So I did the usual mad dash for the bus today, jumping on well before the nick of time and was all sat and settled on the seat above the engine or something (It's the warmest seat on the bus), when I played witness to a marvellous scene.
Now, I've been bussing for several years, and though not a professional, I feel able to proudly call myself an expert on commuting - there isn't a bus nor train timetable in the land I cannot read. The point is, I'm familiar enough with the customs and etiquette asosciatted with the pastime well enough to successfully make minor predications on occasion.
For instance, at that moment when I was all sat and relatively comfy to the point of being exceptionally unfidgety, the clock struck the departure time and the vehicle started revving up as outside a little middle-aged lady ran as fast as her legs could take her up to the side of the bus.
Now, this may come as surprise to strangers of public transportation and bussing in general as to the stock twisted sense of humour apparent to those who drive large human carrying vehicles for a living, but as I said earlier, primarily due to myself being a victim of such larks myself on many similar an occasion, I clearly saw what was about to happen next:
As the lady was within relief's distance of the open entrance (when hope and success are at their closest proximity without touching each other), the driver slammed the door with the casual ambivalent aplomb that only seasoned bus drivers can pull off so perfectly infuriating and made to zoom off leaving behind a signature cloud of dust and smoke, and nodoubt drench her in a nearby puddle if he was lucky.
However, he got no further than a bare meter of his getaway before the really remarkable thing happened.
Everything happened almost at once.
"Driver!" yelled a bespectacled lady in the first row, her first voice of dissent rising above the heads of those standing where the latecomers go.
"Hang on!" shouted a well dressed gent with distinguished cheek creases as he firmly gripped the driver's arm in an attempt to stay his acceleration.
"Stop!" simultaneously yelled another man in a brown corduroy jacket behind the first lady, raising his hands in the air to stop the fifteen tonne machine using the power of his palms while the shocked younger woman beside him looked back at the forgotten passenger consoling her with her concerned gaze.
Diagonally across the first wave of dissidents, an old lady in a flower-patterned dress waved a rolled up newspaper angrily in the air while her elderly husband balled up his wrinkled old fists demanding to know what the driver was playing at while the businessman with the briefcase and expensive suit standing in the aisle beside them joined in with an equally incensed "Hey, Hey, Hey!"
Dangerously energized by the use multiple of 'heys' in close succession the twelve and thirteen year olds scattered about the bus, drunk with the excitement of it all took up their pre-designated roles as rabble-rousers, encouraging the normally docile members of the general public to transform into a fully formed insurgency.
Indignation was heard from the snooty looking woman in the fashionable overcoat as a general caterwaul and hullabaloo (with a spot of brouhaha) arose from the hormone infested ranks of adolescents and young adults in the rafters, among whom was a young man taking the opportunity to impress his girlfriend with his ability to protest for great justice. A dozy overweight football supporter swilling a bottle of unidentified drink peaked up showing genuine interest as a spotty boy with a sight-impairing fringe and stripy shirt pulled a telltale white iPod earphone out of his ear to figure out what was going on.
And among the cries of fury and outrage a great presence was suddenly shown by who I presume was a Sikh gentleman, when he rose out of his seat, stood in his suit, beard and turbaned glory like a general among his troops, pointed an accusing finger at the driver and cried out, 'For Shame!'
It was at this moment I felt sorry for the driver. The poor man had only been following his natural driverly instincts after all. He could never have seen this coming, and now, before he could comprehend what was happening, he had a busload of full scale riot on his hands.
A hockey player jumped out of his seat brandishing his sporting implement like a sharpened sabre, ready to strike the moment the order was given and a pair of Nigerian ladies sitting up close started yelling unfathomable abuse at the driver as the usual unseemly and suspicious looking youths sitting at the back started a glorious chant of "LET HER ON! LET HER ON!"
And where was I during all this? Three rows from the back yelling a solitary, well rehearsed loud (but discreet) "Yeah!" as events took their own stride in my imagination.
In my mind's eye I saw our turbaned general leading the charge, and together with the well dressed gent with the distinguished cheek creases, pulling the overpowered driver out of his cubicle while all the pensioners and children looked on hurling insults and pelting him with tickets and ripped up bus-passes. The crowd whooped and cheered as the protesting oppressor was ceremoniously thrown out the door, his hated black stamper following in his wake. And then the forgotten lady, the catalyst to the sudden middle-class revolution, was let in to jubilant cheering and applause. Complete strangers embraced and kissed each other in celebration as the fat football supporter took his shirt off and tied it to the hockey stick waving it around like a flag and the businessman sprayed the contents of his briefcase like ticker tape streaming across the interior.
Window passengers smashed away the glass, climbing up and sitting atop the roof like victors astride their spoils handing the bottle of mystery drink around, and then the spotty kid connected his iPod to the bus radio and took to the wheel while the speaker blared the 1812 overture to the dancing and merry free peoples of bus 72.
And off went that freedom bus, with no obligations, destinations or scheduled stops into the distant horizon looking for a convenient Bastille or Winter Palace to storm, but making do with a Burger King and a couple of bingo halls (for the pensioners). Or so it would have had not actual events merged into pure fantasy somewhere around halfway through this entry. However, this pleasant daydream lasted me well past my duration of my trip home, and in my book that's a satisfactory compromise. Vive la bus.
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village_idi0t's journal
chipper
