February Morning, On the Bus

In the seat behind the driver, for persons with mobilité réduite, at first he seems like yet another old person on a half-full bus in this mid-morning hour, when the elderly venture out on errands while the sun is highest and the wind less bitter. He wears an old black fur hat, a dun-colored knee-length jacket of some smooth material and dubious warmth; corduroy trousers; boots. Between his legs, in a sturdy gym bag imprinted with the logo of a local radio station, is a large but dated computer CPU. Perhaps it's broken and he's taking it for repairs...I speculate as we pass the auto-glass and used-appliance shops along Papineau. But his face! Cascades of curling grey hair, tinged with the red that used to color it; a long beard; a wide gap between his front teeth, or perhaps one is missing; red-rimmed eyes that gaze calmly out the window opposite; sensitive hands with long fingers resting calmly on the top of his baggage. On one wrist, a watch; on the other, a bracelet made of small interlocking hearts of gold and silver metal. A deeply-lined face, and down one cheek, from eyebrow to jaw, a vertical scar that looks like it was made by a saber.

He walks out of Tolstoy, stands up and exits at rue Marie-Anne.

Comments

[Avery]

This is one of my favourite things about living in the city and taking public transit - people watching. There are so many interesting people to watch and wonder what their lives are like. The image of his red-tinged hair stands out the most to me - such a vivid description!

There is one person whom I saw in the subway who stands out in my memory. I wrote about him last spring: http://dialogueswithsilence.wordpress.com/2009/04/30/in-transit/

[Kim]

I love seeing the world through your eyes, Beth.

[Peter]

Great last line. Was it snowing?

[Robb]

Kia ora Beth,
Wow, what a great moment you describe Beth. I agree whole heartedly with Kim.
Aroha,
Robb

[laurie]

the more we interact with the world, the more we see.

seems self-evident. but sealed up in our cars and homes, we forget this.

[dale]

(o)