I saw a large canvass handbag in the back of bus. Opened and showing its contents through its wide leather lips: an agenda, a pair of Converses, a large brown trifold women's wallet.
This is the #11 Mississauga bus going to Islington Subway 5:30 in the afternoon. Bus had maybe ten people in it and everybody was exhausted from work; nobody is about to go rummaging the bag either for goodness of heart or gainful profit. Still, it was odd. all the regulars that takes the #11 with me everyday are too savvy in the ways of the suburban city to leave things lying around like that.
I took one of those two-seaters on the right of the bus and ate my sandwich. Stared back out to Westwood Mall and the Food Basics.
A tall girl with hair shrouding her face walked angrily, quickly up the bus. She started speaking to the bus driver. I couldn't hear what she was saying. But her whole body spoke. Her hand gesticulating to each movement oof her lips. Her body shook. Hair like dried river reeds in autumn wind. She looked like she was about to … I don't know. Like something violent or volcanic. I'd half-expected the bus driver to kick her off. But he didn't: she was threatening him or anything. Just another frantic chick on the bus out of Missisauga.
She had to be young. Her clothes. Grey jogging pants fraying at the ankle. They drew her legs long if they weren't long already. A flattened puffy parka with those fake fur fringed hoods that are everywhere at the malls. It's red but faded from salt-spray. She was coloured - like me. those I can't tell with all her hair over her face. Black or brown - it's hard to say.
Though it's hard to imagine too many white folks riding on this bus: it's the last ride of the damned. Only those too poor or mentally and physical incapable ride this bus in and out of hell.
She looked pretty. But it's hard to say. I could see her face with her hair and the large orange rays of the last sunset through the white covered metro-bus windows. I had idly wondered. Mostly, detachly.
She clunked back quickly, in those cheap $30 sneakers that are washed impossibly white. She grabbed the large, almost spilling canvas bag and sat down in the right-corner seat of the bus. She swung her legs over to the intersecting seats and hugged her bag and slept with her hood down.
I slept too and fiddled with my phone and ate my sandwich and watch what I can out of the dirty windows to Woodbine Racetracks. There is the highway that passes the airport. There isn't much on this side of town. The corner of the city everybody forgets. I was forgetting too. Hoping to wash away much of the stench of Brampton with as much road speed as the #11 can push out until we hit the City again. Passed Burnamthrope and all of sudden the easy leafy houses of Etobicoke. And it was so easy to forget the ugliness just a line on the map away. By the time the bus hit Islington Station, I had regained my Toronto self back and got off and bid the foul orange bus fairwell till tomorrow.
It was good and, normally, I'd take the subway home. I noticed today, in the back corner, a red form still crunched up, leaned into the window at the back of the bus. The driver saw too and moved to the back and gentlely nudge a grey knee of the girl. She closed her legs and leaned into the window in sleepy form. The driver nudged her again -- softer really -- and she woke up. Straight up.
Still clutching that big bag over her chest, she climbed off the bus. I saw her face finally. Young except her eyes. And it was impossible for me to guess how old she could be. Pretty except for her large frightened eyes. As if she was running away from something or watching out for somebody who will track her down.
She pulled out a pack of -- Cravens maybe, I had only seen warehouse workers smoke them before. I was already beyond curious. I stayed on the curb of the sidewalk. Like I was waiting for the bus. She kept smoking, smoking, and staring. Till she was done and went into the subway. I went into the subway too and saw that she was standing just away from the collector's booth like she has never been there before. She looked all around her like she was lost.
I felt like I should go over and asked if she needed help. I don't know. She seemed like she needed more help myself or anyone else can possibly offer in a busy subway station. She dashed to some of the payphones. I should mind my own business, I thought, she is calling somebody now for whatever it is that she needs.
I swiped my metropass and got into the gate. I thought about getting a Toronto Star. I had not bought a newspaper in years and the newsstand clerk had to tell me that the paper is 75-cents now. I fumbled for a while for that one extra quarter.
I crossed back to take the stairs to the platform level. On my way down, I saw the girl one last time. She was still outside the gates. She hadn't used the payphone at all. She was just half-hiding herself by the small wall next to the phones.
I kept an emergency subway token in my change purse, in a separate compartment. Maybe I should've gone back out and just gave it to her. If she did needed help, she won't find it on the edge of Toronto. Downtown. At least there are shelters there. It was going to be a cold night.
My feet took it's own course. It took each step down. And I saw her face peering out one last time and I was gone.
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