Sign In Sign-Up

Welcome!

Close

Would you like to make this site your homepage? It's fast and easy...

Yes, Please make this my home page!

No Thanks

  Don't show this to me again.

Close

I got a window seat this afternoon.  I prefer the window seat to other seats for a number of reasons.  Most importantly, I can feel free to seclude myself from the happenings of the bus and keep social interaction to a minimum.  I prefer to use the ride to ponder various thoughts and fantasies in a form of fugue state without being interrupted by the constant "Excuse me, this is my stop".  Also, I tend to use my commute as a rare opportunity to indulge in a novel. Invariably, on the unfortunate occasions I've ended up with an aisle seat, the near-mint condition paperback ends up being covered by a layer of grit and grime, courtesy of Grade 8's who feel that they need to sit down to go the two stop jaunt to the junior high school.

So I'm deep into Grisham's "The Chamber" when some guy sits down next to me.  He must be about forty, medium build with glasses, probably a business man.  I push into the window to give him more space.

"Whatcha' reading?" he asks.

I stick my finger in the spine of the book, non-chalantly tilt the cover in his direction and resume reading.

"So, do you take the bus often?"

Who is this guy?  Perhaps a depressed individual without a life whose major social function is striking up conversations with complete strangers.

"This is my first time on this route".

Who does he think I am, Larry King?  You know the drill : "Hello, Larry? I'm a first time caller and I just wanted to call you to say that I'm the second cousin to the assistant of the president's dog-sitters secretary's 5th cousin's and I think that sex is bad.  Bye". Whenever I listen to those call-in shows, it seems that most of the people calling either : a) have no life, b) have an infatuation with their own voice or c) all of the above.  I'll bet sometimes Larry King just wants to tell some people to f--k off.  I chuckle thinking of  Larry saying : "Excuse me ma'am, but could you please f---k off?"  Of course they'd bleep it out, not that there would be a point.  I mean, everyone knows what the <bleep> means so what's the difference?

"Are you reading that book?"

 No, I'm just bringing the bloody thing along to act as a decoration.  You see, I have this idea for a great piece of artwork, I would call it "The Chamber With Grit From the 23 Express".  I could display it at the National Gallery in Ottawa.  Hell, if the government would pay 6 million dollars for a work of art that looks like some kindergarten class accidentally spilt the paint on a canvas, who knows what my ripped pages and the unknown substance spread across page 431 would command?  I could even stick discarded chewing gum on all the swear words.  Of course this masterpiece comeback never leaves my brain.  Instead, I grunt affirmatively and stare out the window.  People never say what they mean, or want to say.  It's as if some blowhard censor is in our head, a mental V-Chip taking out all the things that could possibly offend anyone, regardless of age, sex, race, color or species.

"I had a rotten day today.  First, my car broke down and I was late for work.  Then my boss said that a presentation I gave was unrealistic and repetitive and to top it off my wife ran off to Hawaii with some rich lawyer friend."

Can you hear the sappy violin music in the background?  Personally, I can't stand people who complain to the world about their personal problems.  Why do losers have this misconception that anyone gives a shit about them?  We all have our own problems, we're too busy to listen to those of others.  This loser drones on and on, until his words become unintelligible gibberish.

"I really shouldn't be going on like this..."

Why do people say "I shouldn't be doing this" or "Maybe this isn't the best time" when they don't mean it?  Even if you told them : "Shut up, I don't give a damn about you, or your wife or anyone in your family", they'd just continue bitching.  I grunt and silently pray that this guy gets off.

"Oh this is my stop, gotta go".

I swear I hear the "Hallelujah Chorus" as he leaves.  I then open my book and pick up where I left off.  I can't concentrate, so I sit back and indulge in a fantasy involving the cast of Baywatch.  I don't know why, but there's something about sitting on an hard seat and having so little leg room that if the bus stops too quickly your knees will drive through your chest that is, well,  sexual.  It seems that the libido rages most where it can least be accommodated.  As this is happening, I feel a brush beside me and hear "Oh, excuse me".

I leave the libido hanging and look up to behold the most stunning young lady I have ever seen. Her shoulder-length blonde hair reflects the sunlight from a nearby window.  Her parka is unzipped slightly to reveal an appetizing look at her charms.  Her face is enhanced by just the right touch of makeup, not like some girls who must layer a full pad of eye shadow and half a stick of lipstick like they're a walking Clinique demo.

My thoughts wander back to the blonde girl.  I glimpse at her charms out of the corner of my eye, then bury myself in my book.  I'm not reading.  She pulls out a book of her own, "Twelfth Night".  Instantly I find myself thinking "If music be the food of love, play on!" before I recall that one of the main characters was a transvestite.  Another quick look at her nullifies that fear.  Staring passively into my book, I relax and let the libido take over.

The more I look at this girl, the more I want to talk to her.  I turn in her direction and try to look her in the eye, but the libido prefers to dip down slightly.  Eyes up, you idiot!  I slowly raise my head when it drops again.  I realize I'm going to need a head clamp to avoid sinking into the happy paradise of the low-cut dress.  Failing that, I return to my "reading".  At this point, I'm beginning to feel that the Olympic Diving Championships could be held in the pool of sweat forming under my feet.

How does one "pick up" a girl nowadays?  Although I have no idea, I'm pretty sure "I lost my number, can I have yours?" is not the way to begin a courtship.  I think the entire bus can hear my heartbeat as I wonder "What should be the first thing I say?"  First impressions count for everything, at least according to the shampoo commercial.  And yes, I realize getting your life philosophy from TV commercials is near rock-bottom on the evolutionary scale.  Truth be known, I get my life philosophy from CBC's "The Newsroom", which basically fosters the idea that people are assholes who will exploit anyone to get what they want.  However, the method of asking "Could I sleep with you?" would probably net me a slap in the face and/or a lawsuit.  Therefore, the V-Chip of the mind ensures that I not be so blunt, as much as I'd like to.

I don't know if she's noticed my discomfort.  But I am just going to throw caution to the wind and say "Hi! What school do you go to?" and let it flow from there.  Yes, that's what I'll say.  Having decided on a script, I turn my head,  dip down three more times, take a deep breath, swallow hard, attempt to look her in the eye, and then utter.....

"Whatcha' reading?"

---