Tag: transit

moments when I suck

As a transit reader, I sit as far in the back as possible, where it’s possible to wedge into a side seat, face forward, and slouch properly into my book right under the brightest lights, right in a corner where no one can bump me. She, as a maybe slightly crazy person, got on a couple of stops after I did, and proceeded to begin a monologue of utter, utter bile. A narrative thread thick with fucking pigs, wops the fucking lot of them or spics fucking spics and if he hadn’t fucking said those fucking lies, shit, it serves them right, fucking niggers, fuckers, mother fucking shits.. It’s not like it was even directed outward, her obvious hatred at the entire planet and every multi-celled organism on it, no. Oh no. She stood there, leaning brutishly over her over stuffed back-pack like it was a rebellious child she wanted to smack, talking only to herself. Hissing, whispering, barely above a disturbing murmur.

I tried to tune her out, and mostly succeeded, though there were a few moments when her volume reached out and clobbered my reading, usually with derogatory terms I had to search my memory for. (Like, okay, when she uses the word chink, she is obviously not referring to a plaster crack in a wall, but what the heck is a chug? Answer: I have no idea.) Every time the bus paused at a stop, my spirits lifted with a wild hope that when the doors opened, she would leave, and I would never see her again. More the fool me. Oh hope. Oh fallacy. Instead, she grew more violent with herself, more spirited. As my stop approached, I decided that I would brush past her as quickly as possible because I knew, I just knew that if she said anything even remotely hateful to my face, I’d slug her. It’s not that I’m violent, but more that I wouldn’t be able to help myself. I’m Canadian. I don’t even like to witness littering.

The time came. I pulled the cord, the bell rang, the bus slowed. I stood, collecting myself as compactly as possible, and slid past her, touching her as little as possible. Unfortunately, given her disposition, she’d been crowding into my corner more and more, and by the time I got up, when I say I slid past her, it’s more I squished past her, trying to get by. She turned, “Hey!” and I braced myself, telling myself to be nice, to leave my pointy things in my pocket, to not bunch my fist full of keys. “Ma’am,” she said, (ma’am? really?), “I would appreciate if you would say excuse me in the future, as pushing past people is rude.” Stunned, I replied, “Er, sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you. Sorry.” and exited with as much confused dignity as I could.

“Way to make a stand.” I thought at the corner, watching the bus drive by, “Next time I should set myself on fire.”

I have typed the word “fuck” today more times than I have spoken it the entire year

He was an ______. Everything hateful about the teenage brain. Ignorant yet opinionated, hateful, and crude. “You want to be remembered? Find some fucking ten year old kid with an ice-cream cone and shove it in his face. Bloody his fucking nose if you can. I guarantee you in fifty years, he’ll still be telling that story. That’s fuckin’ immortality, yeah. That’s being famous.”

It was easy to dislike him, even on sight. The semiotics of his clothing said he was aggressive, stupid, and mean. His uneven buzzcut matched his acne scars, matched the half smoked American cigarette that sat behind his ear, (looking like he’d fished it from the floor of a dirty men’s room), matched the cheap nylon sports jacket, matched the greasy whine of his voice. His accessories all looked stolen.

I was sitting across the aisle from him on the bus, on my way to see Michael for the last time before I left town, trying to concentrate on reading my lovely new book, and instead building up a quite justifiable loathing for the redneck prick loudly mouthing off beside me. He sat facing backwards in his seat, feet braced against the backrest, all the better to dispense his wisdom to the lapdog thug-kids he was talking to. Within reach, I thought.

“What you do is you shit on the pile of coats, fucking piss all over them, then fade back into the party. Someone will come out, say something fucking stupid, like, “hey, I think someone’s maybe shit on everything,” ’cause no one wants to be the fucking guy who says there’s shit, right? And you don’t say a fucking word. No one will know!”

My first impulse was to spook him, my second to drag him off the bus and pop him in the head. The story I was reading spoke of redemption, hatred, the torture of self-knowledge laid bare. I opted for my first idea. Less messy. Only gods and brave doctors know what he might have, anyway. One split knuckle is all it takes. Yuck.

Back in the day, I used to work for this six foot five Russian cowboy ‘from Old Country’ named Boris. A secretly teddy-bear NYC bouncer turned Toronto nightclub owner, he could be easily be the scariest man you might ever meet. I’ve only got one photograph of him, sadly, but in it, he dwarfs everything. It wasn’t his size, though, that was so intimidating, it was how he used his voice.

As the bus pulled through the intersection at 14th and 11th, I stood up, borrowed every actor’s trick of body I know to make myself seem as solid and immovable and as confident and nasty as possible, and I put my hand down hard on the boy’s shoulder. He looked up at me, rattled, surprised, people don’t touch strangers in the city, and I leaned down, met his widened eyes, conjured that wonderful Russian terror and very quietly said, “In my country, we kill children like you.”

Then I got off the bus, met Michael, and we had a lovely pot of tea. So there.

he seemed very nice, somehow

Heavy soft-box rain. The light was unreal in how beautiful it was. I took my glasses off at the bus-stop, didn’t put them back on until I found myself at work. It made me less nervous than I thought it would.

A girl standing on the bus leaned towards me, stage-whispered, “I like your hair.” as I passed her. I whispered back, “thank you” and sat down, unable to see her face. At Broadway Station, rain caught sharply on the flowers, a sudden unexpected illusion of clarity – the light from the petals stung my blindness like metal splinters.

I fidgeted with my hands on the train, unable to read without my glasses on. How do other people sit for so long without a book? A man sitting across from me seemed to be staring, but I couldn’t make it out. I wondered if my inability to focus gave me away as blind until another man, deliberate business casual, brown shoes, inoffensive glasses, crouched down at my feet to gently whisper, “I have to tell you.” I nodded, yes, willing to swear I had never met him before. Very quietly, solemnly, he whispered, “the way you look gives me an erection” into my ear. I whispered the same reply to him as I did to the girl on the bus, then he nodded, still looking grave, stood up and exited the car.

Work, so far, has not been a tenth as interesting.

the beginning oh whoredom

I have so much mail to reply to that it’s ridiculous. In form, it would have been half a young tree bleeding sap all over my carpet. A damaged piece of earth trailing broken roots across my kitchen and onto my desk. Printed and slippery, a texture taken for granted more than telephones. In face, it is the trappings of other hands, dancing like slow two fingered rain to flood my computer box. I can’t stop randomly smiling. I look down the other way inside me and feel a tingle flow from the soles of my feet. My world, those gods of laughter, this is the beginning of soon I’ll run.

When I have time, I will reply to you. I promise.

Until then, tell your friends, post it on forums:

You can vote for both COPE and Vision as they’re not competing with each other (one runs for 19/25 seats, the other runs for 6/25). That means: night buses, actual support of four pillars drug program, cheap housing, community policing and no Wal-Mart.

You can vote if you:

* are 18 years of age or older
* are a Canadian citizen
* have lived in B.C. for at least six months
* have lived in Vancouver for at least 30 days

So bring ID with an address and some back-up ID. Stamped letters and parcel-wrappers are good.

To find out where to vote, go here.
For descriptions of all candidates in their own words, go here.

Between my mind and my hands, my words are getting lost. They are collecting in all my joints, crackling when I move. I stretch and a paragraph shattered. Unfortunate, as I need to pretend I’m functionally literate in spite of my complete and utter lack of sleep, and whore myself out some. Because guess what? The time has come.

Back in spring, I had the misfortune of being arrested for smashing into shards the glass door of a bus with a paper sandled foot. I, having not noticed this misfortune, continued walking home. The police car, lights flashing, was not as unexpected as the police that poured from it to pin me with handcuffs and write me a court date. The ridiculousness of the situation was not lost on me, nor the officers present. All charges were subsequently dropped. However, the broken window must still be paid for, and my time is running out. Translink have begun to call. I’m planning on a colour-in-the-increment thermometer, like we had in grade school for food drives. If anyone’s got any bright ideas, feel free to pass them along. As well, invite friends, invite family. Jacques has asked me to make a flyer image for him to hand out at his play this week. (A weary inability to focus my eyes is demanding that I do that tomorrow). If you care to perform, just give me the say so and I’ll add you to our list of entertainments.

Jacques LaLonde and Jhayne Holmes present

KEEP JHAYNE FROM JHAYLE

a party of proportion

#340 – 440 west hastings

The Date: Friday, November 25th

The Time: 9:00 – onward

The Goal: $300.00