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.
Friday, August 29, 2008
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.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Pics
Usually I opt for a seat near the middle of the bus, out of an instinctual desire to stay as close as possible to the rear exit. Also, the back is most commonly populated by "punks" who have more metal in their faces than the robot maid from the Jetsons. The disadvantage of this, however, is that I miss half of the stories on the bus, by virtue of their being behind me. And it's difficult to observe people casually when you have to keep turning around to look at them.
So today I suppress that drive and force myself to the back of the bus, whereby I hope to be able to witness the whole scope of its humanity.
Firstly, I'm amazed at how much more comfortable of a ride it is: the burps and hiccups of the road seem to be absorbed by the immense bulk of the chassis forward, and any surplus motion is transmitted to the rear in the form of a soothing, gentle wave. One could easily fall asleep in the warm, lulling embrace of a bus' rear end.
Secondly, my seat at the back is in the middle of the rear five seats, uninterrupted by an aisle. There is a person in seat #1 and in seat #5, so my presence in the middle consumes the whole remaining psychological seating space remaining, even though two more people could technically sit beside me. I watch with some amusement as a young, pierced punk boards the bus and makes a beeline for the back, only to discover that his cherished seat of seclusion is being occupied by some guy without any facial piercings. He turns back and finds a seat next to a sweet old Filipino lady, much to the discomfort of both.
Not surprisingly, it doesn't take long to find my story. Here's the engineer's version: a man and woman are looking at pictures on a digital camera.
But here's the storyteller's version.
They are both in their late 20's. He is shaved bald, and is rather chubby, sporting thick glasses, a plaid shirt, green denim pants, and sandals. She is short and squat, with a pleasant face and long, dusty blonde hair. She's wearing a grey zip-up hoody and tan slacks (which I'm told only women wear).
On the seat beside him is a large green canvas duffel bag with an airport tag on it. From their discussion, I pick up that she has just returned from a trip to the northeastern US; she has handed him her digital camera, and he's panning through the pictures on it. "This here is when we were in New York. People thought she was my sister!" she says, gesturing at the tiny screen with a mini-point. Over the course of the bus ride, she pulls out brochures she picked up from the various places she visited and excitedly shows him the images on them.
From the affectionate way she places her hand on his arm, it's clear they're romantically involved. Also clear is that he was not on the trip with her. He went to the airport to pick her up, and now he's escorting her home on the bus. This is a truly gallant gesture, for anybody can give you a ride home, but only a boyfriend truly confident in his lady's affection can pick her up on the bus.
It's obvious her affection is strong; her body language screams I missed you. They laugh at the occasional picture, smiling the whole while. Eventually the camera's supply of digital memories loops back to the beginning and they put it away, remaining silent in each other's presence. They are happy to be together again, and yet the strain of the time apart is clear. They truly have much to discuss.
There's my stop.
So today I suppress that drive and force myself to the back of the bus, whereby I hope to be able to witness the whole scope of its humanity.
Firstly, I'm amazed at how much more comfortable of a ride it is: the burps and hiccups of the road seem to be absorbed by the immense bulk of the chassis forward, and any surplus motion is transmitted to the rear in the form of a soothing, gentle wave. One could easily fall asleep in the warm, lulling embrace of a bus' rear end.
Secondly, my seat at the back is in the middle of the rear five seats, uninterrupted by an aisle. There is a person in seat #1 and in seat #5, so my presence in the middle consumes the whole remaining psychological seating space remaining, even though two more people could technically sit beside me. I watch with some amusement as a young, pierced punk boards the bus and makes a beeline for the back, only to discover that his cherished seat of seclusion is being occupied by some guy without any facial piercings. He turns back and finds a seat next to a sweet old Filipino lady, much to the discomfort of both.
Not surprisingly, it doesn't take long to find my story. Here's the engineer's version: a man and woman are looking at pictures on a digital camera.
But here's the storyteller's version.
They are both in their late 20's. He is shaved bald, and is rather chubby, sporting thick glasses, a plaid shirt, green denim pants, and sandals. She is short and squat, with a pleasant face and long, dusty blonde hair. She's wearing a grey zip-up hoody and tan slacks (which I'm told only women wear).
On the seat beside him is a large green canvas duffel bag with an airport tag on it. From their discussion, I pick up that she has just returned from a trip to the northeastern US; she has handed him her digital camera, and he's panning through the pictures on it. "This here is when we were in New York. People thought she was my sister!" she says, gesturing at the tiny screen with a mini-point. Over the course of the bus ride, she pulls out brochures she picked up from the various places she visited and excitedly shows him the images on them.
From the affectionate way she places her hand on his arm, it's clear they're romantically involved. Also clear is that he was not on the trip with her. He went to the airport to pick her up, and now he's escorting her home on the bus. This is a truly gallant gesture, for anybody can give you a ride home, but only a boyfriend truly confident in his lady's affection can pick her up on the bus.
It's obvious her affection is strong; her body language screams I missed you. They laugh at the occasional picture, smiling the whole while. Eventually the camera's supply of digital memories loops back to the beginning and they put it away, remaining silent in each other's presence. They are happy to be together again, and yet the strain of the time apart is clear. They truly have much to discuss.
There's my stop.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The Drummer
A thirty-something guy gets on the #15 for morning rush hour. He's wearing a blueish/purple shirt and dark dress pants (what we city-slickers know as slacks). His hair is a tussled nest of a pale red hue, and he might have a pale red semi-moustache, but I'm not close enough to tell if it's just a protruded upper lip, or genuine facial hair.
He also sports the ubiquitous headphones of the bus rider. I can hear no music from them. But then he does the strangest thing I've seen yet on a bus: he pulls out a pair of wooden drumsticks, turns on his portable cassette player (yes, a cassette player - it is way too big to be an MP3 or CD player), and joins in with the band, air drumming. The music is spilling out past his tiny ears and seems to of the blues variety, with a pounding, pleading bass and the strained tones of an intimately plucked electric guitar.
His seat of choice is at the very front corner of the bus, sitting in the sideways seats. This is as close as one can get to a stage on a bus, yet he's clearly not performing for us, as his posture's all wrong for a performance. He's also quite aware that the 20 or so other passengers have taken notice of him and his unorthodox motions and are giving him puzzled looks. His eyes try not to make contact with us, but he can't help it; they flicker from the world outside the bus to those of us who haven't decided to ignore him, and back and forth several times. He desperately wants us all to stop staring.
It seems obvious that he's a real drummer, for his rhythm and technique are solid. From snare to tomtom to high hat to cymbal, he's hitting all the right contacts and is maintaining proper timing with the blues riff still escaping from his headphones. But it's also obvious that he doesn't want to be practicing on a bus. Yet he does it anyway, despite our amused stares. His feels compelled to air drum on the bus, and it doesn't seem to come from the deep seated passion of a music lover. It's more like he has an impending deadline.
But he's starting to surrender to the beat more and more as the song builds towards it climax, and in his growing abandon, his drumstick accidentally tings one of the internal bars supporting the framework of the bus, sending a single chime reverberating across the rows of vinyl seats. Just as suddenly, he reigns his external passion back, like a startled gopher darting back into its hole.
The song ends, he slides the drumsticks into his bag, turns off the walkman, and stands up.
There's his stop.
He also sports the ubiquitous headphones of the bus rider. I can hear no music from them. But then he does the strangest thing I've seen yet on a bus: he pulls out a pair of wooden drumsticks, turns on his portable cassette player (yes, a cassette player - it is way too big to be an MP3 or CD player), and joins in with the band, air drumming. The music is spilling out past his tiny ears and seems to of the blues variety, with a pounding, pleading bass and the strained tones of an intimately plucked electric guitar.
His seat of choice is at the very front corner of the bus, sitting in the sideways seats. This is as close as one can get to a stage on a bus, yet he's clearly not performing for us, as his posture's all wrong for a performance. He's also quite aware that the 20 or so other passengers have taken notice of him and his unorthodox motions and are giving him puzzled looks. His eyes try not to make contact with us, but he can't help it; they flicker from the world outside the bus to those of us who haven't decided to ignore him, and back and forth several times. He desperately wants us all to stop staring.
It seems obvious that he's a real drummer, for his rhythm and technique are solid. From snare to tomtom to high hat to cymbal, he's hitting all the right contacts and is maintaining proper timing with the blues riff still escaping from his headphones. But it's also obvious that he doesn't want to be practicing on a bus. Yet he does it anyway, despite our amused stares. His feels compelled to air drum on the bus, and it doesn't seem to come from the deep seated passion of a music lover. It's more like he has an impending deadline.
But he's starting to surrender to the beat more and more as the song builds towards it climax, and in his growing abandon, his drumstick accidentally tings one of the internal bars supporting the framework of the bus, sending a single chime reverberating across the rows of vinyl seats. Just as suddenly, he reigns his external passion back, like a startled gopher darting back into its hole.
The song ends, he slides the drumsticks into his bag, turns off the walkman, and stands up.
There's his stop.
"Look, Sweety!"
My title here could be the title of a statue; a single pose clipped from a fluidic motion and rendered permanent.
As my bus whizzes past an intersection, I see a father holding the hand of his little girl. He is bending down to her but his gaze is across the street, towards Winnpeg's grand old train depot at the corner of Portage & Broadway. His arm is extended, culminating in a passionate point with his index finger. In the same hand he also holds a lightly filled plastic shopping bag, still swaying from the initial outward thrust of his arm.
Something about that building inspires in him a burning desire to share it with his little girl. The glimpse I see of her visage is of that startled moment you get when you realize that somebody is trying to show you something but you haven't fully comprehended their intent yet. Like when in the movies someone in the crowd cries, "Look, up in the sky!" Before the first guess of, "It's a bird!" or "It's a plane!" there is a collective focusing of attentions onto the specified object. This moment of pre-discovery is an elemental human instinct, taking only a fraction of a second to bridge the gap between unawareness and awareness, yet it is frozen on her face at the exact moment that my bus whizzes by her. Her mouth is slightly agape; her eyes are darting back and forth.
And then they're gone from my sight.
As my bus whizzes past an intersection, I see a father holding the hand of his little girl. He is bending down to her but his gaze is across the street, towards Winnpeg's grand old train depot at the corner of Portage & Broadway. His arm is extended, culminating in a passionate point with his index finger. In the same hand he also holds a lightly filled plastic shopping bag, still swaying from the initial outward thrust of his arm.
Something about that building inspires in him a burning desire to share it with his little girl. The glimpse I see of her visage is of that startled moment you get when you realize that somebody is trying to show you something but you haven't fully comprehended their intent yet. Like when in the movies someone in the crowd cries, "Look, up in the sky!" Before the first guess of, "It's a bird!" or "It's a plane!" there is a collective focusing of attentions onto the specified object. This moment of pre-discovery is an elemental human instinct, taking only a fraction of a second to bridge the gap between unawareness and awareness, yet it is frozen on her face at the exact moment that my bus whizzes by her. Her mouth is slightly agape; her eyes are darting back and forth.
And then they're gone from my sight.
Everything Breaks
Riding my bus today, I see a UPS truck being towed by one of those over-sized tow trucks.
I find myself wondering if they emptied it of its contents before hitching it up, and what sort of portable electronic tracking equipment UPS uses to record the transferred location of hundreds of documents and parcels that now have an altered ETA.
What exactly happened to that truck? Did the driver come back to it after a delivery to discover it wouldn't start? While it was incapacitated, did it tie up a fire lane?
Were I a mechanic for UPS and saw a truck get towed into my shop, I would be tremendously embarrassed. Fleet mechanics are supposed to know their machines backwards and forwards and identify potential problems well before they occur; at least, I'd suppose that's the expectation on them.
Were I a UPS executive in town on business and saw that sight, I also would be embarrassed. Perhaps I might entertain thoughts about arranging the sabotage of a FedEx truck to balance out the lost business of everybody who sees the disabled vehicle and forms opinions about my company's overall quality.
But everything breaks. The world is in a continual state of decay; things go from a state of order to chaos, and it is only by maintaining a vigilant stand against the corruption of nature that we can remain the same.
This, by the way, is G.K. Chesterton's definition of a conservative. In his time of a soot-filled atmosphere in England, he opined that a white lamp post will not remain white for long if left unattended. A progressive will state that the natural order of the lamppost is to become blacker and blacker and will embrace that change, taking credit for effecting it. The conservative, however, knows that in order to conserve the lamppost's intended character, one must always be repainting it and renewing it. The conservative therefore is the one who puts forth the effort to renew things in order to keep them the same, and the progressive leaves things to decay and praises this new state as an improved one, thanks to his own doing.
I can therefore infer that UPS' mechanics are a bunch of liberals.
I find myself wondering if they emptied it of its contents before hitching it up, and what sort of portable electronic tracking equipment UPS uses to record the transferred location of hundreds of documents and parcels that now have an altered ETA.
What exactly happened to that truck? Did the driver come back to it after a delivery to discover it wouldn't start? While it was incapacitated, did it tie up a fire lane?
Were I a mechanic for UPS and saw a truck get towed into my shop, I would be tremendously embarrassed. Fleet mechanics are supposed to know their machines backwards and forwards and identify potential problems well before they occur; at least, I'd suppose that's the expectation on them.
Were I a UPS executive in town on business and saw that sight, I also would be embarrassed. Perhaps I might entertain thoughts about arranging the sabotage of a FedEx truck to balance out the lost business of everybody who sees the disabled vehicle and forms opinions about my company's overall quality.
But everything breaks. The world is in a continual state of decay; things go from a state of order to chaos, and it is only by maintaining a vigilant stand against the corruption of nature that we can remain the same.
This, by the way, is G.K. Chesterton's definition of a conservative. In his time of a soot-filled atmosphere in England, he opined that a white lamp post will not remain white for long if left unattended. A progressive will state that the natural order of the lamppost is to become blacker and blacker and will embrace that change, taking credit for effecting it. The conservative, however, knows that in order to conserve the lamppost's intended character, one must always be repainting it and renewing it. The conservative therefore is the one who puts forth the effort to renew things in order to keep them the same, and the progressive leaves things to decay and praises this new state as an improved one, thanks to his own doing.
I can therefore infer that UPS' mechanics are a bunch of liberals.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Immersed
First, a brief update: I saw the sad couple from yesterday on the bus again today, and they looked marginally happier.
Secondly... phew.
Today's story is set on the #19. It's about a young man, probably in his mid-20s. A short, squat and somewhat frumpy individual, I get the distinct impression that he's on the fringes of most social circles. His hair is too long, but not in a self-confident "I'm a rebel who enjoys seeing people react to my long hair" kind of way. I'd bet that he's just not seasoned enough in practical life experience to know that he needs to decide on his own when to get haircuts. In addition, he has opted out of shaving for probably a few weeks now, and has a diverse assortment of facial hair patches.
He's wearing black slacks and a collared shirt with no tie, neither of which fit him quite properly. I suspect that he's forced to wear business casual attire for work, but would feel much more comfortable in denim or sweatpants. His youth, his general out-of-shape appearance, and his overall projection of a man who doesn't quite know how to be a professional lead me to believe that he's got an entry-level computer job in one of the large office buildings downtown, and that he's only been doing it for a few weeks, or possibly a few months.
He chooses a seat in the front corner of the bus: another symptom of the social misfit. Yet I relate very strongly to this type of individual, so I know exactly why his self-conscious directed him to choose that seat. It's safe. Only one person can sit near him; a normal seat on the bus can have you surrounded on all four sides. There is no intimacy, no risk, no pain. And yet no joy of fellowship, or genuine interaction with a marvelous human soul.
But any sadness he bears is hidden well beneath his stoic exterior. He is distracting himself with his cell phone. He's not talking on it, but rather holding it in his right hand, gazing at the screen. His thumb isn't moving, so he's probably not sending text messages. His head rests on his left hand, the elbow propped up on the side of his seat, and he is hunched over his phone with such intent focus that I find myself tremendously curious: what is he watching? A stored video file, perhaps? There is no sound coming from the phone, and he's not connected to it via earbuds. So if it's a video it must be the kind that doesn't require sound to be enjoyable.
I try not to think too hard about what it could be.
There's my stop.
**As a bonus for my good friend Trebler, below is the engineer's version of this story.**
A young, unkempt office worker is looking at his cell phone while riding the bus.
There's my stop.
Secondly... phew.
Today's story is set on the #19. It's about a young man, probably in his mid-20s. A short, squat and somewhat frumpy individual, I get the distinct impression that he's on the fringes of most social circles. His hair is too long, but not in a self-confident "I'm a rebel who enjoys seeing people react to my long hair" kind of way. I'd bet that he's just not seasoned enough in practical life experience to know that he needs to decide on his own when to get haircuts. In addition, he has opted out of shaving for probably a few weeks now, and has a diverse assortment of facial hair patches.
He's wearing black slacks and a collared shirt with no tie, neither of which fit him quite properly. I suspect that he's forced to wear business casual attire for work, but would feel much more comfortable in denim or sweatpants. His youth, his general out-of-shape appearance, and his overall projection of a man who doesn't quite know how to be a professional lead me to believe that he's got an entry-level computer job in one of the large office buildings downtown, and that he's only been doing it for a few weeks, or possibly a few months.
He chooses a seat in the front corner of the bus: another symptom of the social misfit. Yet I relate very strongly to this type of individual, so I know exactly why his self-conscious directed him to choose that seat. It's safe. Only one person can sit near him; a normal seat on the bus can have you surrounded on all four sides. There is no intimacy, no risk, no pain. And yet no joy of fellowship, or genuine interaction with a marvelous human soul.
But any sadness he bears is hidden well beneath his stoic exterior. He is distracting himself with his cell phone. He's not talking on it, but rather holding it in his right hand, gazing at the screen. His thumb isn't moving, so he's probably not sending text messages. His head rests on his left hand, the elbow propped up on the side of his seat, and he is hunched over his phone with such intent focus that I find myself tremendously curious: what is he watching? A stored video file, perhaps? There is no sound coming from the phone, and he's not connected to it via earbuds. So if it's a video it must be the kind that doesn't require sound to be enjoyable.
I try not to think too hard about what it could be.
There's my stop.
**As a bonus for my good friend Trebler, below is the engineer's version of this story.**
A young, unkempt office worker is looking at his cell phone while riding the bus.
There's my stop.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
A Sad Couple
The #19 is, as usual, crowded for my morning ride. I'm standing near the middle of the bus, my eyes trying to stay focused on the quest for a story.
So many things can happen, and we just let them pass by without noticing. A bird can fly overhead. Big deal.
It is a big deal.
Why that particular flight path, at that particular time of day? What is that bird doing? Is it in pursuit of a tasty bug, or demonstrating the principles of flight to a youngster watching from a nest above? Or could it be rejoicing at the marvel of being airborne - of leaving the earth behind and watching the city bus pass beneath it? Perhaps it's just escaping the mangy claws of an alley cat. I'm trying to train my eyes, my ears, even my nose, to seek out these stories.
A young couple catches my attention. He, dressed in a pin-striped shirt and dark slacks; she, in a black top and skirt with a silver band keeping her hair from falling into her eyes. They are seated beside each other at the front of the bus, on the three-seat bench that faces sideways. From their posture and proximity it is obvious they are together - they don't have the "stay out of my body space" aura between themselves, which most bus travellers exude.
But in their intimacy, they seem sad.
In gazing at the faces of my fellow bus passengers, I commonly see sadness. I suppose that the bus is the one place left in modern society where we can most easily find ourselves left alone with our thoughts. At work, the pressures of the job distract you from your deep emptiness - this is why many people work so much. At home, spouse and children are a constant, throbbing demand on time and energy. And at the end of the day, when all has become quiet, the noise of the TV or a party or a baseball game or a computer fan continues to suppress our sorrows, until we find ourselves thoroughly drained, and head to bed. This is the cycle of the day; the circadian rhythm of modernity.
Those who commute in their own vehicle have their attention focused on the road (well, most of them anyway) and are either chatting up their passengers or tuning in to the news, traffic, weather, sports, and music on the radio. They don't have time to be sad.
In many ways, the passenger on the bus is uniquely equipped to fulfill the human need for quiet introspection. Even the sad ones are being honestly sad.
And this couple looks honestly sad. I assume they cohabitate. I'd guess it was a bitter argument or a personal tragedy of some kind, and they find themselves torn away from their compulsion to work through it by the demands of yet another work day. Their eyes look so, so empty; so lonely. Staring off into the windows of shops not twenty feet in front of them as they whiz sideways down the bus lane, they seem disconnected from reality.
The bus stops for another pickup. A young father and his toddler son board, and the sad couple glance briefly at each other. Their body language is clear - let's get up and give them our seats. There is a strong undercurrent of polity in these two, which unites them even across their sorrow. They stand, and the father thanks them, and sits down with his son. But then the third occupant of that bench rises to leave the bus, and the father scoots over and pulls his son onto his lap, cuddling him warmly in the crisp Autumn morning air. The seats are again vacant.
The sad couple exchanges one of those knowing glances again. "Shall we sit?" asks the man quietly. Wordlessly, she consents and they take their seats back again. Still sad, still with those haunted, empty eyes.
Moments later an old woman boards the bus, and again the couple valiantly surrenders their prime seating for her. They are now standing directly in front of me in the centre aisle.
Ding. Someone pulls the stop cord as we enter the heart of downtown, and random passengers rise from their seats to exit. Two seats open up, but not directly together: one is in front of the other. She turns, gives him another one of those empty yet profoundly intimate looks, and like a pair of synchronized swimmers they fold softly into the available seats. They are now each sharing a seat with a stranger, yet the bond stretching between these two against the grain of the bus layout is almost palpable.
And still, despite all the triumph of enjoying good seats, they are still sad. So very honestly sad.
There's my stop.
So many things can happen, and we just let them pass by without noticing. A bird can fly overhead. Big deal.
It is a big deal.
Why that particular flight path, at that particular time of day? What is that bird doing? Is it in pursuit of a tasty bug, or demonstrating the principles of flight to a youngster watching from a nest above? Or could it be rejoicing at the marvel of being airborne - of leaving the earth behind and watching the city bus pass beneath it? Perhaps it's just escaping the mangy claws of an alley cat. I'm trying to train my eyes, my ears, even my nose, to seek out these stories.
A young couple catches my attention. He, dressed in a pin-striped shirt and dark slacks; she, in a black top and skirt with a silver band keeping her hair from falling into her eyes. They are seated beside each other at the front of the bus, on the three-seat bench that faces sideways. From their posture and proximity it is obvious they are together - they don't have the "stay out of my body space" aura between themselves, which most bus travellers exude.
But in their intimacy, they seem sad.
In gazing at the faces of my fellow bus passengers, I commonly see sadness. I suppose that the bus is the one place left in modern society where we can most easily find ourselves left alone with our thoughts. At work, the pressures of the job distract you from your deep emptiness - this is why many people work so much. At home, spouse and children are a constant, throbbing demand on time and energy. And at the end of the day, when all has become quiet, the noise of the TV or a party or a baseball game or a computer fan continues to suppress our sorrows, until we find ourselves thoroughly drained, and head to bed. This is the cycle of the day; the circadian rhythm of modernity.
Those who commute in their own vehicle have their attention focused on the road (well, most of them anyway) and are either chatting up their passengers or tuning in to the news, traffic, weather, sports, and music on the radio. They don't have time to be sad.
In many ways, the passenger on the bus is uniquely equipped to fulfill the human need for quiet introspection. Even the sad ones are being honestly sad.
And this couple looks honestly sad. I assume they cohabitate. I'd guess it was a bitter argument or a personal tragedy of some kind, and they find themselves torn away from their compulsion to work through it by the demands of yet another work day. Their eyes look so, so empty; so lonely. Staring off into the windows of shops not twenty feet in front of them as they whiz sideways down the bus lane, they seem disconnected from reality.
The bus stops for another pickup. A young father and his toddler son board, and the sad couple glance briefly at each other. Their body language is clear - let's get up and give them our seats. There is a strong undercurrent of polity in these two, which unites them even across their sorrow. They stand, and the father thanks them, and sits down with his son. But then the third occupant of that bench rises to leave the bus, and the father scoots over and pulls his son onto his lap, cuddling him warmly in the crisp Autumn morning air. The seats are again vacant.
The sad couple exchanges one of those knowing glances again. "Shall we sit?" asks the man quietly. Wordlessly, she consents and they take their seats back again. Still sad, still with those haunted, empty eyes.
Moments later an old woman boards the bus, and again the couple valiantly surrenders their prime seating for her. They are now standing directly in front of me in the centre aisle.
Ding. Someone pulls the stop cord as we enter the heart of downtown, and random passengers rise from their seats to exit. Two seats open up, but not directly together: one is in front of the other. She turns, gives him another one of those empty yet profoundly intimate looks, and like a pair of synchronized swimmers they fold softly into the available seats. They are now each sharing a seat with a stranger, yet the bond stretching between these two against the grain of the bus layout is almost palpable.
And still, despite all the triumph of enjoying good seats, they are still sad. So very honestly sad.
There's my stop.
Monday, August 18, 2008
A Blank Page
The created word is a powerful thing.
The Bible says that God created the universe by speaking words. "Let there be light," etc. As a final crown on his creation, he breathed life into Adam, and I sit here eons later as a reproduction of that divine breath. You can't speak words without breath.
The one thing we have in common with God is the power to create. Be it life, technology (from the wheel to the nanorobotic surgeon), or art, we alone among all of creation have the ability to look at nothing, and to be inspired to do something about it.
As I compose this post, this blog is blank. I assure you it will not remain so. I am an author; a wordsmith; a crafter of clever clauses: I intend to populate these pages with prose drawn from my exposure to the raw humanity that rides the various city buses of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada.
A taste, to whet your appetite:
Am I good at this stuff? Who knows, and who cares? It's an experiment, to see if stories exist to be told. I'm convinced that they do, and I'm determined to tell them. Stay tuned.
.
The Bible says that God created the universe by speaking words. "Let there be light," etc. As a final crown on his creation, he breathed life into Adam, and I sit here eons later as a reproduction of that divine breath. You can't speak words without breath.
The one thing we have in common with God is the power to create. Be it life, technology (from the wheel to the nanorobotic surgeon), or art, we alone among all of creation have the ability to look at nothing, and to be inspired to do something about it.
As I compose this post, this blog is blank. I assure you it will not remain so. I am an author; a wordsmith; a crafter of clever clauses: I intend to populate these pages with prose drawn from my exposure to the raw humanity that rides the various city buses of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada.
A taste, to whet your appetite:
Three plump souls scrunch against each other at the bus stop near the Wal-Mart, waiting for the #14. Native Americans, Aboriginals, first-born ones - call them what you may - but their palominos are long gone, and there are no buffalo to hunt on the wide plains of Ellice Avenue.
As the bus approaches the stop, I can see more details. The man in the middle exists in a wheelchair. His hand is bandaged with oodles of white guaze, and his eyes twinkle with the faintest glow of delight and entitlement as his friends wheel him towards the bus. I think he's new at this.
Their hopes are dashed: this bus has three steps to climb before one is granted the blessing of a ride. Half of Winnipeg Transit's fleet is wheelchair accessible, but the other half is not. This trio drew the short stick.
The driver lurches the bus to a stop, then opens the doors only to call out, "I don't know how you're gonna get him on. The next bus is a low-ride."
Somewhat embarrassed, they nod and quickly back away as the driver thumbs the doors shut and accelerates away. For a moment, I wonder at his apparent lack of empathy. So what if you've got a schedule to follow? But the mathematician in my mind does some quick calculations and I see that not only are there steps which would make loading awkward, but the doors don't open wide enough to admit a wheelchair.
The Natives will have to wait 15 minutes for the next bus. I trust that the driver knows the route and his co-drivers well enough to make that statement as assertively as he did, and that he's not simply a bold-faced liar.
Am I good at this stuff? Who knows, and who cares? It's an experiment, to see if stories exist to be told. I'm convinced that they do, and I'm determined to tell them. Stay tuned.
.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
