Scenes from a bus
The prophet Elijah once said that “public transit is the honey that leaks from the ear of the golden ram.” I’ve been riding Vancouver transit for nine years. These are some of my most memorable memories.
* * *
One morning on the #14 Hastings, I noticed that the man sitting across from me had an eye smashed in.
Now, I’m not talking about a black eye here. His right eyelid and eyeball were destroyed. His eye socket was full of mangled flesh. That eye would never see again.
But that wasn’t the weird thing. The weird thing was that he was calmly looking at himself in a mirror. He was combing his hair.
I stared at him for several minutes, transfixed by how carefully he was combing, patting, combing, patting, making sure every strand was just right. It looked all the world like he was thinking, “Maybe if the hair is perfect, they won’t notice the eye.”
That was the strangest thing I ever saw on transit.
* * *
One crowded afternoon on the #148 to New Westminster, a bickering aboriginal couple got on. They were both staggering drunk. The female half of the pair was about nine months pregnant. She was wearing a filthy oversize T-shirt with a cartoon of a man passed out on the floor surrounded by beer cans, with the caption “DRUNK ALERT! I’VE FALLEN AND I CAN’T GET UP!”
They shouted profanities at each other as they moved through the crowd. The woman sat across the aisle from me. Her eyes showed that she was on more than just alcohol. She had missing teeth. There was something wrong with her skin.
She nearly fell as she got off the bus. Her partner helped her steady herself. The moment she got her balance, she started to slap him. The bus pulled away.
That was the most upsetting thing I ever saw on transit.
* * *
One evening on the #14, a gravelly-voiced, middle-aged man had a loud and amusing argument with his friend, Cranston. The thing is, there was no Cranston. The dude was arguing with an empty seat.
He was my favourite crazy person on transit. Praise our government for clearing out the mental hospitals and putting these people back on the streets where they belong.
* * *
One afternoon on the #144 Metrotown Station, a menacing, gangsta-esque dude with a toque and huge headphones got out of his seat and walked towards the exit. My girlfriend and I moved into his seat.
But he didn’t get off. Instead, he came back and sat behind us.
“Fuck you,” he snarled at the backs of our heads. “Fuck... you.” I felt a finger poke my neck.
Oh shit, I thought to myself. I turned to face him.
“Is there a problem?” I asked. He looked at me with rage burning in his eyes.
“I think you’re an idiot,” he spat. “A fucking idiot.”
“Do you want this seat?” I asked. “Really, you can have it, I don’t care.”
“Fuck you,” he said.
This was getting nowhere. I turned back around. A moment later, he punched the back of my seat. Hard. We took the hint and moved to the back of the bus.
As we weren’t far from the final stop, I was concerned that this maniac might attack me when we got off. I gave my wallet to my girlfriend. At least there would be nothing for him to take.
Luckily, when we got off the bus he just walked away without giving me a glance. Which was awfully nice of him.
That was my most fearful encounter on transit.
* * *
Late one night on the #35, I was accosted by an angry young drunk. This dude desperately wanted to fight me, but he didn’t want to take the first shot. He insulted me and repeatedly pushed my shoulder, hoping to goad me into hitting him.
“C’mon, hit me, you dumbfuck!” he said. “Take me on. You chicken? Huh? You chickenshit. You fucking chickenshit. Fuck you.”
“Sorry dude, I’m an English major,” I replied. “I’m not going to fight you.”
Then he got all friendly for a minute. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry. It’s just that my girlfriend cheated on me, and I have to take it out on something, you know?” I nodded sympathetically. Then he went back to taunting me.
Of course, I wasn’t impressed with the immaturity of wanting to fight strangers because of his relationship problems. But I was impressed that he was so self-aware about it.
The bus crossed from Vancouver into Burnaby, and I had an idea. “If you really want a fight, why don’t you try the [notorious strip joint and biker hangout] NBI?” I said. “I’m sure there’s someone who’ll fight you there.”
He thought about it for a moment. “Thanks,” he said. He shook my hand. “I’m gonna knock some fucker’s block off.” He got off at the NBI stop. I’m sure he had his skull creased by a tire iron within minutes.
That was my most humanitarian act on transit. Let it never be said that I won’t give a vengeful drunk a hand. •
Originally published in The Peak, October 29 2001. This column got me publicly censured for racism by the editors; see Offensively racist for that repugnant tale.
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