The Bus Driver

Photograph, 2011. 

Night Train

The Bus Crash

Last night I dreamed I caught a bus home from work in a sprawling city bounded by an endless coniferous forest. I was the only passenger on the bus, an old-style model from the 1980s with orange plastic bench seats. I was sitting up front, near the passenger entrance; aside from the driver, I was the only one on the bus. 

"He's taking this turn way too fast," I thought an instant before the bus crashed through a guardrail and went sailing down an embankment toward a stand of rough-looking pine. 

"Well, this is it, I'm dead," I said with a mixture of annoyance and contempt for the driver. We hit the trees hard and were flung violently against the bus interior, but we both survived miraculously. Our rescue wasn't detailed, and in the next scene of the dream I was discussing the accident with Sylvia in our apartment, which resembled our old condo. She wasn't terribly concerned about the crash. I, however, felt every ache and pain of a crash that felt as though it had bruised every bone and organ in my body. 

Then I sat down at my computer and wrote a blog post explaining why I'd missed writing anything the night previous; I'd been recuperating from the crash. 

When I woke up I remember that I hadn't forgotten to post last night, but I felt phantom dream-pain until the moment I fully came to my senses in the shower. Vivid dreams are a cursed blessing. 

When You're Hot, You're Hot

Whew! It's a scorcher in Alberta's capital today - enough heat to knock out power at the corner of 124th street and Jasper Avenue and to incapacitate my afternoon bus right at that very intersection. Dead bus + no traffic lights = cranky commuters, whether on public transit or private vehicles.

Fortunately another bus rescued the two dozen or so sweaty riders belched from the doors of our fallen carriage, and despite what seemed an interminable delay escaping the gridlock on the west end of Jasper, I made it to West Edmonton Mall in time to catch a transfer home. (Normally I walk from WEM to our condo, but today I was worried I'd catch heat stroke, as I so often have in the past.)

As a creature of the north, I still find Alberta's hot summer days uncomfortable, even many years after I should have acclimatized. Since my body refuses to accept that it doesn't live in northern Manitoba anymore, I've had to take precautions such as drinking lots of water and staying in cool basements or air-conditioned offices.

How Many Times Has Earl Suffered Heat Stroke? (not a comprehensive list)

"I'll certainly be cool enough next to this fountain!"

1. Namao air show circa 1988 and again circa 1990 (rendered unto incoherence to the nervous glances of friends, skin tone: Afterburner Glow)
2. Las Vegas 2004 ("Boy, you look like a boiled lobster!" exclaimed one helpful southerner; incapacitated for one day, skin tone: Three-Cherry Jackpot)
3. Honolulu 2008 while listening to a Barack Obama campaign speech (skin tone: Republican Rage)
4. Mexico 2012 while touring Chitzen Itza (rescued by helpful Mayans and Germans, skin tone: Abashed Tourist)
5. Nelson, B.C. circa 1973 (vomited up pink ice cream, saved by parents, skin tone: Tantrum Toddler) 

Stay frosty out there.

"Hey now, someone tell that Canadian kid to put on some sunscreen."

The Men Who Fell in Buses

The Confederation spans the great continent of Zaiul, bordered to the north by the Principality of Stallisfair and to the south by Tyranus. Its two greatest cities lie at opposite ends of the nation: La flourishes along the rocky, wind-tossed northeast coast, while Callidar basks in the sunshine and ocean breezes of the sandy southwestern shoreline. Both cities, like the nation, are rich, though vastly different in character. To understand these differences, we must first understand the story of the men who fell in buses: one in Callidar, and one in La.

The city of La is new. Her gleaming golden skyscrapers and arching, winged towers are modern, her culture cosmopolitan. La is the home of the Confederation's artists and engineers, its philosophers and scientists. The people of La pride themselves on their compassion and rationality. Life in La is good, and the people, for the most part, are happy.

The city of Callidar is old - older than the Confederation itself, by many centuries. Her castles and walls are ancient, weathered by time, and even the new buildings are deliberately constructed to echo times past. Her culture is traditional, with sacred rituals celebrated daily. Callidar is the home of the Confederation's entrepreneurs and writers, its explorers, healers and historians. The people of Callidar pride themselves on their wisdom and love. Life in Callidar is good, and the people, for the most part, are happy.

Both cities feature efficient and comfortable public transit, to ferry citizens to and fro from business to pleasure and everywhere in between. The service is reliable and fairly priced, and indeed so popular that its own success has led to one significant drawback: there's rarely a free seat.

In the city of La there lived an entertainer named Natit. Natit was young and fit, and could have endured many minutes of standing in the aisle of a crowded bus. But Natit was lazy. And so one day Natit, fuming over the perceived injustice of being forced to stand, hatched a clever plan.

One morning, Natit boarded the bus and squeezed himself between two other riders standing midway down the aisle of the bus. He clasped the overhead safety strap and waited.

When the bus made its first sharp turn, Natit cried out "Oh!" and allowed himself to fall, propelled by force into the laps of two passengers seated nearby. "I'm so sorry!" Natit cried, helping the stunned citizens gather up their belongings from the floor. Then Natit took his place in the aisle again, smiling weak apologies at those he'd disturbed.

Then, when the bus came to a sudden stop for crossing pedestrians, Natit allowed the inertia to fling him headlong down the aisle. He landed with a crash.

"Young man, are you all right?" asked another passenger.

"Yes, yes," said Natit, climbing to his feet. "I'm so sorry. I seem to have developed a problem with my inner ear, and so it's very hard for me to retain my balance."

Several passengers made sympathetic noises at this, and many offered their seats. Natit held up his hands and said he couldn't possibly take anyone's seat, but the chorus was unanimous: sit, sit.

And so Natit, by deception, prospered, and never again did he lack a seat on the bus.

At nearly the same time, in faraway Callidar, another man relied on the bus. This man, an aging marine biologist named Eldir, one day developed an infection of the inner ear that went undiagnosed and permanently disrupted his sense of balance. After years of riding his bus from home to the oceanographic institute and back without mishap, Eldir suddenly found himself teetering over like a felled tree the moment his bus took even a gentle turn. Like Natit, Eldir found himself crashing to the floor or falling across the laps or shoulders of his fellow passengers.

But on the buses of Callidar, poor Eldir found no sympathy.

"Faker!" cried his fellow passengers. "Charlatan!" "Shame!" Eldir repeated his heartfelt apologies daily, but in the end he joined a car pool and rode in safety - though at greater expense. And so Eldir, by disability, suffered, and never again did he enjoy the communion of bus riders.

Why then did the rational people of La not recognize the probability that lazy Natit was lying? And why did the loving souls of Callidar not see the truth of honest Eldir's condition?

The answer lies between the lines, dear reader.

Monorail to Monument Valley

Last night I dreamed that I was a student at the U of A again, and that some of my classes took place at the new Strathcona University annex, located in Monument Valley, Utah/Arizona. Luckily Edmonton's LRT system extended all the way to Strathcona U. in the world of the dream, and though the trip took many hours, the scenery was spectacular. I arrived at dawn, a spectacular sunrise throwing the stone monoliths into silhouette as the LRT cars glided into the station.

It was an appealing vision, but when I awoke I realized that winding many kilometres of rail through Monument Valley would probably ruin the landscape. Still, progress, always progress!