In front of me, getting on the #3 bus, is a woman with blonde hair. Dressed in a jean jacket and matching Levis’ that fit her fifteen years ago, she has a black bag with a picture of Tinker Bell on it slung over her shoulder. She has cougar written all over her. It’s taking her awhile to get on the bus. She wants to pay with her nickels and dimes, but first she has to find them. She carries with her an air of self-importance, like whatever activity she’s engaged in is the single most important activity on the planet, one that requires the totality of her concentration and imagination.
The bus goes down Crichton Street and turns onto Sussex. A guy in a zippy is talking passionately into his phone. The subject is bigotry and the mainstream media and he has a lot to say on the matter. The conversation swings back and forth. In a burst, he will speak for three minutes, and then, for the next three minutes, he’s quiet, listening.
On Dalhousie, a young man wearing a huge knapsack on his back walks down the aisle. When he turns around, the bag knocks a woman in the side of the head. Not too hard, but hard enough. The woman doesn’t say anything, but looks to other passengers for their support and commiseration. For the rest of the trip, she shoots the oblivious teen sour looks. She hates him and his stupid bag. You can just tell. You can see it in her eyes.
Near the World Exchange Plaza, a cocky looking twenty-something gets on the bus. Chewing gum, he seems pleased with himself for having a job that requires he wear a suit to work each day, while the rest of his buddies still live with their parents and work in restaurants. There is a skull and bones logo on his laptop case. The suit says, pro, but the bag says, party.
A man who was sitting near the front of the bus gives up his seat and retreats to the rear. He’d probably been feeling guilty about sitting there from the moment he first sat down. A pretty woman looks around at the other passengers, waiting for somebody to move. She smiles and shrugs, and then happily sits in the vacant seat.
On Preston Street, in front of the Prescott, a man takes a deep haul on his cigarette before flicking it away and boarding the bus. He’s about sixty and looks like he imagines himself to be the life of the party. He stands up front, talking to the driver about his cottage, “opening it each season is a real bitch, but boy, is it worth it!”
Near the War Museum, a sign for The Good Companions social center for seniors promotes a fashion show. I bet it will be sweet—Grandmothers smelling of Lavender soap, their little dogs dressed in Argyle sweaters.
A man with devilish facial hair gets on. There’s a pronounced and suspicious streak of silver splitting the goatee on his chin. He has menacing eyes and hairy hands. Listening to music, he chews his gum like he’s killing something. I imagine he’s listening to something powerful and haunting, perhaps the Carmina Burana. Later, before he gets off in Nepean, his iPod reveals that it was Rick Wakefield.
A young women with Down’s Syndrome dozes in her seat. She looks so sweet, so vulnerable with the bus pass pinned to her jacket and her mouth open. Although she might not notice, there’s graffiti waiting for her when she wakes up. On the back of the seat directly in front of her, are the words You Are Beautiful, a reminder that somebody has taken the care to leave for the rest of us.