I stood at the bus stop this morning for about ten minutes watching the rain drops fall off the leaves on the trees beside me. While I waited the eternity of ten minutes I also dug the toe of my shoe in the gravel, adjusted my leggings, tried to whistle (until I realized I looked like a crazy person) and snapped my fingers. Snapping my fingers and whistling. Now that I think of it, I probably looked like a five year old standing beside the broken vase doing the "I-Didn't-Do-It" dance.
I finally broke out of my stupor when I heard the familiar "psssh" of the bus' air brakes and noticed how gray the sky was. Gross. Doors opened, climbed on and put my bright orange bus ticket in the thingy (what is that thing called anyway?) and sat down. A big empty seat by the back door was calling my name. It was perfect. Can't watch the sheeple from the front of the bus. I thought about reading and even went as far as taking my book out of my bag.
"Liar's Poker". Wall Street in the early 1980s, bond trading, stock exchange, mortgage garble I can barely understand. I know paperclips and document control numbers, mastered the intricacies of the photocopier and document compiling in Adobe, I'm not a money person. Just look at my cheque book and bank statements, it's obvious that money beguiles me and bamboozles me with it's quick waltz out of my pocket. The book seems drab and bland, the kind of book I'd usually snub my nose at but it's surprisingly good and exceptionally well written. It's the only book I've read that can reference a "Big Swinging Dick" and not sound like pornography. So far I've devoured close to seven chapters in two days and considering I've only been reading to and from work on the bus, that's pretty good. It almost makes me want to learn more about this money beast and the men and women who so cleverly throw it around. But, this morning I managed only one paragraph.
My book ended up on my lap, my sheeple observations ceased and my eyes closed. I started the timeless art of bus napping. By the time the 21 reached Dutch Village I was out cold. My head was bobbing with the bounce of the bus on the uncertain up-and-down of Halifax roads. You're never really asleep on the bus but it sure as hell feels like it. You get a little nudge whenever you reach the next stop or the PeeMan sits close enough to you that you get the occasional waft of his cologne of choice - urine. I have that silly one eye open glance to make sure I'm where I'm supposed to be and back to sleep. Today I woke up on Gottigen Street, yawned and put my book back in my bag after deciding to continue my nap on the ferry. I took a quick peek out of the window to make sure the sky was still gray. I know where I am, time to sleep but not without a peek at a balcony to bring a little grin to my sleeping face.
"Just put the razor up your nostril and turn this way, then that way. That's how I take care of the nose hairs." I'm on a tangent and that's a story for another time.
I woke up again in time to jump off the bus and stare for a minute at Freak Lunchbox wishing to hell it was open so I could get some goodies. Finally strutted my chubby ass to the ferry terminal ... missed it. I guess I should've avoided staring at the candy store. On days like this when I miss the ferry I usually walk the boardwalk, today I sat in the ferry terminal half-assed reading a newspaper until I heard the familiar robotic voice telling me that the Woodside Ferry is now boarding.
No one interesting today. No strange conversations, no marriage proposals, no weird shoes or horrible haircuts. There were no interesting tattoos, shockingly beautiful people or anyone that made you question their gender. Like the guy who cleans the ferry that I eventually realized was a girl when I found him cleaning the woman's washroom. Still makes me raise an eyebrow. I thought for a minute that maybe she was transgender and if that was the case, good for her/him but no, just a very manly woman with a moustache and mutton chops who speaks very highly of her husband and children.
I finally broke out of my stupor when I heard the familiar "psssh" of the bus' air brakes and noticed how gray the sky was. Gross. Doors opened, climbed on and put my bright orange bus ticket in the thingy (what is that thing called anyway?) and sat down. A big empty seat by the back door was calling my name. It was perfect. Can't watch the sheeple from the front of the bus. I thought about reading and even went as far as taking my book out of my bag.
"Liar's Poker". Wall Street in the early 1980s, bond trading, stock exchange, mortgage garble I can barely understand. I know paperclips and document control numbers, mastered the intricacies of the photocopier and document compiling in Adobe, I'm not a money person. Just look at my cheque book and bank statements, it's obvious that money beguiles me and bamboozles me with it's quick waltz out of my pocket. The book seems drab and bland, the kind of book I'd usually snub my nose at but it's surprisingly good and exceptionally well written. It's the only book I've read that can reference a "Big Swinging Dick" and not sound like pornography. So far I've devoured close to seven chapters in two days and considering I've only been reading to and from work on the bus, that's pretty good. It almost makes me want to learn more about this money beast and the men and women who so cleverly throw it around. But, this morning I managed only one paragraph.
My book ended up on my lap, my sheeple observations ceased and my eyes closed. I started the timeless art of bus napping. By the time the 21 reached Dutch Village I was out cold. My head was bobbing with the bounce of the bus on the uncertain up-and-down of Halifax roads. You're never really asleep on the bus but it sure as hell feels like it. You get a little nudge whenever you reach the next stop or the PeeMan sits close enough to you that you get the occasional waft of his cologne of choice - urine. I have that silly one eye open glance to make sure I'm where I'm supposed to be and back to sleep. Today I woke up on Gottigen Street, yawned and put my book back in my bag after deciding to continue my nap on the ferry. I took a quick peek out of the window to make sure the sky was still gray. I know where I am, time to sleep but not without a peek at a balcony to bring a little grin to my sleeping face.
"Just put the razor up your nostril and turn this way, then that way. That's how I take care of the nose hairs." I'm on a tangent and that's a story for another time.
I woke up again in time to jump off the bus and stare for a minute at Freak Lunchbox wishing to hell it was open so I could get some goodies. Finally strutted my chubby ass to the ferry terminal ... missed it. I guess I should've avoided staring at the candy store. On days like this when I miss the ferry I usually walk the boardwalk, today I sat in the ferry terminal half-assed reading a newspaper until I heard the familiar robotic voice telling me that the Woodside Ferry is now boarding.
No one interesting today. No strange conversations, no marriage proposals, no weird shoes or horrible haircuts. There were no interesting tattoos, shockingly beautiful people or anyone that made you question their gender. Like the guy who cleans the ferry that I eventually realized was a girl when I found him cleaning the woman's washroom. Still makes me raise an eyebrow. I thought for a minute that maybe she was transgender and if that was the case, good for her/him but no, just a very manly woman with a moustache and mutton chops who speaks very highly of her husband and children.
All in all, I made it to work today which, on any given day, is a great feat of persistance and timing. I'm just glad I've finally mastered sleeping on the bus.
