A streetcar driver named Diablo

By Jonathan Durant

It was early in the morning. The sun was just creeping above the horizon while the birds, who knew better, were still sleeping wherever they call home. The bus ride from hell was about to be unleashed.

I was waiting at the Whitehorn train station for a bus, all the while remembering that I forgot my essay on the kitchen table. I was already feeling like shit when the bus finally came. The door slid open, revealing the driver I’d wished death upon the week before for driving away while I was running for the same bus. Handing him my transfer with a sneer, I trudged to the back of the bus. What could possibly be waiting for me at the back of this early morning bus? High school students, of course.

And not just any high school students: these ones were from Fowler, a school where white powder on the ground is rarely flour, and cars are typically used for purposes other than driving. Nevertheless, I was determined, and sat down next to a girl who was probably suffering from a case of mistaken identity and thought she was Britney Spears. Either that or she just loved wearing fluorescent pink mini-skirts in the dead of winter.

As the bus took to 32nd Avenue -a stretch of road known for its abundance of porn stores and fast food chains-I sensed this would be no ordinary bus trip. Beside me, Ms. Spears was conversing on her cell phone with one of her presumably bimbo friends about her latest sexual encounter, which was probably with some guy five years her senior who operates a fork-lift. However, her irritating voice was not the only one echoing throughout the bus that morning.

Near the front sat an old woman who felt that the entire bus needed to be informed about her dysfunctional family. If I remember it correctly, her daughter was thrice divorced and her husband was screwing his secretary; although it could have been the other way around.

A few seats back from her was a pack of prepubescent elementary boys who were talking about the best way to get in the sack with a girl and then dump her. I was starting to think the devil himself was going to make a guest appearance when I overheard a girl across the aisle asking some guy on the phone to remember her clothes from last night, and if he could make sure to return the video.

Feeling like busting open the back window and escaping the sheer madness of Calgary Transit, I kicked myself for not buying a car. Never have I been so conscious of what other people were doing on the bus: normally I just sleep or stare blankly at the cheesy advertisements.

A sociology major probably would have loved the ride that morning. I’m sure there would have been some award-winning paper written about how the bus was a microcosm of society or some other demented theory.

The bus did finally clear out, and the university lay ahead. While I was thanking God for restraining me from losing it on the bus, we stopped abruptly and the young woman sitting on the other side of me-who I had thought to be the most sane person on the bus-spilled her coffee all over me.

Soaked in latte, my mind filled with images I wouldn’t wish on George Bush himself, and my sanity stood in the balance. With school still a couple of stops away, I stood up, pulled the cord, and walked the last 10 minutes.