Dances with Buses

In which the Elegant Bastard encounters a bus, signs his newest work of art and brings order to the relevant portions of the universe.

I had ordered a chicken. Those who arrange such things had promised it would be ready upon my arrival. It was therefore clear that I needs must shake off lethargy, seize the day – or at least what remained of the morning – and head out into the world now busily unfolding itself outside my window.

I considered what I thought were all relevant factors: the weather, the most pleasant route, the availability of good coffee along said route, the wisdom of wearing shorts in late September, the likelihood of encounters with maniacal dogs.  I glanced at the television and noted that while Syria was still being Syria and Nairobi had definitely become Nairobi, there was nothing really new I needed to worry about. I gathered up my shopping list, secured my wallet and my phone in the appropriate pockets, made sure I had my lottery numbers, donned my helmet and set off on my bike. Ahead of me stretched a row of green traffic lights. Things were underway and all was good.

I had not considered buses.

I never really do. They chuff and belch and fart their way along in the appropriate lane and generally ignore my presence. They are ungainly creatures, not much given to elegance, and when I come across one that is resting, it strikes me as something akin to a giant prehistoric cow, chewing its cud complacently and waiting to be driven somewhere. Coming up behind one in traffic can be vaguely annoying, rather like being in the supermarket express line behind a shopper with three too many items and a heavy change purse. I sigh and lean on the handlebars and wait for normal traffic to resume. Ah well. Tant pis. Let’s think of pleasant things. What wine with the chicken tonight? Or what was the name of that pastry shop in Paris, the one with the lemon macaroons?

So when the Don Mills 25 decided it wanted to dance with me, I was unprepared. The world shrank. Paris was gone and so were all the world’s macaroons. It all came down to me, one street corner and a twelve ton beast that apparently wanted to reach out and touch someone! It came up suddenly on my left, sped past and turned right. A leisurely discussion of alternatives did not seem to be an option, especially since the bus’s back door had grabbed my handlebar in passing and was now using it to propel me towards a rapidly approaching concrete post. I wrenched my handlebar further right, braked hard and leaned toward a gap between parked cars. Somehow my bike popped free of the bus’s embrace and came to a stop. I was on the ground, the bus was moving on, a woman was asking if I was all right and somewhere a dog was barking.

When a cyclist falls on asphalt, does he make a noise? Yes, Dear Reader, he does, and fortunately others decided to join in. In due course, we became a loud assembly, a group composed of me, my battered bike, a now parked bus with its hazard blinkers flashing, a bemused driver, a cynical transit supervisor, two sympathetic police officers and assorted members of a chorus who watched and muttered and nodded. Interviews were conducted, forms were filled out and statements were signed, proof yet again that, as a species, we are much better at and more comfortable with “afters” than we ever are with “befores”. Finally a general feeling that enough had been done took hold and the street corner began to clear. I was wondering how to get my bike to a repair shop when an older gentleman came up to me, grasped my shoulder and told me I was lucky that the bus had not had my name on it.

It was at that point that the absurdity of it all became more profound than Paris and more delicious than lemon macaroons. I began to laugh. How could I not? I had set out on a quiet quest for chicken and I’d been hit by a bus. Yet here I was, interrupted and delayed but quite unharmed. True, something had rumbled across my path and delivered me a glancing blow before moving on, apparently untroubled and uncaring. But how could it be seen as God or Fate. If Gods there must be, then I want them coming after me with fanfares and shields and spears. At the very least I want them equipped with thunderbolts. No God worthy of the rank delivers a message via bus! Fate might well choose to write our epitaphs with Time’s moving finger, but with a moving bus?

I even thought for a moment of the world’s terrorists, those random young men rushing about looking for the penises they never had and brandishing their Uzis, bazookas, missiles and other borrowed phallic symbols. How long would they love their various silly causes if they were sent out into the world to wreak holy havoc with a bus? Try shoving that down the front of your pants.

No, I was as I had been before:  entirely free and just a little more aware of that condition. Nothing malignant had taken aim at me. No force was either with me or against me. No fickle sickle had left its mark.  Of the two primary participants in our little street corner two-step, only I had entered with design, purpose and destination. I would leave with all of them intact. In fact, the bus had merely lurched; only I had danced.

And then a new and wonderful thought occurred to me. I wandered over to my still blinking partner and examined its side closely. There it was, a long straight scar where my bike’s handle bar had scratched the paint. As da Vinci had his Mona and Warhol his Marilyn, I had signed my bus!

An hour later and I had walked my wounded warrior to the repair shop. For the brief time that it took them to restore it to its previous perfection – and give it a clean and a polish – I sipped an Americano, finalized my wine list and used my phone’s internet browser to discover the location of a store selling lemon macaroons. On the way to the bike shop, I bought my lottery ticket and, moved by my love of all things ironic, some bus tokens.

As I sat myself back on my bike and adjusted my helmet, I suddenly remembered the Lone Ranger, an iconic figure from the myths of my childhood and I smiled at the memory. I wondered for a moment how I might look in boots and spurs. Then I shook my head and moved back out into my lane. I had places to go. And out there waiting was a chicken with my name on it.

Those attracted to this kind of existentialism might enjoy the argument that we all acknowledge our inner sluts. Read about it here: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-6l