a counterpoint of sorts. but what isn’t?

The bus. A lengthy chunk of metal, rubber, motor, plastic, polls and seats, blinkers — formed into some recognizable functional shape, wends down street after street. Pause for a pick-up or drop-off. Whirr and grunt back into motion. It’s among the biggest of the herd, coralled along the asphalt, directed by interchanges of red and green and amber.

The interior is coloured by the late afternoon sky. Or is it early evening already? The sun is bowing out after another day with a fluorish of royal gold. Plazas and spiring highrises reflect the warmth of the sky. The Don Valley is resplendant in orange and yellow and red on its own autumn terms. The clouds are piled in an uneven net. Above the metal shield of ceiling probably there are snatches of midday blue, but they won’t be seen through the dirty picture windows butted by rows of passengers. Snug rows or mashed rows is entirely a matter of opinion.

After several stops, with nothing else to do, we are gradually introduced to the characters. With such an expansive cast there’s certainly something of note, just keep your nose shut tight–evidently not everyone had a chance to shower before ariving at the set.

We don’t openly stare or acknowledge our companions, except for the lady in a checkered coat three seats down, but we are all aware. We can all hear the 11 year old japanese boy excitedly talking about Magic: The Gathering, explaining new cards and wondering at terrifying combos. I can’t help but be tempted to try a game, if only in my head. Certainly it’s been a long time. I don’t imagine many of the other thirty odd witnesses have any idea what the fuck, though. They can instead wonder at the boy’s company. Is that very much older fellow with him a brother, or a remarkably older friend, or even a young father? There could be a story there.

At the next stop, two new guys barrel onto the bus. 16 years, maybe less. One is impressively large and has a light, patchy goatee on the front of his ball-capped head. The other is of a similar feather, but regular size. His baggy jeans have metal dangling from them. Together this pair steals the frame. Their looming is probably partially unintentional, but it’s all part of the show. There’s something about a strike, it might relate to work or school, there’s something about not doing a paper, instead some other kind of paper, something about a girl. And then there’s something about wanting beer. At that age, who doesn’t? If this was ten years ago, Kurt Cobain would give these fellas direction. Grunge. “Yeah. It’s the next stop.”

As our public metal chariot pulls to the side and comes to rest, the loomers head toward the doors, but much to their chagrin no amount of shoving against them results in a way out. We discover, if we’d forgotten, the female voice of our busdriver as she explains them through the process of simply standing on the step and allowing the doors to open of their own accord.

“Bitch!” One of the grunge kids mutters on his way out. The kind-looking black man sitting right next to the doors with a small cardboard box package on his lap winces and slowly shakes his head. You, and others nearby register agreement with his sentiment–silently or with a quirked lip. The 23 year old university student at the very rear doesn’t notice. He has other things to think about, and his white headphones help take him away from them for a little while, or at least dull their edges.

Round a corner and into Pape station. With a surge of motion the tenuous connections made in this most momentary of communities fall away as quietly as they were formed. The subtle dynamic that had only just begun to unwittingly form becomes an empty line of almost comfortable red seats and a scuffed black floor; but soon to be replaced. We funnel easily across the platform, down the escalators and onto the waiting subway.

…then we thank the Gods that BUSF#CKER!!! evidently had other things to be doing on that particular afternoon.

On Tuesday and Wednesday this week I had an excellent little vacation to Toronto, managing to only miss one class as a direct* result. Tuesday night was Spoon (with Mary Timony) at Phoenix Nazi Concert Theatre and Matt snagged a drumstick. Stayed the night on Laura’s futon. Wednesday, Brian and I spent a day at the science centre with a primary focus on the Bodyworlds exhibition of plastinated bodies. It was close to being mindblowing. Very highly recommended. Then we went to Brian’s brother’s for porkchops and guillotines (dinner and a card game) and general relaxing. Then on to The Opera House where we met up with Ian, Monique, Matt and a friend of Ian’s named Josina and witnessed The Hold Steady and The Constantines. Both were excellent. Monique vehicled Matt and I to Union Station in plenty of time to catch the last bus back to Steeltown. All was good, all was bright.

*I missed a few others. I mean, I needed to sleep in Thursday morning, it was necessary for necessity’s sake.