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.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
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.
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