Mar
20
2009
One Twenty Seven
I step out of an automobile – a colleague was kind enough to give me a ride after work. Nice car. Mitsubishi sedan, heated seats, all the trimmings. From that to the evening edition of the 127. Eastbound 4:30. An after work special that’s standing room only, workadays only save the fresh-faced high schooler sitting behind the door. Hard faces most, 10 hours slammed on there like brickwork. Heavy canvas parkas with stainless thermoses, aluminum lunch pails and doeskin work shirts. The steel toes are talking. When I take a breeze around, they seem to say in their best weather-faced croak, “Who the hell are you, and why are your hands clean?” Standing here in the aisle, I have no answer.
That this rig just sailed from the Jasper Place bus palace explains things. JP is a slimy, busted window; a cigarette-stubbed taint stuffed in the guts of the west end a block south of Stony Plain Road. It’s a minute’s walk from a dozen pawnshops, three “don’t use the bathroom” beerhalls, and dozens of unsafe injection sites. Definitely the kind of place that sustains the fears of suburban moms and puts a shudder into the schedule of any rider who has to transfer there. From the perspective of an avid city observer, the place is certainly on the scummy side – a dime-height from the inner city in terms of taste and feel – but also very interesting. It seems to be on Edmonton Transit’s permanent neglect list and I can see why.
I reluctantly take a seat at the front of the rig (not my policy unless the bus is empty). Beside me is a guy on the bad side of 60. A cracked face, whispy grizzle of a beard, torn denims and a parka that smells like Crown Royal and warehouse sweat. I can barely stand the guy but it’s been a long day. He dozes and his head bobs in my direction. Across the aisle a young girl plys her Blackberry for info, looks up occasionally. She’s got a concerned look…like she’s waiting for something to transpire. The scene is capped by a guy planted at the front in a quilted flannel jacket. Big tear in the elbow, that jacket is familiar as an unplowed street in Belvedere. He carries it with a hesitant grin, a put-on that hints at something deeper. As the rig trundles down 111 avenue, his arm arcs up onto the support railing. The ripped elbow hangs down in a near perfect triangle; dirty, multi-hued stitches backed with white polyester fill.
