Sitting on the number 7 bus, heading down Rideau Street after work in a rare state of satisfied near-exhaustion (a reward for nearly doubling the distance of my infrequent treadmill sessions) I people-watch lazily out the window while methodically rating songs on my iPod in a futile attempt to add a further layer of organization to my 3,500 song library. The bus, following the detour caused by the ridiculous Bank Street construction, makes a wide, loopy left-hand turn onto O’Connor. A well dressed man in his mid-thirties, trim with respectfully graying hair and shiny brown leather shoes, moves to cross the street directly in the path of the slow moving bus. The bus driver slams on her brakes, causing the passengers to lift their noses from their Metro’s and trashy novels in the hopes of seeing something that might add some excitement to the end of their day. The driver throws open her window and spits a rapidly flowing stream of angry near-obscenities at the man. He walks calmly over to the window, rests his hand of the edge, leans in and in a quiet Quebec-French English accent, bordering on France-French, he says:
“Hey. Relax, why don't you? Life, she is too short to be worrying about ze small things.”
To which I though ‘Um, yeah. Especially if you are in the habit of walking in front of moving busses.’
D.
wonderful! more, more, more please uncle d!
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Saturday, September 23, 2006