Oh for cryin' out loud. I can't pretend any longer! My addiction to Assbook has taken me away from updating THIS blog. ERGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. It's just so friggin' neat-o. I guess maybe my brain needs a break from writing complete sentences for a whi
Get it? That was a little jokey joke. I mean jokey jok
But the fact is, I love writing. So, write I shall. But maybe nothing too profound just yet (because I know this blog is where you come to get your profundity). Emphasis on the 'fun' and 'dity'.
Here's something I meant to tell you a while ago. But kept forgetting. A lady asked me for directions outside of a metro. I wasn't sure about the answer, so I stopped this old gal to help us. Which she did. Then me and the ol' gal walked to the metro together.
She ended up telling me about the fact that the metro ticket man once gave her wrong directions. She called him an "article". Then apologized because she felt it was a bad word. HAH!! Article. That's on par with "So and so".
I said - "Don't sweat it biatch. I can handle your f*cking swearing just fine".
HEH.
Showing posts with label Tales from Transit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tales from Transit. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Tales From Transit #12
It's snowing. A lot. Today, I toyed with the idea of taking a cab home to avoid waiting for the bus and getting wet-dogged in the process. I had to see my accountant and remembered there was a sheltered bus stop right outside his office. I could wait there afterwards, and not get wet. So, that's what I did.
There was an old man waiting in the bus shelter too. I walked in, brushing the snow off my sleeves and said, "This is nice eh?". He removed his styrofoam cup from the seat beside him and I sat down.
His clothes were old and dirty. It crossed my mind he might be homeless. I wondered when he'd ask me for change. Or when he'd start to get annoying. Or when I'd notice the alcohol breath. But none of those things happened.
We started small talking. Mostly about the weather. He was a nice man. Not frail - but little under his old blue tuque.
He told me he'd seen it snow in June before. That he wished he was sitting beside the fire looking at the snow from a window, That "April Showers Bring May Flowers", that 'that man should be wearing a hat'.
We paused here and there. Me, leaning to look for the bus. Him, sitting, watching the wind whip up the falling snow. I was enjoying our conversation. The man had an accent, so I asked what it was.
"Hungarian. I am a refugee."
And he started telling me his story. About how he escaped Communism in Hungary during the revolution in 1956. I could tell he'd told the story many, many times. It was well-versed, memorized, but I could see the re-telling never lost it's magic on him. With an obvious pride, he remembered dates, times and the pier number, that his ship docked at when he finally crossed the Atlantic to Halifax.
He married a W.A.S.P (and did I know what that was?). And in the 60's he taught at a theatre school. When he eventually retired, he got bored. So, he started to volunteer. Monday to Thursday, he makes an hour-long bus commute to the Black Community Center and tutors Grade 7 kids in Math. Which he has been doing for 13 years.
I was impressed. And I told him so. Because I've been feeling a pull to volunteer somewhere, but I can't quite figure out what I should do, what I'm built for. I told him, it must be very rewarding if he's been doing it for so long.
He reached into his fanny pack for his wallet and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was a faded photostat made to look like a certificate. It said, Honourary Lifetime Dedication Award. and was from the Black Community Center.
"See? They made me a certificate and made me an Honourary Lifetime Member." The date at the bottom was June 2004. He'd been carrying it with him already almost 3 years. His name was on it too: John G. Barta. So, I finally introduced myself.
He folded it gingerly, "I'm proud as a peacock", he grinned.
And you know what? I LOVED that he treasured this crumpled old photocopy. You could see it meant more to him than anything.
A student driver car passed. John told me he'd never learned to drive, that he's always taken the bus. I told him, when you take the bus you get to see more things and meet more people. He supposed I was right.
And then my bus pulled up. I got up and he said, "God bless you", and handed me my umbrella which had clattered off my lap when I stood.
And on the bus ride home, I glanced at all the tired, sullen faces around me. And I thought - you've got a story too. I hope someday you get to tell it. Even if it's just to a stranger at a bus stop.
There was an old man waiting in the bus shelter too. I walked in, brushing the snow off my sleeves and said, "This is nice eh?". He removed his styrofoam cup from the seat beside him and I sat down.
His clothes were old and dirty. It crossed my mind he might be homeless. I wondered when he'd ask me for change. Or when he'd start to get annoying. Or when I'd notice the alcohol breath. But none of those things happened.
We started small talking. Mostly about the weather. He was a nice man. Not frail - but little under his old blue tuque.
He told me he'd seen it snow in June before. That he wished he was sitting beside the fire looking at the snow from a window, That "April Showers Bring May Flowers", that 'that man should be wearing a hat'.
We paused here and there. Me, leaning to look for the bus. Him, sitting, watching the wind whip up the falling snow. I was enjoying our conversation. The man had an accent, so I asked what it was.
"Hungarian. I am a refugee."
And he started telling me his story. About how he escaped Communism in Hungary during the revolution in 1956. I could tell he'd told the story many, many times. It was well-versed, memorized, but I could see the re-telling never lost it's magic on him. With an obvious pride, he remembered dates, times and the pier number, that his ship docked at when he finally crossed the Atlantic to Halifax.
He married a W.A.S.P (and did I know what that was?). And in the 60's he taught at a theatre school. When he eventually retired, he got bored. So, he started to volunteer. Monday to Thursday, he makes an hour-long bus commute to the Black Community Center and tutors Grade 7 kids in Math. Which he has been doing for 13 years.
I was impressed. And I told him so. Because I've been feeling a pull to volunteer somewhere, but I can't quite figure out what I should do, what I'm built for. I told him, it must be very rewarding if he's been doing it for so long.
He reached into his fanny pack for his wallet and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was a faded photostat made to look like a certificate. It said, Honourary Lifetime Dedication Award. and was from the Black Community Center.
"See? They made me a certificate and made me an Honourary Lifetime Member." The date at the bottom was June 2004. He'd been carrying it with him already almost 3 years. His name was on it too: John G. Barta. So, I finally introduced myself.
He folded it gingerly, "I'm proud as a peacock", he grinned.
And you know what? I LOVED that he treasured this crumpled old photocopy. You could see it meant more to him than anything.
A student driver car passed. John told me he'd never learned to drive, that he's always taken the bus. I told him, when you take the bus you get to see more things and meet more people. He supposed I was right.
And then my bus pulled up. I got up and he said, "God bless you", and handed me my umbrella which had clattered off my lap when I stood.
And on the bus ride home, I glanced at all the tired, sullen faces around me. And I thought - you've got a story too. I hope someday you get to tell it. Even if it's just to a stranger at a bus stop.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Tales from Transit #41
Today on the metro, I watched some strange gal sitting by herself. She was looking down staring at a photo in her hand. The photo was a postcard of the Shroud of Turin.
About every 40 seconds, she would kiss it.
Is it bad manners to make out with the Big J on public transportation?
About every 40 seconds, she would kiss it.
Is it bad manners to make out with the Big J on public transportation?
Friday, February 23, 2007
Tales From Transit # 34
This is what I overheard on the bus the other day,
"I have no idea how I'm going to affix moss to chicken wire".
Yeah, me either.
"I have no idea how I'm going to affix moss to chicken wire".
Yeah, me either.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Hot Day
It's 37 degrees this morning. It's the kind of morning that foreshadows a sweltering afternoon. The air has a hint of post-rain coolness to it, but you know that by midday it will feel like lukewarm soup. Doesn't matter. I'm sweating and I've been outside for 3 minutes.
The bus that I take to work isn't air-conditioned, but it is still a tiny refuge from the heat because it has windows. And now and then, when the bus is in motion I feel a breeze.
Today the bus pulls into a regular stop. Every time we stop for new passengers, the hot air settles around me like a wool sweater. There is one person waiting to board. He is a man in a wheelchair. Following procedure, the driver lowers the bus to one side and activates the access ramp. I am suddenly aware of the fact that my seat is in direct sunlight. The man beside me fluffs his shirt for a breeze. It makes me feel hotter.
There is a problem. The ramp won't work. I feel the mechanics struggling and whirring in the bus' underbelly. I envision the straining gears below, hot-baked with rust. The man beside me peers out the window and says, "It won't come out." I am a little surprised to hear him speak because it's almost too hot for words. We've been stopped for longer than normal, so now everyone on the bus knows what's going on. We all watch as the driver fights with the controls, fruitless. Then he steps outside.
He approaches the man. I assume he is apologizing and probably suggesting alternate arrangements. After all, it's not his fault and I'm sure he feels bad. A drip of sweat trickles down my back. The man in the wheelchair is wearing long, black pants on a day like today. He is shaking his head. The kind of shake you make when you're mad, but too nice to punch someone in the throat.
The driver steps onto the bus again. I half-believe he will ask if any of us will help lift the man onboard. But he doesn't. And we don't offer.
And the bus pulls away. And the breeze blows in again.
But I am shifting uncomfortably.
And it's not because of the heat.
The bus that I take to work isn't air-conditioned, but it is still a tiny refuge from the heat because it has windows. And now and then, when the bus is in motion I feel a breeze.
Today the bus pulls into a regular stop. Every time we stop for new passengers, the hot air settles around me like a wool sweater. There is one person waiting to board. He is a man in a wheelchair. Following procedure, the driver lowers the bus to one side and activates the access ramp. I am suddenly aware of the fact that my seat is in direct sunlight. The man beside me fluffs his shirt for a breeze. It makes me feel hotter.
There is a problem. The ramp won't work. I feel the mechanics struggling and whirring in the bus' underbelly. I envision the straining gears below, hot-baked with rust. The man beside me peers out the window and says, "It won't come out." I am a little surprised to hear him speak because it's almost too hot for words. We've been stopped for longer than normal, so now everyone on the bus knows what's going on. We all watch as the driver fights with the controls, fruitless. Then he steps outside.
He approaches the man. I assume he is apologizing and probably suggesting alternate arrangements. After all, it's not his fault and I'm sure he feels bad. A drip of sweat trickles down my back. The man in the wheelchair is wearing long, black pants on a day like today. He is shaking his head. The kind of shake you make when you're mad, but too nice to punch someone in the throat.
The driver steps onto the bus again. I half-believe he will ask if any of us will help lift the man onboard. But he doesn't. And we don't offer.
And the bus pulls away. And the breeze blows in again.
But I am shifting uncomfortably.
And it's not because of the heat.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Tales from Transit, Episode #21
First....
Ya wanted summer, Montreal? Here it is all up in yo' face with a side of tabasco sauce. The humidex hit 38 today. I think the month of May should have an "in like a lion, out like a lamb" analogy. Maybe something like, "in like a pair of damp skinny-leg jeans, out like a parka-wearing fat guy in the sauna".
******************************
Okay, so I talked about this on the air today, but I realize the possibility exists that you all might have lives outside of my 3 hour self-aggrandizing progrm (yes, I meant to spell it like that...sounds more like how an old lady would say it...pro-grrm).....so I'll rehash it here. And that is...
I love old people! I love them and I want one! There is an old man who rides the ol' 63 (I am a metro vet now, see?). He is at the age where self-consciousness is not even on the radar. He does what he wants, says what he wants and makes all the noises he wants. Now, MOST of the time, I'm sure he doesn't realize how loud he's being because he's also hard of hearing. He sits there, chatting to himself, clearing his throat every 10 seconds and loudly grunting and sighing with every shift and creak of his body. And regardless of how hot it is outside - he wants the windows closed. He will even ask the other patrons across the aisle to close THEIR windows, too. And they do! Because he wields the power of "old guy".
So, yesterday I'm on the bus (in the aisle across from him having completed the obligatory closing of the window). But this time, he's sitting beside an old lady. She is so little that her orthopedes don't even touch the ground when she sits. They are sitting so close that their bodies are physically touching, and they are still having trouble hearing each other. The collective bus people and I, however - are privvy to every syllable.
He says, "Yesterday in my apartment (loud throat clearing) I found an ant. An ant (dramatic pause) WITH WINGS!"
"You saw a what...?"
"AN ANT! WITH WINGS! DID YOU EVER SEE THAT BEFORE? AN ANT WITH WINGS?!"
At this point I am wondering 2 things:
1) has HE ever seen an ant with wings before? Cuz he sure as hell sounds surprised by the discovery. And if so....
2) How can a guy that old have gone through life never having seen one?
I honestly don't think she heard ANY of it. But I did and as I listened (you can't even call it eavesdropping because his voice was ricocheting off the walls of our tin can bus) - I learned a few things about the ol' chap, like, he has a little nephew who asked him to visit. The 'little' nephew it turns out is a 67 year old retired cardiologist. And the story that impressed ME most...one time he took the bus, and it didn't even stop once for a red light. I'm guessing that was in 1910, when there were no lights, but STILL...impressive.
So, yeah. I love old people. I also noticed he was carrying a white plastic bag, with what looked to be a can of Pledge inside. Takin' the bus to buy some Pledge and chat up the ladies. And grunt. Just another day in the life of the ol' guy on 63.
Ya wanted summer, Montreal? Here it is all up in yo' face with a side of tabasco sauce. The humidex hit 38 today. I think the month of May should have an "in like a lion, out like a lamb" analogy. Maybe something like, "in like a pair of damp skinny-leg jeans, out like a parka-wearing fat guy in the sauna".
******************************
Okay, so I talked about this on the air today, but I realize the possibility exists that you all might have lives outside of my 3 hour self-aggrandizing progrm (yes, I meant to spell it like that...sounds more like how an old lady would say it...pro-grrm).....so I'll rehash it here. And that is...
I love old people! I love them and I want one! There is an old man who rides the ol' 63 (I am a metro vet now, see?). He is at the age where self-consciousness is not even on the radar. He does what he wants, says what he wants and makes all the noises he wants. Now, MOST of the time, I'm sure he doesn't realize how loud he's being because he's also hard of hearing. He sits there, chatting to himself, clearing his throat every 10 seconds and loudly grunting and sighing with every shift and creak of his body. And regardless of how hot it is outside - he wants the windows closed. He will even ask the other patrons across the aisle to close THEIR windows, too. And they do! Because he wields the power of "old guy".
So, yesterday I'm on the bus (in the aisle across from him having completed the obligatory closing of the window). But this time, he's sitting beside an old lady. She is so little that her orthopedes don't even touch the ground when she sits. They are sitting so close that their bodies are physically touching, and they are still having trouble hearing each other. The collective bus people and I, however - are privvy to every syllable.
He says, "Yesterday in my apartment (loud throat clearing) I found an ant. An ant (dramatic pause) WITH WINGS!"
"You saw a what...?"
"AN ANT! WITH WINGS! DID YOU EVER SEE THAT BEFORE? AN ANT WITH WINGS?!"
At this point I am wondering 2 things:
1) has HE ever seen an ant with wings before? Cuz he sure as hell sounds surprised by the discovery. And if so....
2) How can a guy that old have gone through life never having seen one?
I honestly don't think she heard ANY of it. But I did and as I listened (you can't even call it eavesdropping because his voice was ricocheting off the walls of our tin can bus) - I learned a few things about the ol' chap, like, he has a little nephew who asked him to visit. The 'little' nephew it turns out is a 67 year old retired cardiologist. And the story that impressed ME most...one time he took the bus, and it didn't even stop once for a red light. I'm guessing that was in 1910, when there were no lights, but STILL...impressive.
So, yeah. I love old people. I also noticed he was carrying a white plastic bag, with what looked to be a can of Pledge inside. Takin' the bus to buy some Pledge and chat up the ladies. And grunt. Just another day in the life of the ol' guy on 63.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
More Tales from Transit
I realized that on the bus today, it was me...
and 6 old ladies!
That was it! Me and 6 old broads. And they aren't as innocent as they look...sitting quietly with their grocery bags and old school umbrellas. It's all an elaborate ruse. If you study them carefully, you see them covertly signaling one another: the knotting of a plastic rain headkerchief, the adjusting of a hearing aid, the tapping of a pruney finger on a cane.
I'm pretty sure, if I hadn't gotten off at my stop, I would have been on the receiving end of some granny gang violence. I would have been swarmed. Gasping in a cloud of old flowery perfume...photos of grandkids shoved in my face, used scratch tickets tumbling all over me from crocheted handbags, and bombarded with questions about when I'm going to get married and why I'm not dressed properly for the weather.
Yup. Old broads. Don't be fooled.
Which brings to mind the story of sweet 80 year old Mary Wohlford. Now THAT'S a tough ol' gal! :)
and 6 old ladies!
That was it! Me and 6 old broads. And they aren't as innocent as they look...sitting quietly with their grocery bags and old school umbrellas. It's all an elaborate ruse. If you study them carefully, you see them covertly signaling one another: the knotting of a plastic rain headkerchief, the adjusting of a hearing aid, the tapping of a pruney finger on a cane.
I'm pretty sure, if I hadn't gotten off at my stop, I would have been on the receiving end of some granny gang violence. I would have been swarmed. Gasping in a cloud of old flowery perfume...photos of grandkids shoved in my face, used scratch tickets tumbling all over me from crocheted handbags, and bombarded with questions about when I'm going to get married and why I'm not dressed properly for the weather.
Yup. Old broads. Don't be fooled.
Which brings to mind the story of sweet 80 year old Mary Wohlford. Now THAT'S a tough ol' gal! :)
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
40 Winks
Riding the metro home today, there was a girl sitting across from me. She was sleepy. And I know she was genuinely tired and not the rest-your-eyes -while-maintaining-sensory-perception tired because...her mouth was hanging open! Poor gal. There she was sittin' in the train car, yap hangin' open like a barn door. I thought about tossing in a penny for luck but then I thought about how people do that at zoos and alligators eat the coins and die.
Instead, I started thinking about how I'd have to be dead tired to fall asleep like that in public. As I have mentioned to you before I am one fugly chick when I am sleeping and crying (not usually at the same time). When I cry, I look like Tammy Faye after being slapped around with a wet mop and when I sleep, I am an open-mouther (if you listen closely, you can hear coins jingling in there). So, needless to say, I really try not to do either in public.
If forced to pick doing one of those in public though, I'd choose the open-mouth sleeping. Because at least I wouldn't be conscious of the fact that people could see me. Til I saw the photos much later.
Instead, I started thinking about how I'd have to be dead tired to fall asleep like that in public. As I have mentioned to you before I am one fugly chick when I am sleeping and crying (not usually at the same time). When I cry, I look like Tammy Faye after being slapped around with a wet mop and when I sleep, I am an open-mouther (if you listen closely, you can hear coins jingling in there). So, needless to say, I really try not to do either in public.
If forced to pick doing one of those in public though, I'd choose the open-mouth sleeping. Because at least I wouldn't be conscious of the fact that people could see me. Til I saw the photos much later.
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