Mar
10
2010
Back On It
The ‘ol Buick was in the shop and that gave me a chance to take the bus to work. Felt good to be back on the scows, if only for an hour and a half in the morning. Caught the 106 at 99th and Whyte, cold breeze shooting in from the east. Waited for a minute until she docked curbside, those old familiar things—the popped-tire door hiss, the diesel city smell, the driver handing a transfer without a word or smile. To the back seat facing starboard, but only for a stop or two before buddy in the hornrims gets off and I slip into my favorite spot – backseat, front-facing, curbside. On Whyte and 109 I catch a glimpse of three sets of hardtoes, blue hardhats giving away their trade, cigs and thermoses up the street, grease-potted duck overalls ready for another layer. A reminder of who built this place.
Off at the U of A for a transfer, wait in the stiff morning sun for the 128—possibly my favorite route for its transit of Groat Bridge. Bus pulls up and the driver—young with white rims around her eyes and blue nails—throws me a smile and today, on my short return to the rubber and diesel, it’s reciprocated. A week of this and I’d be my usual half-snarl self. My coffee nearly spills as I lose footing on my way to the back. The Doobies on the phones today and don’t ask why. Got a hankering for Takin’ in to the Streets last week out of the blue. The 70’s are like that. They sneak in and tap you on the shoulder, yank down your pants and make you sing.
There are certain things in this world to which no written description can do justice. Poems and songs can come close if you let them; if you meet them half way. 7:38am Tuesday, sun well up and aroused. The 128 in the valley proper, nose northward, Downtown wringing the sleep out its eyes. From Groat Bridge there’s a scrolling perspective shift between the distant towers of downtown and the highrise condos lining the valley lip. The sun in there with it’s pink underwear, casting flecks onto the river ice. The bus with all its mess and windows. I’ve seen this many times but it’s rarely like this at my time of travel. It’s beautiful because it lasts only eight seconds.
Westmount is still the shitpile it has always been, despite a facelift back in ’06. I spend a whole five minutes in the shelter and laugh at the big-jacket punks from the nearby high school. My final ride of the day rolls up and whaddaya know, I recognize the pilot. Grayhair with a permanent frown, drove this route back in ’06 and ’07. Barely cracks a smile and never leaves the bus, even when in dock. He gives me a barely perceptible nod which may indicate that he recognizes me. I gave the guy a Christmas card in ’06 as a token of my appreciation of his “don’t complain, don’t explain” attitude. He said thanks then.
