Sunday, February 13, 2005
There was no Kangaroo Jack or any sort of movie on my bus ride home from Edmonton, but that's not to say that my trip was devoid of uncomfortable spectackles.There was a passenger, a woman, who discovered shortly after the Edmonton South stop, where I embarked, that she was on the entirely wrong bus. She was to be heading north, while this bus and its occupants were heading south. She neglected to mention her mistake to the bus driver. I'm not quite sure why she did this, but sitting in the seat in front of her made me privy to her conversation with the gentelman traveller across the aisle. He couldn't wait to arrive in Red Deer so he could smoke a joint and he couldn't wait to get to Red Deer to mention this. I half expected him to click his heels when he got off the bus there for our coffee break. He was able to tide himself over with the bottle of colt 45 he had brought on the bus until we reached our stop.
He was originally from PEI and moved to Edmonton about 25 years ago. Construction was his trade and he made a fair living from it. During the good times he had been able to set up bank accounts for each of his five children to ensure that they'd be provided for in the future. He made it crystal clear that he did not want his ex-wife touching any of that money.
Sometime in the last three years things went south. I'm not sure what, but I can assume it had something to do with his marriage falling apart. Regardless he hadn't gone a day with out a drink in the last three years. I don't think he was ashamed of that, he wore it like a badge of courage. Logically I don't think there's anything wrong with that, but burnt in my brain is the archetype of the broken and downtrodden alcoholic who drinks to forget. I'm not sure where my uncle fits into that picture. He was an alcoholic when he was married. He told my brother that he "couldn't stay the bitch when he was sober." Definitely trying to contract amnesia, I'm not sure that he was broken though. Maybe the man across the aisle, back and to the left, wasn't broken, maybe he was just broke. The two aren't always connected.
Planning to quit the bottle by December, and the glass and the can, was a step in remembering. When my uncle quit it was the first step to resentment. It's easy to understand why some people don't want to sober up.
'The wife' wasn't the only one he had a falling out with. His father was incommunicado, he was also very dead. Even if he was counted among the living, I believe they wouldn't be having beers (or coffee) together. His sister was very much alive and he very much wanted to put an end to that condition. The fact that her husband was a cop was a major deterrent to that course of action.
I'm not sure how much was true and how much was false bravado, but it didn't seem like personal details you'd make up in order to impress new friends and potential loves. It's possible he was trying on the "I'm so fucked up, don't fuck with me" facade, but that's usually reserved for troubled eighteen year olds, not forty year old men (though I'm not sure there is a discernable difference).
The woman who was on the wrong bus was supposed to be heading towards Yellowknife to see her kids, but instead she was heading to Calgary where noone she knew resided. She was close to thirty and seemingly in possession of none of the problem solving skills that one would associate with that age group. Her chosen course of action after discovering she was on the wrong bus was to announce immediately to her seatmates and anyone else within earshot that she was on the wrong bus while withholding that information from the only other individual that it would impact, the bus driver. I can't say I was sorry that she didn't tell the driver right away. Informing him while still within Edmonton city limits may have meant turning back and I did not feel like turning back. Ayn Rand wouldn't have turned back. Ayn Rand probably died not having many friends around.
She chose to befriend the gentelmen across the aisle who wanted to kill his sister, some times there's no arguing with taste. They became fast friends partly because he tried to assuage her fears about being on the wrong bug and partly because he was more than willing to share his bottle of Colt 45. They talked at length how great that joint in Red Deer would be. That was probably also a factor in their friendship.
At the Red Deer stop, after 3 plus hours of non-stop conversation, they stopped, exited the bus, drew breath finally, and smoked their joint. I stood close by outside, transfixed by their conversation like the asshole I was. I could only assume what train wreck would take place when she finally told the driver she was on the wrong bus and I wanted to see it play out. I took in a mix of gas fumes and pot and cigarette smoke underneath the neon windmill that stood guard outside Red Deer's 24 hour, 'Donut Mill'. I wished I had a cigarette to smoke so I could look less conspicous while at the same time punishing myself further. They, however, never noticed me.
The woman, who was appearing to be more and more of a girl as time wore on, informed the driver of the incredible mistake which had taken place earlier that night in Edmonton. The driver told that this would all have to be sorted out at the Calgary depot as there was nothing to be done. He was enroute to Calgary with a busload of passengers, save one, intending to arrive in Calgary.
When we had all retaken our seats on the bus, our PEI gentlemen, who had become her seatmate after a stop in an unremarkable town between Edmonton and Red Deer, kept telling her that it was Greyhound's fault. He informed her with great authority that they would have to fly her back. If they neglected to do this, he had a buddy he was sure would loan him money and he would make sure himself that she got to Yellowknife. She switched seats to be next to him, but by the time Calgary came into sight she was telling him to stop touching her in a voice that was intended for him, but loud enough so that the entirety of the bus could hear. She was agitated and quite distraught. This state of distress was aggravated by her unfortunate diet of mostly coffee, beer, pot and cigarettes. He tried to put her at ease the as best a drunk stranger could. And you know what the best a drunk stranger can do, is never any good. Drunk strangers usually can’t do shit. If a man wearing a hat was hit by a car and killed, a drunk bystander would comfort his wife by telling her what a shame it was that the hat was ruined.
I think the blossoming relationship hit a wall when he turned around to gauge my opinion on the situation.
"Man it's the busdriver's fault, he didn't do a headcount, right?"
"Can you stop embarassing me?! Can you stop repeating this to everyone?? Please just stop it and stop fucking touch me."
I wanted to hear their story, but I didn't want to be involved in it. I tried to fall asleep in a hurry.
He was originally from PEI and moved to Edmonton about 25 years ago. Construction was his trade and he made a fair living from it. During the good times he had been able to set up bank accounts for each of his five children to ensure that they'd be provided for in the future. He made it crystal clear that he did not want his ex-wife touching any of that money.
Sometime in the last three years things went south. I'm not sure what, but I can assume it had something to do with his marriage falling apart. Regardless he hadn't gone a day with out a drink in the last three years. I don't think he was ashamed of that, he wore it like a badge of courage. Logically I don't think there's anything wrong with that, but burnt in my brain is the archetype of the broken and downtrodden alcoholic who drinks to forget. I'm not sure where my uncle fits into that picture. He was an alcoholic when he was married. He told my brother that he "couldn't stay the bitch when he was sober." Definitely trying to contract amnesia, I'm not sure that he was broken though. Maybe the man across the aisle, back and to the left, wasn't broken, maybe he was just broke. The two aren't always connected.
Planning to quit the bottle by December, and the glass and the can, was a step in remembering. When my uncle quit it was the first step to resentment. It's easy to understand why some people don't want to sober up.
'The wife' wasn't the only one he had a falling out with. His father was incommunicado, he was also very dead. Even if he was counted among the living, I believe they wouldn't be having beers (or coffee) together. His sister was very much alive and he very much wanted to put an end to that condition. The fact that her husband was a cop was a major deterrent to that course of action.
I'm not sure how much was true and how much was false bravado, but it didn't seem like personal details you'd make up in order to impress new friends and potential loves. It's possible he was trying on the "I'm so fucked up, don't fuck with me" facade, but that's usually reserved for troubled eighteen year olds, not forty year old men (though I'm not sure there is a discernable difference).
The woman who was on the wrong bus was supposed to be heading towards Yellowknife to see her kids, but instead she was heading to Calgary where noone she knew resided. She was close to thirty and seemingly in possession of none of the problem solving skills that one would associate with that age group. Her chosen course of action after discovering she was on the wrong bus was to announce immediately to her seatmates and anyone else within earshot that she was on the wrong bus while withholding that information from the only other individual that it would impact, the bus driver. I can't say I was sorry that she didn't tell the driver right away. Informing him while still within Edmonton city limits may have meant turning back and I did not feel like turning back. Ayn Rand wouldn't have turned back. Ayn Rand probably died not having many friends around.
She chose to befriend the gentelmen across the aisle who wanted to kill his sister, some times there's no arguing with taste. They became fast friends partly because he tried to assuage her fears about being on the wrong bug and partly because he was more than willing to share his bottle of Colt 45. They talked at length how great that joint in Red Deer would be. That was probably also a factor in their friendship.
At the Red Deer stop, after 3 plus hours of non-stop conversation, they stopped, exited the bus, drew breath finally, and smoked their joint. I stood close by outside, transfixed by their conversation like the asshole I was. I could only assume what train wreck would take place when she finally told the driver she was on the wrong bus and I wanted to see it play out. I took in a mix of gas fumes and pot and cigarette smoke underneath the neon windmill that stood guard outside Red Deer's 24 hour, 'Donut Mill'. I wished I had a cigarette to smoke so I could look less conspicous while at the same time punishing myself further. They, however, never noticed me.
The woman, who was appearing to be more and more of a girl as time wore on, informed the driver of the incredible mistake which had taken place earlier that night in Edmonton. The driver told that this would all have to be sorted out at the Calgary depot as there was nothing to be done. He was enroute to Calgary with a busload of passengers, save one, intending to arrive in Calgary.
When we had all retaken our seats on the bus, our PEI gentlemen, who had become her seatmate after a stop in an unremarkable town between Edmonton and Red Deer, kept telling her that it was Greyhound's fault. He informed her with great authority that they would have to fly her back. If they neglected to do this, he had a buddy he was sure would loan him money and he would make sure himself that she got to Yellowknife. She switched seats to be next to him, but by the time Calgary came into sight she was telling him to stop touching her in a voice that was intended for him, but loud enough so that the entirety of the bus could hear. She was agitated and quite distraught. This state of distress was aggravated by her unfortunate diet of mostly coffee, beer, pot and cigarettes. He tried to put her at ease the as best a drunk stranger could. And you know what the best a drunk stranger can do, is never any good. Drunk strangers usually can’t do shit. If a man wearing a hat was hit by a car and killed, a drunk bystander would comfort his wife by telling her what a shame it was that the hat was ruined.
I think the blossoming relationship hit a wall when he turned around to gauge my opinion on the situation.
"Man it's the busdriver's fault, he didn't do a headcount, right?"
"Can you stop embarassing me?! Can you stop repeating this to everyone?? Please just stop it and stop fucking touch me."
I wanted to hear their story, but I didn't want to be involved in it. I tried to fall asleep in a hurry.
# posted by Die Brucke @ 8:12 PM 
