BUS PEOPLE
By
Debra Waker
November 2020
Bus people; my traveling companions. We wait in the early hours of the morning for the number 85. Seeing its red top creep up the hill we get in line ready to take our places. With cursory nods to the driver, we troop on board in silence. I settle myself in the middle part of the bus and look round to see who is there. The middle-aged group of civil servants with identity tags round their necks are dozing over their newspapers.
Near me, sit the young student nurses. They are mainly quiet, but at the next stop, when Jane gets on, the chattering will begin. Then I will hear all about their training, the upcoming exams and how difficult it is to study for them; about their practical work and what they liked and disliked. One year a couple of them got married so there were the wedding plans to discuss; the dresses, the maids of honour, who was invited and who not and of course, where the honeymoon would be. I certainly miss their cheerful company after they get off at the hospital and I continue my solitary journey.
One day there was a new addition. She sat next to me. A moderate punk in pink. I watched her breakfast routine with fascination. Encumbered with a large backpack, water bottle, coffee and chocolate croissant, her movements were careful and precise unlike the rest of her attire. Her backpack safely stowed behind her legs, she gently placed the coffee between her knees and then the brown bag containing the croissant on top of the coffee. Tearing open the paper bag, she would break the croissant into smaller pieces before eating it. The smell of chocolate was overpowering. It drifted up, taking hold of me; that sickly sweet smell, the fat of the croissant adding to the aroma of coffee. I regretted my healthy breakfast of muesli and tea.
My attention was invariably drawn to the seat opposite me. “I hate work,” the man expounded almost daily to the young woman who sat next to him. “Meetings, meetings, meetings, that is all we ever have. The work piles up and we have meetings. When I ask them what is the point, they say they will tell me when I get there.” He scarcely stopped to draw breath before he continued again. “Meetings! They are just spouting a lot of nonsense. What about you?” He would ask as an afterthought. The young woman sits quietly beside him holding her open book. Before he joined my bus people, I would see her, both mornings and evenings sitting quietly, head bent, oblivious to all that was going on around her as she read her book. With his addition to our number, she would look at him, then longingly back to her book, “We don’t have many meetings,” she would generally say in a small voice.
But the young man was undeterred. “They are such a waste of time. Nothing useful ever comes from them. They just go on and on and on.” I would nod my head in silent agreement. I knew just how he felt, although my sympathies, on these journeys, lay with the silent woman. His voice becomes a mellow buzz in my mind as I continue to look about me.
The civil servants have reached their destination and another group climbs aboard. They are mainly construction workers for the site further down the road. They march on, wearing heavy work boots, carrying their hard hats and large lunch containers. The progress of the building has kept me engrossed for many months. First, there was the digging of the hole. Enormous bulldozers tearing at the ground creating huge mountains of earth. Large trucks removing the earth would drive back and forth from the site, clogging the traffic and holding up the bus for short periods. Then there was the building itself. At first, progress seemed slow but suddenly the structure appeared and shortly thereafter, naked lights were shining inside. Nice though the building was when it was finished, it is that large deep hole that stays in my memory.
A few stops from the hospital, school kids pile onto the bus. They look for their friends that had got on earlier. The older teens, cell phones clasped to their ears, stride down the aisle to the back. I use this time as an opportunity to keep up with the latest fashion. Jeans and bare midriffs are the uniform of the day. Any expense saved on clothes appears to be spent on hair. The range seems to be from the neat and tidy look with hair extensions pulled back into a pony tail, to the expensive disheveled style with every multi toned tangled bit of hair well glued into place. The younger girls sit and giggle with their friends; backpacks open, trinkets are shown and admired.
Under the bridge and round the corner and I arrive at my stop. Sometimes it is just me, but if the fireman who works just across the road is on the early shift, he would be there too. Standing beside me we wait for the doors to open and clamber down from the bus ready to start our day. He is a friendly soul, chatting and saying ‘Hi’ to everyone.
We have spent three years traveling the same route together, sharing the same cold winter mornings and the same sunny warm evenings. We have enjoyed the same welcoming signs of spring as the tulips bloomed at Dow’s Lake and watched the same leaves change colour as we’ve driven past the Agricultural Farm. Although we have never spoken, nor acknowledged each other, if one of my bus people was not on board, I would wonder where they were; if they were on holiday or maybe sick at home. Sometimes I would see one of them in the market or at the mall. I would acknowledge them in silence and go on my way, knowing that I would see them again on the number 85.
I have not made that journey for many a year. In fact, I no longer live in Ottawa. But, every so often I think about my bus people with affection and smile to myself.
© Debra Waker