Thursday, February 03, 2011

That is one red rocket I won't ride.

Toronto’s big storm yesterday forced me off my bike and onto public transit. Cabernet commented on the weekend that I am high maintenance, a statement I disagree with, it all depends on your definition of high maintenance, but alas, I am not made for public transport. To quote Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles “I loath the bus”. Or in my case, the streetcar.

I am sure there are weather delays, cars blocking the tracks, red lights and the like, but how is it that EIGHT trams go west, the last six near empty, before one heads east? Surely there is a better planning system. Ideally, I would have my own private railway car like the railroad barons of yesteryear, but even I concede that is not feasible. Where would I park it?

As there was ample time, I was privy to some conversations going on around me. Two young boys, who only go a couple blocks to school I presume, were chatting and one leaned out into the street (why people do that I will never know, it won’t make it come any faster. If that worked, I would lean over the lotto terminal a lot more) to look for the streetcar.

Stepping back onto the curb, he said to his friend “the TTC is just not what it used to be”. Uh, hello? You are maybe in the 5th grade? How long have you been using transit exactly? Made me smile to hear such an adult comment from such a wee young lad.

That was to be the last smile of the trip. Etobicoke is far flung enough that even with delays, you can usually get a seat. I managed to score a single so as not have to worry about an unsavoury mate. Next to me or not, the trip turned out to be less than pleasant.

Just after the Humber loop, a male person boarded the street car and moving from front to back, without really pausing, asked everyone for $2. I assume he was unsuccessful as the forward motion sent him to the back quite quickly. There, he found what I can only assume, was an unwilling partner in conversation.

“Man! A dude needs to get laid more. You know? I mean really get laid. Been too long man. Too long. For real.” Granted, he did not descend to the use of lewd language. Every minute or so though, his emphatic plea for companionship was interrupted by his spitting on the floor.

And not just a ‘usual’ sort of spit, but the throat clearing, nose sucking kind. My coddled eggs and toast almost came up in my lap.

“Yup. Going to get laid. That’s what I am going to do” he said as he pulled to cord and made a hasty exit. I don’t know exactly where he was going, but that is one lucky lady.


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