meets my eyes, smiles, and says, "Thanks." Suddenly his dark cloud seems to have diminished a bit.
There's his stop.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Crossword
She's middle-aged, with shoulder length brown hair and tastefully selected eyeglasses. The top of her pink turtleneck is the only clothing showing that isn't the black of her leather jacket, pants, and pointy shoes. A silver purse is slung over her left shoulder.
On her lap is a oft-reused green liquor-mart nylon bag - the only part of her ensemble which isn't trendy and new. She has the Winnipeg Sun folded open on top of it and is doing the crossword puzzle with a simple blue Bic pen.
Her focus on the puzzle is clear, but it's not all encompassing. She gets distracted by various noises on the bus and frequently glances up to see how close she is to her stop.
She finishes the puzzle in pretty good time, unfolds the paper, rolls it up and stuffs it into the nylon bag.
There's her stop.
On her lap is a oft-reused green liquor-mart nylon bag - the only part of her ensemble which isn't trendy and new. She has the Winnipeg Sun folded open on top of it and is doing the crossword puzzle with a simple blue Bic pen.
Her focus on the puzzle is clear, but it's not all encompassing. She gets distracted by various noises on the bus and frequently glances up to see how close she is to her stop.
She finishes the puzzle in pretty good time, unfolds the paper, rolls it up and stuffs it into the nylon bag.
There's her stop.
Hot Seat
I'm in a brand new bus shelter waiting for my connecting bus home. It, like the other new shelters I've seen, has an uncomfortable-looking perforated stainless steel bench.
That'll be nasty cold in winter, I think to myself. Who on earth would want to sit on those? But then I overhear a young lady, sitting on the bench on this nippy Autumn evening, exclaim to her standing friend, "They're hot!"
I look a little more closely and see that there is an electric heater running the full length underneath the bench. Being a man who enjoys warmth, I try it out - it is indeed comfortably warm, a stark contrast to the sharp twang of the October air. I find myself relaxing, leaning back against the warm glass wall, the tension of a full day and a long walk slipping away as the heat radiates up my spine.
Ah, phooey. There's my bus.
That'll be nasty cold in winter, I think to myself. Who on earth would want to sit on those? But then I overhear a young lady, sitting on the bench on this nippy Autumn evening, exclaim to her standing friend, "They're hot!"
I look a little more closely and see that there is an electric heater running the full length underneath the bench. Being a man who enjoys warmth, I try it out - it is indeed comfortably warm, a stark contrast to the sharp twang of the October air. I find myself relaxing, leaning back against the warm glass wall, the tension of a full day and a long walk slipping away as the heat radiates up my spine.
Ah, phooey. There's my bus.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
A Meditation
As my bus zips down the bus-only lane, I gaze out my window in mild amusement at the sole occupants of the vehicles backed up for blocks in rush hour traffic. I suppress a desire to wave at them, but only barely.
There is a perception among the driving public that the bus is full of poor people, dirty blue collar Joes, and screaming kids. Perhaps that isn't entirely untrue, but I do see a fair share of professionals on the bus too, in their suits with the briefcases, checking email on their Blackberries.
Either way, taking the bus is like a great big secret that I'm afraid to share too much with the drivers out there, for were they to realize how liberating it truly is, I'm sure my bus rides would be much less comfortable.
Yet perhaps I delude myself: some of them undoubtedly think I'm taking the bus because I have to, and would quickly opt out of it were I of more sufficient means. It is true that the financial benefits to riding the bus are quite appealing for our simple lifestyle, but my desire to ride the bus outweighs my need to, by a heavy margin. I get time to think, time to read, time to pray, and time to watch the world.
I signed up for this experience, and I'm loving it. For rush-hour drivers, every day is a crapshoot: they have far less predictability in their arrival times than I do as a bus patron. I'll take the predictability over the chaos and high gas prices any day.
There's my stop.
There is a perception among the driving public that the bus is full of poor people, dirty blue collar Joes, and screaming kids. Perhaps that isn't entirely untrue, but I do see a fair share of professionals on the bus too, in their suits with the briefcases, checking email on their Blackberries.
Either way, taking the bus is like a great big secret that I'm afraid to share too much with the drivers out there, for were they to realize how liberating it truly is, I'm sure my bus rides would be much less comfortable.
Yet perhaps I delude myself: some of them undoubtedly think I'm taking the bus because I have to, and would quickly opt out of it were I of more sufficient means. It is true that the financial benefits to riding the bus are quite appealing for our simple lifestyle, but my desire to ride the bus outweighs my need to, by a heavy margin. I get time to think, time to read, time to pray, and time to watch the world.
I signed up for this experience, and I'm loving it. For rush-hour drivers, every day is a crapshoot: they have far less predictability in their arrival times than I do as a bus patron. I'll take the predictability over the chaos and high gas prices any day.
There's my stop.
Friday, October 17, 2008
New Guy
It's obvious from the first second I board my bus home that he's a new driver. For starters, he's over 10 minutes behind schedule, which in the bus world is a dead giveaway.
But even more than that, as I board, the young, trim, pleasant driver greets me with a genuine smile and says hello. Other than the uniform, he bears no resemblance to the bitter, scruffy, middle-aged veteran drivers I see so frequently. Dead giveaway.
I take a seat near the front and notice that he also has a coach with him, seated right next to the door within conversational distance of the driver.
And there's the running late thing. He has fallen so far behind schedule that I see what would have been the next bus pass us while we're at a stop. Now every stop we approach has been stripped bare of passengers, mere seconds before our bus gets there.
After about five minutes of this, the other bus driver decides to give the new guy a break and kills a bit of time at the next stop, allowing our bus to assume its rightful place in front again. New guy honks his horn in triumph as we zip past the stopped bus.
The other thing that happens when a bus runs ten minutes late is that the stops become fuller. At every stop, there are the people who have been waiting since the bus was supposed to have been there, the people who were running late and would have missed it by a few minutes, and the go-getters who always arrive at their stops five minutes early just in case. When the other bus had lapped us, it picked up these small crowds. Now they're getting on my bus.
An older native gentleman is the last to board at one of these packed stops, and instead of showing his bus pass or dropping his fare in the coin box, he approaches the driver and shows him his ID. He is speaking too softly for me to hear him, but it's obvious what he's asking. The driver responds, "Don't worry about it." Then the man asks, "Can I get a transfer?" Without thinking, the driver hands him a transfer strip, guaranteeing him a free bus ride anywhere for the next 90 minutes.
As the man heads for a seat, the driver's coach leans forward and says something to him, again too faint for me to hear. But I know exactly what she's saying, and as she sits back and continues to talk, she gives him some constructive criticism. "It is up to you whether or not you want to let someone ride free, but most drivers will not give out a transfer. But you'll find your way and get a good sense of how to approach those situations."
It's good to know that if I ever forget my bus pass that I can probably still get a ride if I ask nicely.
There's my stop.
But even more than that, as I board, the young, trim, pleasant driver greets me with a genuine smile and says hello. Other than the uniform, he bears no resemblance to the bitter, scruffy, middle-aged veteran drivers I see so frequently. Dead giveaway.
I take a seat near the front and notice that he also has a coach with him, seated right next to the door within conversational distance of the driver.
And there's the running late thing. He has fallen so far behind schedule that I see what would have been the next bus pass us while we're at a stop. Now every stop we approach has been stripped bare of passengers, mere seconds before our bus gets there.
After about five minutes of this, the other bus driver decides to give the new guy a break and kills a bit of time at the next stop, allowing our bus to assume its rightful place in front again. New guy honks his horn in triumph as we zip past the stopped bus.
The other thing that happens when a bus runs ten minutes late is that the stops become fuller. At every stop, there are the people who have been waiting since the bus was supposed to have been there, the people who were running late and would have missed it by a few minutes, and the go-getters who always arrive at their stops five minutes early just in case. When the other bus had lapped us, it picked up these small crowds. Now they're getting on my bus.
An older native gentleman is the last to board at one of these packed stops, and instead of showing his bus pass or dropping his fare in the coin box, he approaches the driver and shows him his ID. He is speaking too softly for me to hear him, but it's obvious what he's asking. The driver responds, "Don't worry about it." Then the man asks, "Can I get a transfer?" Without thinking, the driver hands him a transfer strip, guaranteeing him a free bus ride anywhere for the next 90 minutes.
As the man heads for a seat, the driver's coach leans forward and says something to him, again too faint for me to hear. But I know exactly what she's saying, and as she sits back and continues to talk, she gives him some constructive criticism. "It is up to you whether or not you want to let someone ride free, but most drivers will not give out a transfer. But you'll find your way and get a good sense of how to approach those situations."
It's good to know that if I ever forget my bus pass that I can probably still get a ride if I ask nicely.
There's my stop.
Sorry Folks
I drove to work today.
Life is so much more boring when you're alone in a vehicle. And you don't get to use bus lanes.
.
Life is so much more boring when you're alone in a vehicle. And you don't get to use bus lanes.
.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Needy
A young lady is seated directly behind me on my bus ride home. She's talking to a friend on her phone. Shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation, I hear her say things like:
But I'm taking it as a rare insight into the female mind, from the perspective of a guy who used to be that clingy to his love interests. In my experience, there is a very thick line between being annoyingly needy and being a creepy stalker.
At least, for her sake, I hope so.
There's my stop.
- "I'm really starting to get annoyed at him for being so needy."
- "He once turned his cell phone off for like two days, and I tried calling him and it was off so I just figured he needed some time. Everybody needs time away now and then, so I didn't think it was a big deal."
- "But later I turned my phone off, for like, a couple of days, because I was sick and did not want to talk to anybody and just wanted to sleep the whole time."
- "And literally the second I turned my phone back on it rang and it was him and he's like, 'Where were you? I tried calling you, like, 30 times in the last two days.'"
- "Like, wow. Figure it out - if somebody leaves their phone off for a couple of days, just let them be and stop worrying."
But I'm taking it as a rare insight into the female mind, from the perspective of a guy who used to be that clingy to his love interests. In my experience, there is a very thick line between being annoyingly needy and being a creepy stalker.
At least, for her sake, I hope so.
There's my stop.
Um... Move, Dummy
The crowd on my first morning bus usually thins before it gets to my stop, and today is no exception. Perhaps a dozen riders remain on the bus, including a young native man in a wheelchair, with his right foot bound in a heavy cast.
He is in the wheelchair-friendly spot up front. Seeing his next bus ahead of ours, he asks the driver to signal to that bus to wait for him at the next stop. The driver obliges and honks his horn, the unofficial sign bus drivers in Winnipeg use to make that request. Ah, we live in such an amazingly advanced technological world.
But the other driver doesn't hear the horn, or ignores it if he does, and pulls away before the young man has a chance to disembark.
"Maybe at the next stop," the driver calls out, over his shoulder.
At the next stop, the light turns red and both buses stop. There should now be ample time for him to get off this one and reach the next one.
But as the doors open, a young white man, ears stuck in iPod oblivion, boards the bus just as the wheelchair-bound native man advances to the front door. There isn't more than 2 inches to spare on either side of the wheelchair, and yet this new passenger somehow expects the chair to slide sideways to make room for him to pass.
They face off like this for several seconds. The white man is gazing stupidly, looking much like a lab rat stuck at a dead end in a maze. Suddenly I feel hungry for cheese.
Eventually he tries to back into the corner at the driver's seat and the fare deposit box, but he is really having a hard time understanding the laws of fitting into places - the chair still cannot pass; any 3 year old could see this.
Finally the bus driver states the obvious. "You're going to have to get off the bus." Reluctantly, the man obeys and backs off. The wheelchair ramp extends and the native man thankfully makes it onto his connecting bus without further incident.
Somewhat sheepishly, the white man boards the bus again after the ramp is retracted and makes a beeline for the back.
What an idiot.
There's my stop.
He is in the wheelchair-friendly spot up front. Seeing his next bus ahead of ours, he asks the driver to signal to that bus to wait for him at the next stop. The driver obliges and honks his horn, the unofficial sign bus drivers in Winnipeg use to make that request. Ah, we live in such an amazingly advanced technological world.
But the other driver doesn't hear the horn, or ignores it if he does, and pulls away before the young man has a chance to disembark.
"Maybe at the next stop," the driver calls out, over his shoulder.
At the next stop, the light turns red and both buses stop. There should now be ample time for him to get off this one and reach the next one.
But as the doors open, a young white man, ears stuck in iPod oblivion, boards the bus just as the wheelchair-bound native man advances to the front door. There isn't more than 2 inches to spare on either side of the wheelchair, and yet this new passenger somehow expects the chair to slide sideways to make room for him to pass.
They face off like this for several seconds. The white man is gazing stupidly, looking much like a lab rat stuck at a dead end in a maze. Suddenly I feel hungry for cheese.
Eventually he tries to back into the corner at the driver's seat and the fare deposit box, but he is really having a hard time understanding the laws of fitting into places - the chair still cannot pass; any 3 year old could see this.
Finally the bus driver states the obvious. "You're going to have to get off the bus." Reluctantly, the man obeys and backs off. The wheelchair ramp extends and the native man thankfully makes it onto his connecting bus without further incident.
Somewhat sheepishly, the white man boards the bus again after the ramp is retracted and makes a beeline for the back.
What an idiot.
There's my stop.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Darn It
Every morning, he's there on my bus to work.
He's a young man with Down's syndrome (aren't they all young?), drinking his coffee. Sometimes it's Tim Horton's, sometimes it's Starbucks, sometimes it's a generic styrofoam mug from a place with a name like "Gerry's Confectionery" or "Coffee Stop."
Today is no different; he's there, and he has his coffee. He's wearing khakis, black running shoes, a brown leather jacket, and his distinctive Firebird ball cap.
As he sits down, the coffee sloshes out of the thin lid's sip-hole and spills down the side of the styrofoam cup, and logically it runs onto the hand that's holding the cup. For myself this morning, I selected a travel mug with a lid that I can slide shut when I'm not sipping, thus guaranteeing me a spill-proof bus ride.
"Darn it," he mutters. "I made a mess of myself." He bends over the cup and slurps at the coffee accumulated on the lid, and wipes his hand on his pants. "There, that's better," he observes.
A loud sneeze erupts from near the middle of the bus. "Gesundheit," he calls out.
He repeats the name of each bus stop we approach as the driver announces them over the loudspeaker. "Wall." "Wall." "Sargent." "Sargent." "St. James." "St. James."
He mumbles something under his breath and bursts out in laughter at his own joke. A few minutes later, he lets out a playful roar, like a lion playing with its cubs.
Most people on the bus don't notice me observing them, but suddenly his eye catches mine, and neither of us is willing to break the gaze. I raise my own coffee mug towards him in salute of the morning and the taste of a finely ground bean, and he returns the salute, capping it off with a child-like wave of his free hand.
My mug is nearly empty, and as I silently tip it up to welcome the last sip, he makes a slurping sound on my behalf. Then, as I lower my mug I feel something wet on my hand. It's coffee. Somehow it dribbled out of my spill-proof mug and down my hand.
"Darn it," I mutter, with no little irony. "I made a mess of myself."
There's my stop.
He's a young man with Down's syndrome (aren't they all young?), drinking his coffee. Sometimes it's Tim Horton's, sometimes it's Starbucks, sometimes it's a generic styrofoam mug from a place with a name like "Gerry's Confectionery" or "Coffee Stop."
Today is no different; he's there, and he has his coffee. He's wearing khakis, black running shoes, a brown leather jacket, and his distinctive Firebird ball cap.
As he sits down, the coffee sloshes out of the thin lid's sip-hole and spills down the side of the styrofoam cup, and logically it runs onto the hand that's holding the cup. For myself this morning, I selected a travel mug with a lid that I can slide shut when I'm not sipping, thus guaranteeing me a spill-proof bus ride.
"Darn it," he mutters. "I made a mess of myself." He bends over the cup and slurps at the coffee accumulated on the lid, and wipes his hand on his pants. "There, that's better," he observes.
A loud sneeze erupts from near the middle of the bus. "Gesundheit," he calls out.
He repeats the name of each bus stop we approach as the driver announces them over the loudspeaker. "Wall." "Wall." "Sargent." "Sargent." "St. James." "St. James."
He mumbles something under his breath and bursts out in laughter at his own joke. A few minutes later, he lets out a playful roar, like a lion playing with its cubs.
Most people on the bus don't notice me observing them, but suddenly his eye catches mine, and neither of us is willing to break the gaze. I raise my own coffee mug towards him in salute of the morning and the taste of a finely ground bean, and he returns the salute, capping it off with a child-like wave of his free hand.
My mug is nearly empty, and as I silently tip it up to welcome the last sip, he makes a slurping sound on my behalf. Then, as I lower my mug I feel something wet on my hand. It's coffee. Somehow it dribbled out of my spill-proof mug and down my hand.
"Darn it," I mutter, with no little irony. "I made a mess of myself."
There's my stop.
Disparate Yankees
He's a young native, likely in his mid-teens. He has no eyebrows; I'm not sure how that happened. Dressed in black from head to toe, he stands near the middle of the bus when there is ample room to sit.
On his head is a black New York Yankees ball cap.
He's a white man in his 50's - a grey-haired, grizzled, scruffy blue collar worker. His blue jeans are dirty from a hard day's work. He's wearing a red hoody, a blue jacket and blue backpack.
On his head is a black New York Yankees ball cap.
Two completely different individuals in lifestyle and dress, and yet they both like the Yankees.
At least, I think that's what it means when you wear that cap.
There's my stop.
On his head is a black New York Yankees ball cap.
He's a white man in his 50's - a grey-haired, grizzled, scruffy blue collar worker. His blue jeans are dirty from a hard day's work. He's wearing a red hoody, a blue jacket and blue backpack.
On his head is a black New York Yankees ball cap.
Two completely different individuals in lifestyle and dress, and yet they both like the Yankees.
At least, I think that's what it means when you wear that cap.
There's my stop.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Flowers
She's about 30, a vibrant, blonde professional with her hair pulled back into a ponytail and wide sunglasses perched smartly on top of her head, unneeded due to the overcast sky.
In her hands she's holding a flower pot, which is wrapped with a patterned paper high enough to obscure all but the tallest stems peeking out of the open top. The leaves are a dusky green, and the flowers are tiny whiplets of red, no bigger than the leaves themselves. My lack of botanical training means I don't know what type of flower this is. Definitely not roses, carnations, tulips, or those obvious types. No, this likely an obscure African or Asian breed, and therefore likely cost a pretty penny.
Something about the way she's holding it makes me suspect she has mixed feelings about this bouquet. Her face seems slightly contorted; one can see that she normally smiles a lot, but there is no smile now. Perhaps it's a gift from a recent ex-boyfriend, trying to mend the relationship, and while she doesn't want to go there again, she doesn't want to toss the flowers out willy-nilly. Perhaps a dear family member has passed away, and these flowers were given to her in sympathy by her concerned coworkers. Or maybe, these were a going away gift from a job she hated, and today was her last day; the flowers were given out of mere social polity instead of genuine affection, and thus represent a connection to people and an office she has little love for herself.
There's my stop.
In her hands she's holding a flower pot, which is wrapped with a patterned paper high enough to obscure all but the tallest stems peeking out of the open top. The leaves are a dusky green, and the flowers are tiny whiplets of red, no bigger than the leaves themselves. My lack of botanical training means I don't know what type of flower this is. Definitely not roses, carnations, tulips, or those obvious types. No, this likely an obscure African or Asian breed, and therefore likely cost a pretty penny.
Something about the way she's holding it makes me suspect she has mixed feelings about this bouquet. Her face seems slightly contorted; one can see that she normally smiles a lot, but there is no smile now. Perhaps it's a gift from a recent ex-boyfriend, trying to mend the relationship, and while she doesn't want to go there again, she doesn't want to toss the flowers out willy-nilly. Perhaps a dear family member has passed away, and these flowers were given to her in sympathy by her concerned coworkers. Or maybe, these were a going away gift from a job she hated, and today was her last day; the flowers were given out of mere social polity instead of genuine affection, and thus represent a connection to people and an office she has little love for herself.
There's my stop.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Zzzzzzzz
I'm tired today. Stayed up too late last night, blogging. (You're welcome.)
First, I went with my wife to her ultrasound appointment. After that, she dropped me off at work, so I skipped the first bus trip. Immediately from there, I drove up to Gimli to meet with a customer, and by the time I got to my office my work day had 3 hours remaining. Those three hours flew by, as I am extraordinarily backed up (but I still love this job!) and have much to fill my days.
Finally, I'm on my home-bound bus, but don't quite feel as relaxed as I should like. So instead of observing the people around me, I bury myself in a book.
I transfer to my last bus of the day, and tell myself, "OK, Doogie, it's time to put the book away, hunker down, and see something interesting." But I made a poor choice of seats - the back of the bus, where the rocking and swaying are like being held in mommy's arms. I try to keep an eye on the cute redhead with the 'Canadian Politics' textbook but before I know it my head is nodding and my eyes are drooping (I'm surprised that she's not sleepy too, with that choice of prose). I awaken with a start, and reset my resolve. There - buddy with the ball cap, and his longish hair is sticking out the opening in the back, which makes it look something like a knob on a dresser drawer.
But then... nod, droop... no - awake! Watch, observe!
A man whose every extremity can be described as long and skinny is reading the newspaper. His long, skinny arms fling out like gull wings every time he flips the page. His long, skinny fingers gently grasp the very edges of the paper. His long, skinny nose and long, skinny hair accentuate his long, skinny head.
Nod, droop... gah, stay awake man!
A leathered construction worker lets out a particularly nasty cough, catching my attention. But only for a fleeting moment.
Nod, droop...
Approaching my stop now. An aged man dressed in a tan jacket, tan shirt, tan shorts, tan hair, tanned skin, and flip flops (also tan), sits beside me... and golly does he reek.
That keeps me awake quite nicely for the next block.
There's my stop.
First, I went with my wife to her ultrasound appointment. After that, she dropped me off at work, so I skipped the first bus trip. Immediately from there, I drove up to Gimli to meet with a customer, and by the time I got to my office my work day had 3 hours remaining. Those three hours flew by, as I am extraordinarily backed up (but I still love this job!) and have much to fill my days.
Finally, I'm on my home-bound bus, but don't quite feel as relaxed as I should like. So instead of observing the people around me, I bury myself in a book.
I transfer to my last bus of the day, and tell myself, "OK, Doogie, it's time to put the book away, hunker down, and see something interesting." But I made a poor choice of seats - the back of the bus, where the rocking and swaying are like being held in mommy's arms. I try to keep an eye on the cute redhead with the 'Canadian Politics' textbook but before I know it my head is nodding and my eyes are drooping (I'm surprised that she's not sleepy too, with that choice of prose). I awaken with a start, and reset my resolve. There - buddy with the ball cap, and his longish hair is sticking out the opening in the back, which makes it look something like a knob on a dresser drawer.
But then... nod, droop... no - awake! Watch, observe!
A man whose every extremity can be described as long and skinny is reading the newspaper. His long, skinny arms fling out like gull wings every time he flips the page. His long, skinny fingers gently grasp the very edges of the paper. His long, skinny nose and long, skinny hair accentuate his long, skinny head.
Nod, droop... gah, stay awake man!
A leathered construction worker lets out a particularly nasty cough, catching my attention. But only for a fleeting moment.
Nod, droop...
Approaching my stop now. An aged man dressed in a tan jacket, tan shirt, tan shorts, tan hair, tanned skin, and flip flops (also tan), sits beside me... and golly does he reek.
That keeps me awake quite nicely for the next block.
There's my stop.
Absolutely
As I exit my bus to transfer to my next one, I see a large, upper-middle age woman struggle to lift a heavy suitcase off my same bus, but by the front door instead of the back, where I exited.
She finally manages to wiggle it down. It's a bright, bold blue, and is half her height. She's got thick, grey hair and is dressed in a plus-sized black pantsuit.
Tipping the suitcase onto its wheels, she pulls it into the bus shelter and, exhausted, plops herself down on the two person bench inside, leaving the case in front of the empty seat.
Still breathing heavily, the pulls out her cell phone and makes a call. "Hey, it's me. I guess you're out, but I'm home now. Well, not home, but I'm at the bus stop and should be there soon. I'm really tired, so I'm probably going to go right to bed when I get home. See you later." She ends the call and nearly drops the phone, but manages to prevent it from hitting the ground by jamming her arms and legs up against the suitcase.
Another woman enters the bus shelter. Awkwardly, the first woman wobbles the suitcase out of the way of the empty seat, but the newcomer doesn't sit. After a moment, she asks, "Mind if I sit down?"
"Absolutely," says the first, nudging the suitcase further out of the way.
"Thanks." With some relief, she takes the seat. "Long day!"
"Absolutely," comes the knowing reply, this time pronounced slower, and more emphatically.
There's my bus.
She finally manages to wiggle it down. It's a bright, bold blue, and is half her height. She's got thick, grey hair and is dressed in a plus-sized black pantsuit.
Tipping the suitcase onto its wheels, she pulls it into the bus shelter and, exhausted, plops herself down on the two person bench inside, leaving the case in front of the empty seat.
Still breathing heavily, the pulls out her cell phone and makes a call. "Hey, it's me. I guess you're out, but I'm home now. Well, not home, but I'm at the bus stop and should be there soon. I'm really tired, so I'm probably going to go right to bed when I get home. See you later." She ends the call and nearly drops the phone, but manages to prevent it from hitting the ground by jamming her arms and legs up against the suitcase.
Another woman enters the bus shelter. Awkwardly, the first woman wobbles the suitcase out of the way of the empty seat, but the newcomer doesn't sit. After a moment, she asks, "Mind if I sit down?"
"Absolutely," says the first, nudging the suitcase further out of the way.
"Thanks." With some relief, she takes the seat. "Long day!"
"Absolutely," comes the knowing reply, this time pronounced slower, and more emphatically.
There's my bus.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Crunch Crunch
She's a young black woman, dressed smartly in a white sweater and black slacks. Her large purse is slung over her shoulder; three-inch silver hoop earrings dangle from her ears, and her jet black hair is slicked back as if she gelled it in a wind tunnel.
In her hand is an open bag of Old Dutch Sour Cream & Onion potato chips.
Understand that I'm hungry after a hard day's work, with a light lunch. Those chips look good from where I'm seated. I can almost smell them.
She slowly, so as not to make a lot of noise, reaches into the foil bag and withdraws a perfect, round, rippled sliver of deep-fried potato and slips it into her mouth. I hear nothing, and then...
Crunch, crunch.
My mouth is watering... that is my favourite flavour of chip and I wish I had the social courage to approach her and ask her to share. But my seatmate has me trapped in place.
Again, the ebony hand disappears into the flecked, gleaming foil of the bag and transfer another crisp morsel into her mouth...
Crunch, crunch.
That's enough. I can't bear to watch anymore. I go back to reading my book.
Crunch, crunch.
Crunch, crunch.
Finally! There's my stop.
.
In her hand is an open bag of Old Dutch Sour Cream & Onion potato chips.
Understand that I'm hungry after a hard day's work, with a light lunch. Those chips look good from where I'm seated. I can almost smell them.
She slowly, so as not to make a lot of noise, reaches into the foil bag and withdraws a perfect, round, rippled sliver of deep-fried potato and slips it into her mouth. I hear nothing, and then...
Crunch, crunch.
My mouth is watering... that is my favourite flavour of chip and I wish I had the social courage to approach her and ask her to share. But my seatmate has me trapped in place.
Again, the ebony hand disappears into the flecked, gleaming foil of the bag and transfer another crisp morsel into her mouth...
Crunch, crunch.
That's enough. I can't bear to watch anymore. I go back to reading my book.
Crunch, crunch.
Crunch, crunch.
Finally! There's my stop.
.
Friday, October 3, 2008
SuperDad
I see him on the bus regularly, and he is an inspiration.
A tall, slender black man, he has with him three small black children (it's usually four), the eldest of whom cannot be more than six. From the level of intimacy he has with them, and the level of respect he commands from them, it's obvious that he's no nanny or babysitter - these are his kids.
And they are extremely well-behaved kids. There is not room for them all to sit together, so the eldest, a boy, sits across the aisle from dad, next to a stranger. The two daughters sit with him, the younger on his lap.
They are calm, controlled, quiet. They are sitting still.
I've seen countless examples of children who misbehave on the bus, and of children who are behaving but interacting with the passengers to display how cute they are. These kids have been infected by the bus rider's unwritten rule of social reality: be quiet and don't talk to anybody. Perhaps that's not a good thing, when even children are caused to lose their humanity on the bus.
But this dad definitely has my admiration for how he has instilled in these kids his sense of order and discipline. Well done.
There's my stop.
A tall, slender black man, he has with him three small black children (it's usually four), the eldest of whom cannot be more than six. From the level of intimacy he has with them, and the level of respect he commands from them, it's obvious that he's no nanny or babysitter - these are his kids.
And they are extremely well-behaved kids. There is not room for them all to sit together, so the eldest, a boy, sits across the aisle from dad, next to a stranger. The two daughters sit with him, the younger on his lap.
They are calm, controlled, quiet. They are sitting still.
I've seen countless examples of children who misbehave on the bus, and of children who are behaving but interacting with the passengers to display how cute they are. These kids have been infected by the bus rider's unwritten rule of social reality: be quiet and don't talk to anybody. Perhaps that's not a good thing, when even children are caused to lose their humanity on the bus.
But this dad definitely has my admiration for how he has instilled in these kids his sense of order and discipline. Well done.
There's my stop.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Wall-Eyed
He's sitting right at the front of the bus as I board, and he looks frightened. Perhaps "freaked out" is a better term; his eyes are wide and he's staring straight ahead as if he was in a state of shock.
As I pass him, I observe that he is very wall-eyed. I never know which eye to look into when I talk to wall-eyed people; it always takes me 10-15 seconds to figure it out.
He is middle-aged, somewhat chunky but not obese, and dressed sharply in a grey suit and bronze-toned tie with a tasteful gold chain tie clip. He's mostly bald, and sports a neatly trimmed goatee.
It's not until after I turn around and sit down that I see he has a big, beautiful white dog, possibly a Newfoundland breed. The dog is wearing a harness... oh, I get it. It's a seeing eye dog. So he's not staring in a state of shock - he just has nothing to see. And he's not simply wall-eyed - he's blind enough to need a dog.
I'm impressed how well this dog behaves. He is lying down behind the man's outstretched legs; a constant presence, providing comfort and assurance. He doesn't budge, but remains perfectly still in obedience and loyalty.
This is why I'm a dog person.
As I pass him, I observe that he is very wall-eyed. I never know which eye to look into when I talk to wall-eyed people; it always takes me 10-15 seconds to figure it out.
He is middle-aged, somewhat chunky but not obese, and dressed sharply in a grey suit and bronze-toned tie with a tasteful gold chain tie clip. He's mostly bald, and sports a neatly trimmed goatee.
It's not until after I turn around and sit down that I see he has a big, beautiful white dog, possibly a Newfoundland breed. The dog is wearing a harness... oh, I get it. It's a seeing eye dog. So he's not staring in a state of shock - he just has nothing to see. And he's not simply wall-eyed - he's blind enough to need a dog.
I'm impressed how well this dog behaves. He is lying down behind the man's outstretched legs; a constant presence, providing comfort and assurance. He doesn't budge, but remains perfectly still in obedience and loyalty.
This is why I'm a dog person.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
A Short Story
This one practically tells itself.
A man boards the bus carrying something which probably means he will never again board the bus: a new set of license plates.
He's got a BIG smile.
There's his stop.
A man boards the bus carrying something which probably means he will never again board the bus: a new set of license plates.
He's got a BIG smile.
There's his stop.
Putting On The Ritz
Two young men, no older than 25, are standing at the back door of the bus.
They are well-dressed: suits, ties, clean shaven, and holding some papers and pamphlets. At first I think they're Mormons on a mission but realize that they are dressed too colourfully to be Mormons.
The thin one is wearing a black, pinstriped suit with a baby blue shirt and baby blue tie. His blonde, "emo" hair is in desperate need of a trim. His cleanly shaven face reveals two things: one, that his blade is dull (he has a few nicks) and two, his acne.
The chubby one, with short, wavy black hair, is also in need of a new razor blade. He is wearing a plain black suit but a vivid burgundy shirt and vivid burgundy tie. If they swapped ties, they'd coordinate with each other better.
The pamphlets they're holding look like handouts from a seminar of sorts, which also may explain why they are dressed up. These two bear themselves like they don't dress up a lot, and don't like it when they have to.
Baby Blue drops his pen, which presumably came with the handout. "You dropped your pen," says Vivid Burgundy. "Yeah, I don't care. I have a ton of pens."
It looks like a nice pen. But it's right at their feet. I can't exactly get out of my seat and pick it up.
They are standing right at the back door, so blatantly taking up the space of any passers-through that they actually open the doors for people disembarking. Eventually a double seat opens up and they take it, but they would still notice if somebody stooped to retrieve that pen.
Maybe if they get off before me, then I can get it.
--
There's my stop.
.
They are well-dressed: suits, ties, clean shaven, and holding some papers and pamphlets. At first I think they're Mormons on a mission but realize that they are dressed too colourfully to be Mormons.
The thin one is wearing a black, pinstriped suit with a baby blue shirt and baby blue tie. His blonde, "emo" hair is in desperate need of a trim. His cleanly shaven face reveals two things: one, that his blade is dull (he has a few nicks) and two, his acne.
The chubby one, with short, wavy black hair, is also in need of a new razor blade. He is wearing a plain black suit but a vivid burgundy shirt and vivid burgundy tie. If they swapped ties, they'd coordinate with each other better.
The pamphlets they're holding look like handouts from a seminar of sorts, which also may explain why they are dressed up. These two bear themselves like they don't dress up a lot, and don't like it when they have to.
Baby Blue drops his pen, which presumably came with the handout. "You dropped your pen," says Vivid Burgundy. "Yeah, I don't care. I have a ton of pens."
It looks like a nice pen. But it's right at their feet. I can't exactly get out of my seat and pick it up.
They are standing right at the back door, so blatantly taking up the space of any passers-through that they actually open the doors for people disembarking. Eventually a double seat opens up and they take it, but they would still notice if somebody stooped to retrieve that pen.
Maybe if they get off before me, then I can get it.
--
There's my stop.
.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Puppy Love
Today I make a point of sitting up front; recently I've hardly paid attention to the demographic that sits up here.
But my subject isn't at the front of the bus. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
He's about 19 or 20, still emitting some of the gawky teenage awkwardness which he has not yet entirely shed. His brown hair is long and floppy, like the kids wear it these days. Average height, slim, he's dressed in blue jeans and a tan jacket.
In fact, when I first see him, he has just gotten off off the bus, behind me through the rear door. As he disembarked, he had pivoted and is now slowly walking backwards, waving at somebody still on the bus. The thing that catches my attention is that he's waving with just his index finger, in a very cutesy, girly kind of way. His face is scrunched up in the unmistakable ear-to-ear grin of heavy duty infatuation. Ah, young hearts.
And he's gone from my sight.
But my subject isn't at the front of the bus. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
He's about 19 or 20, still emitting some of the gawky teenage awkwardness which he has not yet entirely shed. His brown hair is long and floppy, like the kids wear it these days. Average height, slim, he's dressed in blue jeans and a tan jacket.
In fact, when I first see him, he has just gotten off off the bus, behind me through the rear door. As he disembarked, he had pivoted and is now slowly walking backwards, waving at somebody still on the bus. The thing that catches my attention is that he's waving with just his index finger, in a very cutesy, girly kind of way. His face is scrunched up in the unmistakable ear-to-ear grin of heavy duty infatuation. Ah, young hearts.
And he's gone from my sight.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Kids
My bus ride into work is usually invaded with kids going to school. But the bus ride home, closer to 5:00, rarely has any school-age kids on board.
Today for some weird reason though, three young students board my evening bus at one stop near a school. Two boys, one girl - wholly unremarkable, they exude the standard expression of teenager-self-discovery-through-nonconformity that is nearly universal in its application: baggy sweatshirts, saggy bookbags hanging off one shoulder (somebody should really tell them that messes up their backs), and faces that look like they are suspended in that magical place between sleep, boredom, and calculus.
These three all head for the back of the bus by instinct, which (if the patches of graffiti are any indicator) is where all the bad kids ride. But they don't talk to each other, and none of them make any effort to sit beside another one. So they are obviously not friends, and have only been drawn together into this common time and place by the aggregating funnel of the bus stop.
I wonder what it is that caused these three to be at school together so long after the school day ended... and then I remember detention. Do they still do that nowadays?
There's his stop.
The girl is holding an opened orange jumbo freezie. Looking more closely, I now see that she's wearing athletic shorts, and her long brown hair has been pulled into a quick ponytail. So perhaps she wasn't in detention, but was out kicking around a soccer ball and is now hydrating.
There's her stop.
There's his stop.
Today for some weird reason though, three young students board my evening bus at one stop near a school. Two boys, one girl - wholly unremarkable, they exude the standard expression of teenager-self-discovery-through-nonconformity that is nearly universal in its application: baggy sweatshirts, saggy bookbags hanging off one shoulder (somebody should really tell them that messes up their backs), and faces that look like they are suspended in that magical place between sleep, boredom, and calculus.
These three all head for the back of the bus by instinct, which (if the patches of graffiti are any indicator) is where all the bad kids ride. But they don't talk to each other, and none of them make any effort to sit beside another one. So they are obviously not friends, and have only been drawn together into this common time and place by the aggregating funnel of the bus stop.
I wonder what it is that caused these three to be at school together so long after the school day ended... and then I remember detention. Do they still do that nowadays?
There's his stop.
The girl is holding an opened orange jumbo freezie. Looking more closely, I now see that she's wearing athletic shorts, and her long brown hair has been pulled into a quick ponytail. So perhaps she wasn't in detention, but was out kicking around a soccer ball and is now hydrating.
There's her stop.
There's his stop.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tissue
She's middle-aged, slim and petite, and her Celtic complexion and the weariness of the day combine to make her appear somewhat frumpy. I've seen her on the bus many times; I think her uniform is for a security firm.
She approaches an open seat near the back of the bus but doesn't sit down, instead grabbing the support bar above her head to keep her balance as she stands on the swaying bus. The she glances at her raised hand and then down at her jacket pocket. She reaches in with the other hand and pulls out a tissue; I suspect she's about to blow her nose.
Instead, she releases her grip on the bar, puts the tissue flat in her hand, and grabs the bar again - hand now safe from the lingering remnants of whoever last touched that spot. She looks somewhat longingly at the empty seat next to her, but a hint of disdain for public germs is in her visage as she continues to stand.
Me, I'm seated comfortably and probably touched about five support bars on this bus without a second thought. But I can't help but wonder from where exactly I picked up the cold bug I'm currently fighting.
There's her stop.
She approaches an open seat near the back of the bus but doesn't sit down, instead grabbing the support bar above her head to keep her balance as she stands on the swaying bus. The she glances at her raised hand and then down at her jacket pocket. She reaches in with the other hand and pulls out a tissue; I suspect she's about to blow her nose.
Instead, she releases her grip on the bar, puts the tissue flat in her hand, and grabs the bar again - hand now safe from the lingering remnants of whoever last touched that spot. She looks somewhat longingly at the empty seat next to her, but a hint of disdain for public germs is in her visage as she continues to stand.
Me, I'm seated comfortably and probably touched about five support bars on this bus without a second thought. But I can't help but wonder from where exactly I picked up the cold bug I'm currently fighting.
There's her stop.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Runner
This story happens off the bus, just across the street.
An older man, probably in his late 50s, is jogging. He's obviously kept himself in good shape, which is why he doesn't look bad in his black spandex shorts and shirt. Music is piping through his headphones, and because he has reached a corner with a DONT WALK sign flashing (what is a dont, anyway, and how does it walk?) he is jogging on the spot in time with the music.
He adds an unexpected flourish to the music by flailing his arms wildly, still on beat, for a few bars, and then scratches his lightly-haired scalp for another few bars. I've seldom seen anything more unusual that this in my bus-gazing. Sometimes younger folk will involve themselves in their music to such an extent as to be classified as "dancing to silent music in public." This old guy, however, does not only that, but he dances like a white guy.
Even worse, he suddenly whips around and drops to the ground in what looks like a stretch but could also be a sprinter's launch position - and he's aiming right in front of the bus. If he really launches like it looks he may be intending to, he's going to get run over.
Fortunately the light doesn't change for him, as my bus pulls away and he is obscured from sight.
My stop is still several blocks ahead.
An older man, probably in his late 50s, is jogging. He's obviously kept himself in good shape, which is why he doesn't look bad in his black spandex shorts and shirt. Music is piping through his headphones, and because he has reached a corner with a DONT WALK sign flashing (what is a dont, anyway, and how does it walk?) he is jogging on the spot in time with the music.
He adds an unexpected flourish to the music by flailing his arms wildly, still on beat, for a few bars, and then scratches his lightly-haired scalp for another few bars. I've seldom seen anything more unusual that this in my bus-gazing. Sometimes younger folk will involve themselves in their music to such an extent as to be classified as "dancing to silent music in public." This old guy, however, does not only that, but he dances like a white guy.
Even worse, he suddenly whips around and drops to the ground in what looks like a stretch but could also be a sprinter's launch position - and he's aiming right in front of the bus. If he really launches like it looks he may be intending to, he's going to get run over.
Fortunately the light doesn't change for him, as my bus pulls away and he is obscured from sight.
My stop is still several blocks ahead.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Excuse Me
Early 30's white male. He's wearing a white ball cap, glasses, a grey jacket and grey pants. He either neglected to shave or is one of those guys who gets a legitimate 5:00 shadow. But he exudes a general lack of self-confidence. His slightly slumped posture, the shifty way he looks at the people around him... and something is obviously gnawing at him.
He's holding a pamphlet, which he has folded vertically and unfolded so many times that it now has a natural bend to it which prevents me from seeing the whole title. The two words I can make out are "Tips" and "Guard". Martial arts, or a military recruitment pamphlet perhaps?
His cell phone rings and he fishes it out of his pocket. I can't make out much of what he's saying over the roar of the bus engine, but the conversation gradually increases in pitch and tone. I can hear him say, quite often, "Excuse me," as the other party continues to interrupt him. "OK, wait, excuse me, I'm talking..." "Excuse me, no, that's not the way it is." He also keeps referring to "she."
"Excuse me, no, no, she is completely misleading you. You have to tell her..."
His free hand starts to pick up on his emotion and he uses it to gesture, which allows me to read the whole title on the pamphlet: "Tips for parents and guardians." There is more, but it's too fine of a print for me to make out from where I'm seated. Custody battle, perhaps?
His seat, up until now, has been his alone, but as the bus fills a dishevelled mid 50's man, with long, greying but still blonde hair, a moustache, dark glasses, leather jacket, and a leather biker's cap sits beside him. The younger man stops talking with his hand, but the "Excuse me" interjections still sputter forth. If he has confidence issues, he is obviously taking some assertiveness lessons. Eventually the conversation tones down and he ends the call, glancing nervously at the biker-type once the phone is back in his pocket.
There's my stop.
.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Poncho
As I board my morning bus, it's crowded. I stand in the centre aisle for several minutes, and then a seat opens up when a lady gets up to disembark.
I sit down. My seatmate is an older white man with the tan of a construction worker. He's wearing a Mexican-style poncho under a large leather jacket. His head is slumped forward; he's sleeping. Fit a sombrero on his head and he'd fit the picture of a siesta, except that it's before 8:00 AM.
The bus rumbles on for some time, and we reach downtown. A whole herd of passengers gets off at a major stop at a red light, but Señor Poncho is still sleeping. Suddenly he starts, glances around him, and jumps up. "Excuse me," he blurts, and I quickly slide out of the way as he bolts for the rear exit. But the driver has already closed the door and deactivated whatever switch passengers can use to open it themselves. "Back door please!" Poncho calls out as the bus starts to pull away. The driver either ignores him or doesn't hear him at all.
"Or not," he adds, under his breath, pulling the stop cord and waiting as the bus injects itself another block deeper into downtown.
There's his stop. Not the one he wanted, mind you.
I sit down. My seatmate is an older white man with the tan of a construction worker. He's wearing a Mexican-style poncho under a large leather jacket. His head is slumped forward; he's sleeping. Fit a sombrero on his head and he'd fit the picture of a siesta, except that it's before 8:00 AM.
The bus rumbles on for some time, and we reach downtown. A whole herd of passengers gets off at a major stop at a red light, but Señor Poncho is still sleeping. Suddenly he starts, glances around him, and jumps up. "Excuse me," he blurts, and I quickly slide out of the way as he bolts for the rear exit. But the driver has already closed the door and deactivated whatever switch passengers can use to open it themselves. "Back door please!" Poncho calls out as the bus starts to pull away. The driver either ignores him or doesn't hear him at all.
"Or not," he adds, under his breath, pulling the stop cord and waiting as the bus injects itself another block deeper into downtown.
There's his stop. Not the one he wanted, mind you.
New Stroller
I am so accustomed to seeing young aboriginal families board the bus with a kid in a stroller that when I see this particular family as the bus approaches the stop at which they're waiting, I fully expect to see them lift it onto the bus and take the traditional seat up front where there's room for a stroller.
But they don't. They hardly seem to notice the bus is there as the other people around them board.
The wife and young daughter, perhaps 3 years old, are standing, watching, as dad sits on the bench with a large unfolded sheet of paper in his lap. It's then I realize that he is assembling a new stroller; I see the opened box propped up against the bench, and the partially assembled unit laying on the ground. The rest of the bench is strewn with various little parts; his task is to discern how they fit onto the unit itself.
Mom and kid don't know how to help him, and he's clearly in over his head. I'm familiar with the sensation: assembling a complex device using instructions written, translated, and illustrated by a one-eyed old man in China. I silently wish him luck as the bus pulls away.
There goes their stop.
But they don't. They hardly seem to notice the bus is there as the other people around them board.
The wife and young daughter, perhaps 3 years old, are standing, watching, as dad sits on the bench with a large unfolded sheet of paper in his lap. It's then I realize that he is assembling a new stroller; I see the opened box propped up against the bench, and the partially assembled unit laying on the ground. The rest of the bench is strewn with various little parts; his task is to discern how they fit onto the unit itself.
Mom and kid don't know how to help him, and he's clearly in over his head. I'm familiar with the sensation: assembling a complex device using instructions written, translated, and illustrated by a one-eyed old man in China. I silently wish him luck as the bus pulls away.
There goes their stop.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Overheard
I have no physical description of my subjects today; other than that there were two young aboriginal men, sitting directly behind me. Obviously friends, they were chatting up a storm. I found their conversation to be full of the deep, raw, diverse richness of human experience, and am reproducing it here to the best of my recollection.
They will be known as "Left" and "Right" to indicate on which side of the seat they sat.
I presume their discussion began with Left saying he had been awarded a moderate amount of American cash.
They say nothing for a few moments.
There's my stop.
So much left unsaid... imagine the stories behind all those glimpses into Right's life.
.
They will be known as "Left" and "Right" to indicate on which side of the seat they sat.
I presume their discussion began with Left saying he had been awarded a moderate amount of American cash.
Left: What's the exchange rate anyway? I'm probably going to spend it all.
Right: Just be careful who you tell about it. Some people will become your friends just to get at the money.
Left: I wish I had an account, because then I'd put half of it in there and just leave it so I don't spend it all.
Right: Whatever you do, don't buy a bunch of clothes or stuff like that. Get an X-Box 360, or a PS3. That would rock.
Left: You know that guy, that trucker guy? He makes a ton of money. He's 20 something, and still a virgin. Says he's waiting until he's married.
Right: Mr. Peters?
Left: Yeah. He's an all right guy.
They say nothing for a few moments.
Left: He must be in his 30s by now. I can't believe he's still a virgin. So I've got to get my IDs updated, and I need two visas. My social insurance and health card should be fine.
Right: Some places don't accept it.
Left: No, most places accept it. In Manitoba, anyway. Outside of Manitoba they don't. Man, I hope it doesn't rain tomorrow.
Right: Or today. Jenny has cable, I should go over there and look at the TV to find the forecast.
Left: I hope she doesn't put my stuff in the hallway. It'll get ripped off for sure. What did she say when I passed the phone back to you?
Right: Oh, not much. She just yelled a bit.
Left: She probably won't put my stuff in the hall. It's all packed in bags and just inside the apartment door. You know, she threw a glass ashtray at me, eh?
Right: Wow. She could go to jail for that.
Left: So would I then though. But if I can keep my nose clean until the trial in January, then I'll be fine. It shouldn't be too hard to pay off a $280 fine. I think I'll put $100 on it right away. Where do I do that?
Right: At the law courts, I think.
Left: [gesturing out the window] That used to be my hospital, where I went for dialysis.
Right: Really?
Left: Yeah. Does the bus have the heat turned on?
Right: [unintelligible]
Left: You know what, I should have taken a leak before I left your house, man.
Right: I did.
Left: I know, it's like crazy, man. I really gotta go.
There's my stop.
So much left unsaid... imagine the stories behind all those glimpses into Right's life.
.
Chivalry
My morning bus is mostly empty. But a horde of elementary students is waiting at the upcoming stop, and they pour into the bus like warm honey over hot toast. One of the first ones, a young black boy dressed gansta style, plods quickly to the back of the bus and sits widely in a two seater. He crosses his arms and projects an air of "don't dare try to sit with me" all around him. Such anger; it's very sad to behold.
A pair of Filipino girls is next. Observing that there is technically room in his seat for one of them but also sensing his wall, one comments to the other, "That boy's taking up the whole seat." They stand awkwardly at the rear exit, not sure where else to sit as the bus has filled with students by now.
I glance over at him to see if he overheard her comment, hoping that he'll show some manners and make room. He meets my gaze, which indicates to me that he knows why I'm looking at him, but the wall remains in place. He even seems to add a psychic cannonball barrage in my direction for daring to make eye contact with him. Not sure what else my eye contact can contribute to the silent discussion, I break and let it pass.
He can't be more than ten years old. How does a child develop such a scornful attitude, such prolific disdain? What kind of parents could just sit back and let it happen? I see this type of behaviour all too often in the youth on the bus. How is society going to cope with this upcoming generation of first class jerks?
In retrospect, I wonder if it would have been inspirational to him if I had given up my seat for the young ladies. Hmm.
A pair of Filipino girls is next. Observing that there is technically room in his seat for one of them but also sensing his wall, one comments to the other, "That boy's taking up the whole seat." They stand awkwardly at the rear exit, not sure where else to sit as the bus has filled with students by now.
I glance over at him to see if he overheard her comment, hoping that he'll show some manners and make room. He meets my gaze, which indicates to me that he knows why I'm looking at him, but the wall remains in place. He even seems to add a psychic cannonball barrage in my direction for daring to make eye contact with him. Not sure what else my eye contact can contribute to the silent discussion, I break and let it pass.
He can't be more than ten years old. How does a child develop such a scornful attitude, such prolific disdain? What kind of parents could just sit back and let it happen? I see this type of behaviour all too often in the youth on the bus. How is society going to cope with this upcoming generation of first class jerks?
In retrospect, I wonder if it would have been inspirational to him if I had given up my seat for the young ladies. Hmm.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Dreads
She's an Asian girl, which for me makes guessing her age very difficult.
Back in college I knew two Korean sisters. Once they playfully dared me to guess their ages, and I put them about 10 years younger than they were. They giggled, and I was terribly embarrassed.
So I won't even try to guess this girl's age. But she's young - still in school, apparently, based on what she's carrying - a couple of textbooks on being a dental assistant. She's also got a bag, slung over her shoulder, full of more books.
She's got a bandage on the tip of her finger; I can't help but wonder if she cut it on some poor kid's tooth.
I catch myself meditating on the mystery of youth and education: this young lady is overflowing with potential knowledge and is just on the cusp of real life. Post-secondary education is like that moment when you've just stepped out of your house into the pouring rain and you're struggling to open your new umbrella. But it's still kinda stuck together from being pressed in on itself for months as it sat in a rail container on a boat from China and then in a warehouse and then in a distribution centre and finally on a store shelf... while it's technically 'ready for use,' it's not really ready for use the first time you use it.
There's her stop.
Not being really satisfied with the story she gave me, I look for somebody else.
As soon as he boards the bus I know he's the one. A tall, somewhat intimidating looking mid-30's white man, his hair hangs in dreadlocks about a foot long. He's got a trim moustache and a beard with a ponytail. Yes, the beard has a ponytail. I can't think of another way to describe it. His hair is probably red when it's clean, but it appears brown in its current state.
His glasses are the most remarkable feature: instead of making his eyes look bigger, these are small, thick-rimmed frames with lenses about an inch wide and half an inch high, and they make his eyes look about half their normal size. It's an eerily freaky addendum to his already bizarre appearance.
He heads straight for where the future dental assistant was sitting, and I say to myself, "Please sit there, please sit there..." but he does something rather unexpected. He goes right for where she was sitting - an empty two-seater - but doesn't sit down. He stands right beside a perfectly good empty bench.
He's fairly close to me, so I count the pockets on his khaki cargo pants: sixteen. His shirt is a long, brown corduroy, and he's got a brown trench coat over it all. He seems rather mopey; a bitter soul who has concluded that he can never know joy.
He stands there for the duration of my bus ride, nearly perfectly obstructing my view of the whole bus, and I wonder if he has found me out and dressed so distinctly just so that he would appear odd enough to be noticed and end up on my blog. My mind starts to wander with this idea, and I wonder if he's stalking me.
Nah.
There's my stop. I walk past him as I disembark. My next bus comes within a few minutes and I hop on. My new bus echoes the path of my previous one for a few blocks, and who should board my bus a few stops later but Mr. Dreadlocks. He plods past me, his cloud of gloom wafting behind him.
There's my final stop. He has taken up his standing position again, right beside the rear door. I politely step around him and exit. A few paces later, I happen to look behind me.
He's there.
I quicken my pace for half a block and purposely do not head straight for home. Instead I act as if I'm trying to cross the street, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. He, too, is looking like he wants to cross the street.
At the last second I spin around and cut through a narrow parking lot. I'm walking faster now, and starting to sweat. I dare a glance behind me, expecting to see him come running at me.
He's there. Running straight towards me, and shouting obscenities. His dreads are whipping side to side as he speeds up, and his tiny little eyes are fixed on me. My heart leaps into my throat, and I burst into a panicked run, wishing that I were in better shape - my side starts to cramp within 30 seconds. He's catching up, and suddenly we're on the ground as he tackles me, a jumble of sweaty, profane, hate...
OK, that last paragraph wasn't true.
But it definitely wasn't boring.
Back in college I knew two Korean sisters. Once they playfully dared me to guess their ages, and I put them about 10 years younger than they were. They giggled, and I was terribly embarrassed.
So I won't even try to guess this girl's age. But she's young - still in school, apparently, based on what she's carrying - a couple of textbooks on being a dental assistant. She's also got a bag, slung over her shoulder, full of more books.
She's got a bandage on the tip of her finger; I can't help but wonder if she cut it on some poor kid's tooth.
I catch myself meditating on the mystery of youth and education: this young lady is overflowing with potential knowledge and is just on the cusp of real life. Post-secondary education is like that moment when you've just stepped out of your house into the pouring rain and you're struggling to open your new umbrella. But it's still kinda stuck together from being pressed in on itself for months as it sat in a rail container on a boat from China and then in a warehouse and then in a distribution centre and finally on a store shelf... while it's technically 'ready for use,' it's not really ready for use the first time you use it.
There's her stop.
Not being really satisfied with the story she gave me, I look for somebody else.
As soon as he boards the bus I know he's the one. A tall, somewhat intimidating looking mid-30's white man, his hair hangs in dreadlocks about a foot long. He's got a trim moustache and a beard with a ponytail. Yes, the beard has a ponytail. I can't think of another way to describe it. His hair is probably red when it's clean, but it appears brown in its current state.
His glasses are the most remarkable feature: instead of making his eyes look bigger, these are small, thick-rimmed frames with lenses about an inch wide and half an inch high, and they make his eyes look about half their normal size. It's an eerily freaky addendum to his already bizarre appearance.
He heads straight for where the future dental assistant was sitting, and I say to myself, "Please sit there, please sit there..." but he does something rather unexpected. He goes right for where she was sitting - an empty two-seater - but doesn't sit down. He stands right beside a perfectly good empty bench.
He's fairly close to me, so I count the pockets on his khaki cargo pants: sixteen. His shirt is a long, brown corduroy, and he's got a brown trench coat over it all. He seems rather mopey; a bitter soul who has concluded that he can never know joy.
He stands there for the duration of my bus ride, nearly perfectly obstructing my view of the whole bus, and I wonder if he has found me out and dressed so distinctly just so that he would appear odd enough to be noticed and end up on my blog. My mind starts to wander with this idea, and I wonder if he's stalking me.
Nah.
There's my stop. I walk past him as I disembark. My next bus comes within a few minutes and I hop on. My new bus echoes the path of my previous one for a few blocks, and who should board my bus a few stops later but Mr. Dreadlocks. He plods past me, his cloud of gloom wafting behind him.
There's my final stop. He has taken up his standing position again, right beside the rear door. I politely step around him and exit. A few paces later, I happen to look behind me.
He's there.
I quicken my pace for half a block and purposely do not head straight for home. Instead I act as if I'm trying to cross the street, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. He, too, is looking like he wants to cross the street.
At the last second I spin around and cut through a narrow parking lot. I'm walking faster now, and starting to sweat. I dare a glance behind me, expecting to see him come running at me.
He's there. Running straight towards me, and shouting obscenities. His dreads are whipping side to side as he speeds up, and his tiny little eyes are fixed on me. My heart leaps into my throat, and I burst into a panicked run, wishing that I were in better shape - my side starts to cramp within 30 seconds. He's catching up, and suddenly we're on the ground as he tackles me, a jumble of sweaty, profane, hate...
OK, that last paragraph wasn't true.
But it definitely wasn't boring.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
American Traveler
I don't know if he's actually an American, but his overnight bag bears that label.
He's probably in his early 50's, and since he's on the bus that comes from the airport, I'm betting he's returning from a business trip. He's wearing brown shoes, tan dress pants, a tweed sport coat complete with leather patches on the elbows, a checkered blue collared shirt, but no tie - it's casual Friday, after all.
He's wholly unremarkable. With my dark sunglasses I'm able to point my head in a different direction and yet still observe him. Occasionally he scratches his head, or crosses his arms. At one point he even twiddles his thumbs. His shifts around in his seat a bit, and crosses his arms.
I stifle a yawn.
Every time the bus lurches to a stop he puts a hand on his overnight bag, which is standing upright on the floor beside his seat, to keep it from rocketing to the front of the bus.
Well, that's something, at least.
There's my stop. I'm fortunate with my connection today; my next bus pulls up right behind this one as I disembark. I climb on the new bus. The two buses follow the same route through downtown Winnipeg for a few blocks, so I can see my previous bus right in front of me.
His bus lurches to a stop again. I see him get off, leather patches and all. His American Traveler overnight bag has one of those retractable handles; he extends it and pulls the bag along behind him like it's a Red Flyer and he's four years old again.
By golly, was he boring.
He's probably in his early 50's, and since he's on the bus that comes from the airport, I'm betting he's returning from a business trip. He's wearing brown shoes, tan dress pants, a tweed sport coat complete with leather patches on the elbows, a checkered blue collared shirt, but no tie - it's casual Friday, after all.
He's wholly unremarkable. With my dark sunglasses I'm able to point my head in a different direction and yet still observe him. Occasionally he scratches his head, or crosses his arms. At one point he even twiddles his thumbs. His shifts around in his seat a bit, and crosses his arms.
I stifle a yawn.
Every time the bus lurches to a stop he puts a hand on his overnight bag, which is standing upright on the floor beside his seat, to keep it from rocketing to the front of the bus.
Well, that's something, at least.
There's my stop. I'm fortunate with my connection today; my next bus pulls up right behind this one as I disembark. I climb on the new bus. The two buses follow the same route through downtown Winnipeg for a few blocks, so I can see my previous bus right in front of me.
His bus lurches to a stop again. I see him get off, leather patches and all. His American Traveler overnight bag has one of those retractable handles; he extends it and pulls the bag along behind him like it's a Red Flyer and he's four years old again.
By golly, was he boring.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Zambia
My morning bus is unusually full. As usual, I'm one of the last people to earn a seat partner, and much to my surprise, the person who opts to sit with me is a cute redhead in her early 20s. She's a very trendy dresser: a taupe wool overcoat, long purple silk scarf, and those thick-rimmed glasses that add about 40% to a person's cool factor.
In my bachelor days, I always had a thing for redheads. But the good Lord saw fit to hook me up with a blonde, and I've never looked back. Still, redheads stir me up in a manner over which I have little control.
So it is with concerted effort that I try to ignore her cuteness and her youth. But the discipline I'm forming within myself via this blog - to observe, to notice, to comment - kicks in and I can't help but saying to her, as more and more people board the bus until it's standing room only, "This must be what sardines feel like."
"What?" she asks, focusing her attention on me.
"This must be what sardines feel like," I repeat.
"Oh, this isn't that bad," she responds. "When I was in Zambia last year they'd fit way more people on."
"Really?" I say.
"Yep. This seat we're in would have three or four people in it, and the people standing would be pressed much more tightly than that."
"Wow. They must have a completely different understanding of personal body space than we do."
She nods. "They sure do."
"So what took you to Zambia?" I inquire.
"Oh, I did my internship in an office for a group supporting HIV/AIDS research and treatment. Just administrative stuff, nothing glorious," she replies. "I'd love to go back and work in development though, which is completely different from what I did. The way they live there is so drastically different from us. What we think is normal and important in life doesn't mean a thing to them."
"Yeah," I say. "When I was younger I read a LOT of comic books, and one day I felt convicted that I was spending $30 a month on Superman, when I could be sponsoring a child for the same amount. So I signed up for one in Burundi, and another a few years later in a refugee camp in Rwanda. The letters I get from them indicate that their society moves at a different pace and has completely different priorities. I'm definitely not rich by our society's standards, but they would look at my life and think I'm the wealthiest man they'd ever seen."
She nods. "And they don't consider themselves poor. The last thing the West needs to be doing is going in and telling them how to live, although they would certainly benefit from things like clean water." She turns the discussion on to me. "So what do you do?"
"I work in customer relations at a moving company. I'm amazed at how people get up in arms over the slightest little damage like a nick or a rub on their furniture and insist the world grinds to a halt until it's repaired. People can be so hedonistic. It drives me batty sometimes."
"Yeah. You typically don't find that attitude among the general population in Zambia, although they do have their wealthy class which is just as realistic as we are. So which moving company do you work at?"
"That one," I saw, gesturing out the window, just ahead.
There's my stop.
In my bachelor days, I always had a thing for redheads. But the good Lord saw fit to hook me up with a blonde, and I've never looked back. Still, redheads stir me up in a manner over which I have little control.
So it is with concerted effort that I try to ignore her cuteness and her youth. But the discipline I'm forming within myself via this blog - to observe, to notice, to comment - kicks in and I can't help but saying to her, as more and more people board the bus until it's standing room only, "This must be what sardines feel like."
"What?" she asks, focusing her attention on me.
"This must be what sardines feel like," I repeat.
"Oh, this isn't that bad," she responds. "When I was in Zambia last year they'd fit way more people on."
"Really?" I say.
"Yep. This seat we're in would have three or four people in it, and the people standing would be pressed much more tightly than that."
"Wow. They must have a completely different understanding of personal body space than we do."
She nods. "They sure do."
"So what took you to Zambia?" I inquire.
"Oh, I did my internship in an office for a group supporting HIV/AIDS research and treatment. Just administrative stuff, nothing glorious," she replies. "I'd love to go back and work in development though, which is completely different from what I did. The way they live there is so drastically different from us. What we think is normal and important in life doesn't mean a thing to them."
"Yeah," I say. "When I was younger I read a LOT of comic books, and one day I felt convicted that I was spending $30 a month on Superman, when I could be sponsoring a child for the same amount. So I signed up for one in Burundi, and another a few years later in a refugee camp in Rwanda. The letters I get from them indicate that their society moves at a different pace and has completely different priorities. I'm definitely not rich by our society's standards, but they would look at my life and think I'm the wealthiest man they'd ever seen."
She nods. "And they don't consider themselves poor. The last thing the West needs to be doing is going in and telling them how to live, although they would certainly benefit from things like clean water." She turns the discussion on to me. "So what do you do?"
"I work in customer relations at a moving company. I'm amazed at how people get up in arms over the slightest little damage like a nick or a rub on their furniture and insist the world grinds to a halt until it's repaired. People can be so hedonistic. It drives me batty sometimes."
"Yeah. You typically don't find that attitude among the general population in Zambia, although they do have their wealthy class which is just as realistic as we are. So which moving company do you work at?"
"That one," I saw, gesturing out the window, just ahead.
There's my stop.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Owwwww
From the instant I see his face as he hauls himself aboard the bus during the evening rush home, I know he's my subject for today's post.
A distinctly large man, he is dressed like an office professional - tan dress pants, shirt, tie, and suspenders to give him the help a belt would not be able to provide. Everything matches perfectly; even the auburn colour of his neatly cut hair seems as if it had been coordinated to blend in with the outfit.
But he's in significant pain as he heads to the first available two seats he can see, opposite the rear doors. Wincing with every step, his face is drawn back as he breathes with short, shallow bursts. He collapses into the seats (both of them) but still retains his tension. His shoulders are hunched, and his hand lightly grips the support bar beside him.
It seems like more than just physical pain. He is bearing the weight of his workday and the stresses of a job that is wringing the life out of him. I remember what that's like, and feel a surge of sympathy for him.
He keeps his gaze down. Whatever his pain is, it includes a headache - he lifts his free hand and massages his temples, eyes closed ever so loosely as he tries to push away the throbbing.
As the bus rumbles along, he seems to be shunting the full force of his will into its continued motion. The delay of each stop to pick up or drop off passengers taunts him. Once he gets home, I suspect that he'll down a bunch of ibuprofen and recline on his sofa with a sigh of relief. The comfort of home will offer more healing balm than the medicine.
Until that moment though, every ticking second is raging agony.
There's my stop. Sorry, buddy.
A distinctly large man, he is dressed like an office professional - tan dress pants, shirt, tie, and suspenders to give him the help a belt would not be able to provide. Everything matches perfectly; even the auburn colour of his neatly cut hair seems as if it had been coordinated to blend in with the outfit.
But he's in significant pain as he heads to the first available two seats he can see, opposite the rear doors. Wincing with every step, his face is drawn back as he breathes with short, shallow bursts. He collapses into the seats (both of them) but still retains his tension. His shoulders are hunched, and his hand lightly grips the support bar beside him.
It seems like more than just physical pain. He is bearing the weight of his workday and the stresses of a job that is wringing the life out of him. I remember what that's like, and feel a surge of sympathy for him.
He keeps his gaze down. Whatever his pain is, it includes a headache - he lifts his free hand and massages his temples, eyes closed ever so loosely as he tries to push away the throbbing.
As the bus rumbles along, he seems to be shunting the full force of his will into its continued motion. The delay of each stop to pick up or drop off passengers taunts him. Once he gets home, I suspect that he'll down a bunch of ibuprofen and recline on his sofa with a sigh of relief. The comfort of home will offer more healing balm than the medicine.
Until that moment though, every ticking second is raging agony.
There's my stop. Sorry, buddy.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
The Ledger
I've seen him on the bus several times: an older gentleman, thin but not frail, of Indian (as in India) descent. Balding, he usually wears dress pants, a shirt and tie, a sweater vest, and a leather jacket.
On his lap he holds a notebook of sorts, or what appears to be something like a ledger. It has about 12 columns and perhaps 60 rows, per page. In each tiny cell, he is writing something small and illegible, over and over, until he fills up the page, then moves on to the next page.
I spot him right away as I board the bus today, and my curiosity gets the better of me. I sit directly behind him, about halfway down the bus. After a few minutes, I tap him on the shoulder and inquire if he'd mind if I ask him what he's writing.
With something like delight and relief that somebody has taken an interest in him, he puts the pen down and turns around to explain. "I am writing the name of my god. It is an act of worship."
I inquire further. "You're from India?" He confirms this. "Hinduism has several gods, does it not?"
"Oh, yes. I am writing the name of Rama, the chief of our gods." He shows me the cover of the ledger. "This type of faith is a very small minority in India. Perhaps only one in a thousand Indians believe and worship as I do. But still enough to sustain demand for publishing this book."
"The writing of the same name, over and over, must facilitate meditation," I offer.
He smiles. "Well, it is sometimes difficult to concentrate as I write," he concedes. "The pressures of my day, my mind wanders, it is hard to focus on my worship."
"I know what you mean," I reply. "As a Catholic, I pray the rosary. The prayer beads are repetitious, and we are to focus on specific mysteries from the life of Christ as we pray. But my mind does wander and I easily lose my focus too."
"Yes, yes," he agrees, and is silent.
"That is very interesting. I'll let you get back to it." He nods his thanks and resumes his writing-worship.
A noisy Indian (as in aboriginal) family is at the front of the bus; father, mother, four young kids, and an obvious baby in the belly. The eldest child is being a typical seven year old - bouncing around, unnecessarily fussing with the baby in the stroller, but not doing anything too bizarre. At least, not bizarre in my view - my own family is eerily identical in makeup to this one.
Suddenly the mother reveals just how loudly she can yell. "YOU'RE EMBARRASSING ME ON THE BUS!" she bellows at the child. "SIT DOWN!" Sulkily, the child sits, pouting.
I think to myself, "No lady, if anybody embarrassed you just then, it was you."
The Indian (as in India) man turns around to me to make a similar wisecrack. Our discussion tacks into the realms of child rearing, discipline, and the joys of parenting. His sole daughter is 24; he has no grandchildren. But I think he'd be a pretty fun grandpa, should the day ever arrive.
There's my stop.
On his lap he holds a notebook of sorts, or what appears to be something like a ledger. It has about 12 columns and perhaps 60 rows, per page. In each tiny cell, he is writing something small and illegible, over and over, until he fills up the page, then moves on to the next page.
I spot him right away as I board the bus today, and my curiosity gets the better of me. I sit directly behind him, about halfway down the bus. After a few minutes, I tap him on the shoulder and inquire if he'd mind if I ask him what he's writing.
With something like delight and relief that somebody has taken an interest in him, he puts the pen down and turns around to explain. "I am writing the name of my god. It is an act of worship."
I inquire further. "You're from India?" He confirms this. "Hinduism has several gods, does it not?"
"Oh, yes. I am writing the name of Rama, the chief of our gods." He shows me the cover of the ledger. "This type of faith is a very small minority in India. Perhaps only one in a thousand Indians believe and worship as I do. But still enough to sustain demand for publishing this book."
"The writing of the same name, over and over, must facilitate meditation," I offer.
He smiles. "Well, it is sometimes difficult to concentrate as I write," he concedes. "The pressures of my day, my mind wanders, it is hard to focus on my worship."
"I know what you mean," I reply. "As a Catholic, I pray the rosary. The prayer beads are repetitious, and we are to focus on specific mysteries from the life of Christ as we pray. But my mind does wander and I easily lose my focus too."
"Yes, yes," he agrees, and is silent.
"That is very interesting. I'll let you get back to it." He nods his thanks and resumes his writing-worship.
A noisy Indian (as in aboriginal) family is at the front of the bus; father, mother, four young kids, and an obvious baby in the belly. The eldest child is being a typical seven year old - bouncing around, unnecessarily fussing with the baby in the stroller, but not doing anything too bizarre. At least, not bizarre in my view - my own family is eerily identical in makeup to this one.
Suddenly the mother reveals just how loudly she can yell. "YOU'RE EMBARRASSING ME ON THE BUS!" she bellows at the child. "SIT DOWN!" Sulkily, the child sits, pouting.
I think to myself, "No lady, if anybody embarrassed you just then, it was you."
The Indian (as in India) man turns around to me to make a similar wisecrack. Our discussion tacks into the realms of child rearing, discipline, and the joys of parenting. His sole daughter is 24; he has no grandchildren. But I think he'd be a pretty fun grandpa, should the day ever arrive.
There's my stop.
Almost Missed It
He's in his early-20s, trim but with a bit of acne still left over from his teenage years.
He is seated alone, although the bus is filling up quickly. I've previously referenced how I am usually the last person to earn a seat-mate on the bus. Apparently this applies to any young white male.
A blue MEC bag rests on his lap, and he has pulled out a copy of Shakespeare's King Lear and is reading intently. As much as he's young, his wardrobe is hip without being contrived, and he sports an engineer's ring on his left hand. Why he "bethought to take the basest and most poorest shape that ever penury, in contempt of man, brought near to beast" by riding the bus is beyond me. Perhaps, like me, he merely enjoys the ambiance, or the lack of commuter stress, or the fuel savings... or the chance to catch up on his reading.
His cell phone rings. Seeming slightly annoyed, he leans over and fishes it out of his pocket to answer it. Sticking a finger in the book to hold his place, he raises the book to his opposite ear to block out some of the noise on the bus so he can hear his caller.
The call ends and he puts the phone away and resumes reading. He is so focused, so devoted to the script... but it is Shakespeare, after all. If you don't stay completely zoned in, you'll soon be without a clue as to what is happening to the dear, sad protagonist. The bus rumbles merrily along as he devours the rich text.
The bus stops to pick up new passengers. As they board the bus and the front door closes, he looks up and around, then slaps the book shut with a start and bolts for the back door.
There's his stop.
He almost missed it.
.
He is seated alone, although the bus is filling up quickly. I've previously referenced how I am usually the last person to earn a seat-mate on the bus. Apparently this applies to any young white male.
A blue MEC bag rests on his lap, and he has pulled out a copy of Shakespeare's King Lear and is reading intently. As much as he's young, his wardrobe is hip without being contrived, and he sports an engineer's ring on his left hand. Why he "bethought to take the basest and most poorest shape that ever penury, in contempt of man, brought near to beast" by riding the bus is beyond me. Perhaps, like me, he merely enjoys the ambiance, or the lack of commuter stress, or the fuel savings... or the chance to catch up on his reading.
His cell phone rings. Seeming slightly annoyed, he leans over and fishes it out of his pocket to answer it. Sticking a finger in the book to hold his place, he raises the book to his opposite ear to block out some of the noise on the bus so he can hear his caller.
The call ends and he puts the phone away and resumes reading. He is so focused, so devoted to the script... but it is Shakespeare, after all. If you don't stay completely zoned in, you'll soon be without a clue as to what is happening to the dear, sad protagonist. The bus rumbles merrily along as he devours the rich text.
The bus stops to pick up new passengers. As they board the bus and the front door closes, he looks up and around, then slaps the book shut with a start and bolts for the back door.
There's his stop.
He almost missed it.
.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Shiny Red Button
The mom boards the bus with his little boy in an umbrella stroller. The occupants of the foldable seat at the front of the bus vacate it and lift it up so there's room for her and the stroller to stand out of the way of the rest of the passengers.
She's young - late 20s - and her shirt forgot to button itself up far enough this morning. Her long blonde hair is drawn up into a tight, practical ponytail. The kid is cute, a rambunctious little bundle. As she positions the stroller against the bus wall, he notices the shiny red button which seated passengers can press to signal the bus to stop. He reaches out to push the button, and she nudges the stroller back so he can't reach it. But he leans forward more, fingers just grazing the button. Another nudge, and another stretch - eventually she gives up and positions her leg in between him and the button. Checkmate.
A cell phone chimes. It's hers. She reaches into her back left pocket and pulls it up, examines the call display, and flips it open - a text message. She reads it, smiles, jabs a quick reply and slides the phone back into her pocket.
The phone chimes again. She pulls it out, reads, replies, and puts it back in her pocket again.
A third time, it chimes again. Rolling her eyes, she again reaches it out of her back pocket, reads and replies. This time she simply closes the phone and keeps it in her hand. Her trick works like a charm and the phone doesn't ring again.
Checkmate.
There's her stop.
She's young - late 20s - and her shirt forgot to button itself up far enough this morning. Her long blonde hair is drawn up into a tight, practical ponytail. The kid is cute, a rambunctious little bundle. As she positions the stroller against the bus wall, he notices the shiny red button which seated passengers can press to signal the bus to stop. He reaches out to push the button, and she nudges the stroller back so he can't reach it. But he leans forward more, fingers just grazing the button. Another nudge, and another stretch - eventually she gives up and positions her leg in between him and the button. Checkmate.
A cell phone chimes. It's hers. She reaches into her back left pocket and pulls it up, examines the call display, and flips it open - a text message. She reads it, smiles, jabs a quick reply and slides the phone back into her pocket.
The phone chimes again. She pulls it out, reads, replies, and puts it back in her pocket again.
A third time, it chimes again. Rolling her eyes, she again reaches it out of her back pocket, reads and replies. This time she simply closes the phone and keeps it in her hand. Her trick works like a charm and the phone doesn't ring again.
Checkmate.
There's her stop.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Diet
He's on the slim side of obese. I'd bet he's one of those guys who plays computer games for the entire part of the day that isn't work or sleep. Dressed in very casual business casual, he's likely headed for home, where he has elaborate plans to take his avatar warlock into the Cavern of Perpetual Doom and retrieve the Stone of Wrath, which he will then mount on the Staff of Woe, so that he can summon enough undead warriors and take on Grisnar, the ancient dragon of the Isle of Myopia. Did I mention he's wearing glasses?
On his oversized head he has squeezed a pair of massive headphones that despite their size still don't quite reach across the top of his head to cover his ears properly.
He opens his bag and pulls out a whole-wheat tortilla shell, folded tightly over itself - it is empty. But at least it's folded. He takes cavernous bites and finishes it quickly. Then he pulls a small red apple out of his bag and takes a total of four mouthfuls before he puts the core back into the bag, and pulls out another apple. Four bites later, he's done that one too and pulls out yet another apple and consumes it also, like an industrial eating machine. After that, a pear. And finally he finishes it off with a bottled water.
It seems that somebody has placed Tiny on a diet. I find myself wondering how long he's been on it, and how it has worked for him.
There's his stop.
On his oversized head he has squeezed a pair of massive headphones that despite their size still don't quite reach across the top of his head to cover his ears properly.
He opens his bag and pulls out a whole-wheat tortilla shell, folded tightly over itself - it is empty. But at least it's folded. He takes cavernous bites and finishes it quickly. Then he pulls a small red apple out of his bag and takes a total of four mouthfuls before he puts the core back into the bag, and pulls out another apple. Four bites later, he's done that one too and pulls out yet another apple and consumes it also, like an industrial eating machine. After that, a pear. And finally he finishes it off with a bottled water.
It seems that somebody has placed Tiny on a diet. I find myself wondering how long he's been on it, and how it has worked for him.
There's his stop.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Bap be de Bap Bap
He's tapping the base of his seat, next to me at the extreme back of the bus.
A typical nine-to-fiver, he's dressed in business casual with a bright blue fall coat: mid-forties, with hair at once thinning and too long. He is a combover waiting to happen.
I've no idea from where he got the beat in his head, but he's sharing it with the rest of the bus, or at least those of us near the back, in sporadic, intermittent bursts.
And it's catchy - literally. A young Asian man seated opposite starts tapping his fingers on the bag he's holding in his lap. An old lady boards the bus, and as the bus accelerates with her still standing, she has to compensate her footwork to keep from falling. Her altered steps match the rhythm of the tapping perfectly, making it look like she's dancing (for a 2 second burst).
It almost feels like one of those Coke commercials, or that scene from Enchanted...
...where one person starts with a catchy beat or tune, and the next thing you know you're in a Broadway musical where everybody from all the walks of life you encounter knows his or her part perfectly in the song you're making up as you go along.
But...
There's my stop.
.
A typical nine-to-fiver, he's dressed in business casual with a bright blue fall coat: mid-forties, with hair at once thinning and too long. He is a combover waiting to happen.
I've no idea from where he got the beat in his head, but he's sharing it with the rest of the bus, or at least those of us near the back, in sporadic, intermittent bursts.
And it's catchy - literally. A young Asian man seated opposite starts tapping his fingers on the bag he's holding in his lap. An old lady boards the bus, and as the bus accelerates with her still standing, she has to compensate her footwork to keep from falling. Her altered steps match the rhythm of the tapping perfectly, making it look like she's dancing (for a 2 second burst).
It almost feels like one of those Coke commercials, or that scene from Enchanted...
[WATCH IT!]
...where one person starts with a catchy beat or tune, and the next thing you know you're in a Broadway musical where everybody from all the walks of life you encounter knows his or her part perfectly in the song you're making up as you go along.
But...
There's my stop.
.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Armor Piercing Smile
It's early morning, the first day after the last long weekend of summer. The air is muggy and chilled, and winter has sent an advance scout of wind to confirm that summer is truly over, before it rushes in with all its snowy violence.
An older man boards the bus. His white hair is thinning, his bushy eyebrows and moustache are definitely not thinning, and he wears a scowl as wide as the bus as he skulks into a rear seat.
Just seeing him is enough to make me 7% more grumpy myself. He looks genuinely cheesed off at the world and life in general. He's probably close to or past retirement age, and the logo on his jacket indicates he works for a company which likely has a damn good pension plan. But for some reason he has to keep working, and he's not happy about it.
Then she boards the bus.
Although she's probably 10 years older than me, she is still quite attractive - slim, with long dark hair, high heels, leather jacket: as the expression goes, she is a knockout.
She makes a beeline for the back of the bus and as she passes the old man she tosses him a bright, girlish smile. He sees it.
And suddenly he's a new man: gone is the grump, completely. He has caught her infectious smile, and is even blushing a little bit, like a fifteen year old chess club president who just caught the eye of the star cheerleader and doesn't quite know how to process the sensations.
Even as she continues on past him, several minutes later the afterglow of her smile is still visible on his visage.
There's my stop.
An older man boards the bus. His white hair is thinning, his bushy eyebrows and moustache are definitely not thinning, and he wears a scowl as wide as the bus as he skulks into a rear seat.
Just seeing him is enough to make me 7% more grumpy myself. He looks genuinely cheesed off at the world and life in general. He's probably close to or past retirement age, and the logo on his jacket indicates he works for a company which likely has a damn good pension plan. But for some reason he has to keep working, and he's not happy about it.
Then she boards the bus.
Although she's probably 10 years older than me, she is still quite attractive - slim, with long dark hair, high heels, leather jacket: as the expression goes, she is a knockout.
She makes a beeline for the back of the bus and as she passes the old man she tosses him a bright, girlish smile. He sees it.
And suddenly he's a new man: gone is the grump, completely. He has caught her infectious smile, and is even blushing a little bit, like a fifteen year old chess club president who just caught the eye of the star cheerleader and doesn't quite know how to process the sensations.
Even as she continues on past him, several minutes later the afterglow of her smile is still visible on his visage.
There's my stop.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Double Double
The harder I look for these stories, the easier they are to find. Sometimes I keep looking hard even when one pops up in my face, and I realize several minutes later that it's right there and I can stop looking and start observing.
A rather short and round man boarded the bus a few minutes ago. He's got a black ball cap, dark glasses, and a full-bodied moustache. He's wearing a thin plaid shirt and blue jeans that should have been put in the laundry pile about two days ago but are still on the fringe of acceptable to wear in public.
He sits in the sideways seats halfway down the length of the bus, but it looks somewhat awkward as his feet don't quite touch the floor.
Most remarkably, he's holding two medium Tim Horton's coffees in one of those cardboard drink holders.
I find myself wondering what drives him to go to the trouble of taking two coffees on the bus. Perhaps he'll have one when he gets home, and save the other for the morning. More likely, the second one is for his wife, or a close friend.
It's been a long day for me, and a long week. I gaze anxiously out the front window of the bus and groan inwardly as I see how road construction and the-rush-hour-before-the-last-long-weekend-of-summer is conspiring to keep me on the bus for an inordinately long time.
So I start to do some thinking... there is a 7-11 across the street from the next bus stop. My wife loves unexpected Slurpees. If I get off here and buy her a Slurpee (and also get my September bus pass), I can walk the rest of the way home and lose little time.
Purchases made, I'm almost home before I realize that the generosity of the short round man with two coffees subconsciously inspired me to treat my wife. Thank you, short round man!
There's my house.
A rather short and round man boarded the bus a few minutes ago. He's got a black ball cap, dark glasses, and a full-bodied moustache. He's wearing a thin plaid shirt and blue jeans that should have been put in the laundry pile about two days ago but are still on the fringe of acceptable to wear in public.
He sits in the sideways seats halfway down the length of the bus, but it looks somewhat awkward as his feet don't quite touch the floor.
Most remarkably, he's holding two medium Tim Horton's coffees in one of those cardboard drink holders.
I find myself wondering what drives him to go to the trouble of taking two coffees on the bus. Perhaps he'll have one when he gets home, and save the other for the morning. More likely, the second one is for his wife, or a close friend.
It's been a long day for me, and a long week. I gaze anxiously out the front window of the bus and groan inwardly as I see how road construction and the-rush-hour-before-the-last-long-weekend-of-summer is conspiring to keep me on the bus for an inordinately long time.
So I start to do some thinking... there is a 7-11 across the street from the next bus stop. My wife loves unexpected Slurpees. If I get off here and buy her a Slurpee (and also get my September bus pass), I can walk the rest of the way home and lose little time.
Purchases made, I'm almost home before I realize that the generosity of the short round man with two coffees subconsciously inspired me to treat my wife. Thank you, short round man!
There's my house.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Hard Hat
As blue collar as they come, the two young men board the bus and head for the rear. I'm seated at the extreme back of the bus again.
Paint stains cover their ragged blue jeans and their shirts are dirty. One of them, obviously the older and more experienced one, is still wearing his grey hard hat but removes it as he slumps sideways into an empty two-seat bench. The other sits in the sideways seats directly behind him, and they chat, with the younger one seeming to have more to say. I can't hear exactly what they're saying due to the noise of the bus engine directly behind me, but it's obvious they're not debating Jung vs Freud.
Hard hat man examines his hand for nicks and scratches, and picks at a tiny, gnarled piece of skin loosed in a scrape. He opens his bag and pulls out a chocolate bar, consuming it slowly but in large portions. The other one is holding an unlit cigarette, eagerly anticipating disembarking so he can light it. But he just got on the bus.
As we pass the historic intersection of Portage & Main, I see what I can only presume is a Downtown Biz tour guide in his distinctive red uniform addressing a group of 30 people. He's standing on the flower planters near the concrete pedestrian barrier so everybody can see him. But hard hat man and his colleague don't notice.
The colleague is the restless one. Whereas hard hat man wants to chill out and relax on his bus ride home, this other one is an annoying, foul-mouthed chatterbox. I sense a small degree of "Oh, won't you please shut up!" coming from the older one, and yet he doesn't let on. I don't think he's making a conscious choice to be polite - he's simply too tired to do anything else. He has done the math and knows it would take more energy to get his colleague to stop talking than simply to wait it out. I find myself wondering who gets off first, and what the thoughts of the remaining one will be as he is suddenly left alone.
There's my stop.
Paint stains cover their ragged blue jeans and their shirts are dirty. One of them, obviously the older and more experienced one, is still wearing his grey hard hat but removes it as he slumps sideways into an empty two-seat bench. The other sits in the sideways seats directly behind him, and they chat, with the younger one seeming to have more to say. I can't hear exactly what they're saying due to the noise of the bus engine directly behind me, but it's obvious they're not debating Jung vs Freud.
Hard hat man examines his hand for nicks and scratches, and picks at a tiny, gnarled piece of skin loosed in a scrape. He opens his bag and pulls out a chocolate bar, consuming it slowly but in large portions. The other one is holding an unlit cigarette, eagerly anticipating disembarking so he can light it. But he just got on the bus.
As we pass the historic intersection of Portage & Main, I see what I can only presume is a Downtown Biz tour guide in his distinctive red uniform addressing a group of 30 people. He's standing on the flower planters near the concrete pedestrian barrier so everybody can see him. But hard hat man and his colleague don't notice.
The colleague is the restless one. Whereas hard hat man wants to chill out and relax on his bus ride home, this other one is an annoying, foul-mouthed chatterbox. I sense a small degree of "Oh, won't you please shut up!" coming from the older one, and yet he doesn't let on. I don't think he's making a conscious choice to be polite - he's simply too tired to do anything else. He has done the math and knows it would take more energy to get his colleague to stop talking than simply to wait it out. I find myself wondering who gets off first, and what the thoughts of the remaining one will be as he is suddenly left alone.
There's my stop.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Earbuds
Today's subject is a mid-30s man who sits right beside me at the extreme rear of the bus. I settle on him because he's close, and I've usually selected subjects who are distant, so in a spirit of personal growth I am tentatively sliding one toe out of my comfort zone with my selection today.
He's wearing blue jeans and a faded black golf shirt. A thick yet plain wedding ring adorns his finger. His hair is what they call "salt and pepper" in hue. He's not slim, but not overweight; rather, he bears the build of somebody who used to be athletic and still retains the muscles, which sit idly, anticipating that a horde of linebackers could suddenly manifest as an obstacle through which he has to charge. But the linebackers never come.
And if they did, his tough-guy exterior would be somewhat mellowed by the soft-sided blue lunch kit he is cradling in his lap.
He's got silver earbuds which trail off into his pocket. Whatever he's playing is not loud enough for me to hear; for all I know he could be listening to music, jungle noises, or a motivational speaker. A couple of times he digs the MP3 player out of his pocket and advances the track forward, which if he's being motivated is indication that it's not helping.
Other than that, he does nothing interesting. Like most people I see on the bus, he just sits there, letting time slip by until he's back in his wife's warm embrace.
There's our stop. For once, both my subject and I get off together. Ironically, I don't have to get off here, as the bus I wish to connect with is just pulling away in front of us, and I could probably catch it at the next stop if I stay on board.
But the story has started, and it's just getting interesting, so I watch what could have been my other bus depart, all because I can't let the story end like this.
He checks the posted schedule for when his bus arrives, and settles into a secluded spot next to the bus schedule board. Immediately our attention is drawn towards a group of three young Filipino men, dressed up as if they're going to church, playing guitar and singing contemporary praise & worship songs on the nearby street corner. They're drawing a lot of stares but they keep soldiering on, singing at the top of their voices and issuing hellos to anybody who risks eye contact with them. While I doubt their labour will win any souls for the Kingdom of Heaven, I admire their courage.
I pretend to check the schedule for my own bus (I already know perfectly well when it will arrive) specifically so I can get close to my subject again. He, like all the passersby and citizens waiting for a bus, is staring at the trio of musicians, not quite sure what to make of it. I decide to risk verbal contact.
"Not exact the best way to get people interested in faith and religion, is it?" I ask him.
He pulls out his earbuds, fumbles to pause the playback, and then turns to me. "Hmm?" I repeat my opening statement. "Oh, right. Nope."
Not a man of much words then. Let's see what else I can draw out of him.
"What's weird is I actually know all the songs they're playing."
He purses his lips and nods the nod of a man who doesn't actually agree but doesn't care that he doesn't agree. No eye contact.
Now I've made it awkward for him; this should prove interesting. And indeed - voila! - he puts a single earbud back in, and in the ear opposite to me. This means that he still wants to hear his motivational speaker or jungle rain or whatever it is, but knows that since I've made an attempt to start a conversation that he can't just cut me off by inserting both earbuds without a natural end to the jump-started conversation. That would be rude. Although a prolonged period of silence would be considered a natural close, after which he may safely plug me out on both sides without fear of violating a precept of human relations.
But he has to wait for it. Or maybe not...
There's my bus.
He's wearing blue jeans and a faded black golf shirt. A thick yet plain wedding ring adorns his finger. His hair is what they call "salt and pepper" in hue. He's not slim, but not overweight; rather, he bears the build of somebody who used to be athletic and still retains the muscles, which sit idly, anticipating that a horde of linebackers could suddenly manifest as an obstacle through which he has to charge. But the linebackers never come.
And if they did, his tough-guy exterior would be somewhat mellowed by the soft-sided blue lunch kit he is cradling in his lap.
He's got silver earbuds which trail off into his pocket. Whatever he's playing is not loud enough for me to hear; for all I know he could be listening to music, jungle noises, or a motivational speaker. A couple of times he digs the MP3 player out of his pocket and advances the track forward, which if he's being motivated is indication that it's not helping.
Other than that, he does nothing interesting. Like most people I see on the bus, he just sits there, letting time slip by until he's back in his wife's warm embrace.
There's our stop. For once, both my subject and I get off together. Ironically, I don't have to get off here, as the bus I wish to connect with is just pulling away in front of us, and I could probably catch it at the next stop if I stay on board.
But the story has started, and it's just getting interesting, so I watch what could have been my other bus depart, all because I can't let the story end like this.
He checks the posted schedule for when his bus arrives, and settles into a secluded spot next to the bus schedule board. Immediately our attention is drawn towards a group of three young Filipino men, dressed up as if they're going to church, playing guitar and singing contemporary praise & worship songs on the nearby street corner. They're drawing a lot of stares but they keep soldiering on, singing at the top of their voices and issuing hellos to anybody who risks eye contact with them. While I doubt their labour will win any souls for the Kingdom of Heaven, I admire their courage.
I pretend to check the schedule for my own bus (I already know perfectly well when it will arrive) specifically so I can get close to my subject again. He, like all the passersby and citizens waiting for a bus, is staring at the trio of musicians, not quite sure what to make of it. I decide to risk verbal contact.
"Not exact the best way to get people interested in faith and religion, is it?" I ask him.
He pulls out his earbuds, fumbles to pause the playback, and then turns to me. "Hmm?" I repeat my opening statement. "Oh, right. Nope."
Not a man of much words then. Let's see what else I can draw out of him.
"What's weird is I actually know all the songs they're playing."
He purses his lips and nods the nod of a man who doesn't actually agree but doesn't care that he doesn't agree. No eye contact.
Now I've made it awkward for him; this should prove interesting. And indeed - voila! - he puts a single earbud back in, and in the ear opposite to me. This means that he still wants to hear his motivational speaker or jungle rain or whatever it is, but knows that since I've made an attempt to start a conversation that he can't just cut me off by inserting both earbuds without a natural end to the jump-started conversation. That would be rude. Although a prolonged period of silence would be considered a natural close, after which he may safely plug me out on both sides without fear of violating a precept of human relations.
But he has to wait for it. Or maybe not...
There's my bus.
Pounce
Today's bus ride home is a crowded one. All the seats are full when I board, and so I'm standing for most of the trip. I've got people standing behind me and before me, so there's not a lot of choice as to where I perch to begin my survey.
Still, from my inadequate position, I espy a 50ish woman, petite in stature but not in frame. She's wearing a long black sweater with random white patterns on it (if it's random, can it really be a pattern?). When the bus is in motion, her short blonde hair dances with the wind passing through. She clutches her leather purse tightly on her lap.
She's seated in the middle chair of the the front three sideways seats, and looks a mite uncomfortable due to the two imposing fellas flanking her. Sitting sideways is always a mixed bag of advantages and disadvantages. You have a better view of what's going on around you, and significantly more leg room. But you can be surrounded on all sides, and if you're prone to motion sickness, sitting sideways amplifies the motions of the bus in a direction to which your body is not accustomed. I try to avoid the sideways seats whenever I can.
She eventually appears to nod off, head bobbing slightly as the bus traverses the rough terrain of Winnipeg's streets. Several minutes pass like this.
Then a woman in an aisle seat in the first row of forward-facing benches gets up to disembark, and suddenly my subject springs out of her seat with all the pent-up energy of a crouching lioness. She pivots and lands in the better seat gracefully, before any of the numerous passengers standing around her can claim it for themselves.
It never ceases to amaze me how fierce, how competitive, how very primal it can be to land a good seat for yourself on the bus. There is, naturally, a formal bus etiquette that demands that young, able-bodied people surrender their seats to the elderly, the disabled, or those with small children. We're the inverse of the animal kingdom in that regard, for we maintain our sense of human dignity, and even magnify it, when dealing with those individuals who, in a herd of zebras, would be the natural meal for the Great Cats. But when the Great Cats fight amongst themselves over the carrion, or two healthy zebra stallions compete for the affection of the harem of mares, they are displaying the same instinct that myself and my fellow young, able-bodied bus travelers do when eyeing and springing for a prime seat.
In this case, the 50ish woman got the drop on about five other people.
There's my stop.
Still, from my inadequate position, I espy a 50ish woman, petite in stature but not in frame. She's wearing a long black sweater with random white patterns on it (if it's random, can it really be a pattern?). When the bus is in motion, her short blonde hair dances with the wind passing through. She clutches her leather purse tightly on her lap.
She's seated in the middle chair of the the front three sideways seats, and looks a mite uncomfortable due to the two imposing fellas flanking her. Sitting sideways is always a mixed bag of advantages and disadvantages. You have a better view of what's going on around you, and significantly more leg room. But you can be surrounded on all sides, and if you're prone to motion sickness, sitting sideways amplifies the motions of the bus in a direction to which your body is not accustomed. I try to avoid the sideways seats whenever I can.
She eventually appears to nod off, head bobbing slightly as the bus traverses the rough terrain of Winnipeg's streets. Several minutes pass like this.
Then a woman in an aisle seat in the first row of forward-facing benches gets up to disembark, and suddenly my subject springs out of her seat with all the pent-up energy of a crouching lioness. She pivots and lands in the better seat gracefully, before any of the numerous passengers standing around her can claim it for themselves.
It never ceases to amaze me how fierce, how competitive, how very primal it can be to land a good seat for yourself on the bus. There is, naturally, a formal bus etiquette that demands that young, able-bodied people surrender their seats to the elderly, the disabled, or those with small children. We're the inverse of the animal kingdom in that regard, for we maintain our sense of human dignity, and even magnify it, when dealing with those individuals who, in a herd of zebras, would be the natural meal for the Great Cats. But when the Great Cats fight amongst themselves over the carrion, or two healthy zebra stallions compete for the affection of the harem of mares, they are displaying the same instinct that myself and my fellow young, able-bodied bus travelers do when eyeing and springing for a prime seat.
In this case, the 50ish woman got the drop on about five other people.
There's my stop.
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