Malevolance

I had a horrible experience riding the bus on the way to work today. And I'm pretty sure only one other person noticed. But it shook me to my core.

I got on the 115 to go downtown and sat in a front-facing seat beside a man in a grey windbreaker jacket. And then it began.

Most people, when you sit down next to them, budge. Wiggle a bit. If only to acknowledge that you exist as a human being, that someone has come and sat next to them, if not to actually give you a bit of room.

Not so this person. He was stone. He wasn't exactly "manspreading," but our arms were touching lightly. I wiggled a few times to see if I could find a position where I wasn't touching him and could still keep my seat when the bus went around corners.

No go. It was either sit there uncomfortably all the way in, or move.

Fortunately, when we approached the south shore terminus, the last stop before getting on the bridge, several people got up, including a young lady who had been sitting in what I think of as my seat of choice: the sideways-facing seat right beside the wheel well, where I can plop the gigantic bag that holds my lunch and my knitting. So I made a beeline for this seat and hauled my big bag up onto the wheel well, and quietly prayed that the stone man wouldn't take my leaving as a personal insult, that he would see I had more room here, and let that be that.

Some tiny Asian woman sat next to him, and throughout the ride I kept stealing a glance to see how she was coping with Stoney. I could see she was uncomfortable. Stoney was unmoved.

She signalled to get off the bus before the terminus downtown - the bus makes several stops on different streets before arriving at the end of its journey. I briefly glanced up at her as she was leaving, and as my eyes dropped...

He was glaring at me.

I'm not talking a casual glance. I am talking murderous hatred.

I dropped my eyes quickly and minded my own business, but I'm pretty sure my blood pressure shot through the roof. I made sure he got off the bus well ahead of me, I kept him in sight as long as I could when I did get off, I stayed well behind him. And when I lost sight of him, I took careful note of who was around me, to the point of spinning around every so often to see if anyone was behind me, till I made it to my bus shelter.

I would normally have sat down, but today I put my back to the glass corner and peered in every direction, watching every pedestrian, looking for a grey windbreaker jacket.

Finally, some people I recognized came into the shelter, a man with his small son, and a friend of theirs, who were chatting amiably - about break-ins at their local gas station. And then the father received some phone calls that amounted to a roofer coming to his house to give an estimate, him calling his wife at the house to let her know that the man in their driveway was the roofer and it was okay to let him in...

Fear is real and danger is everywhere. When my grandparents, who basically raised me, were young people, the world seemed safer. I've often wondered if they lived especially sheltered or naive lives. But I remember my grandmother's anxiety over finding a $2 bill at the grocery store. She tried to give it to the cashier, who said it wasn't hers, she tried the person in front of her and behind her, and no one would take it, so she'd had no choice other than to bring it home.

And it bothered her. For days! Till I visited her, laughed at her story and took the offending $2 off her hands.

In her day, one did not even touch money that didn't belong to you. That was personal integrity.

Robberies were shocking.

It was unheard of that a workman, coming to your home, might pose a threat to your safety.

In London, in the 1800s, Jack the Ripper held the world in terror. Now there are television shows on every night of the week that show in graphic gory detail scenes similar to the ones he left behind, and worse, and we are becoming accustomed to the horror of it.

A single venomous glance today had me looking up whether it is legal in Canada to carry a knife for purposes of self-defence, and considering taking a self-defence for old ladies course. I actually had tears seeping out while I was scouring the perimeter in the bus shelter and had to stop myself from calling Boyfriend or Husband to come and get me. Both of whom, by the way, would undoubtedly dismiss my fears as unfounded, ridiculous, mood-disorder-anxiety-driven, and, above all, silly.

Silly woman.

The Suburban Cyclist (Hinterland Who's Who)

Like the return of the Geese, and the First Robin Redbreast, the appearance of the Suburban Cyclist is a harbinger of Spring in the Canadian Hinterlands.

This particular Suburban Cyclist is an adult female, well past her prime. There are many clues which give evidence of this. Note the baggy purple and pink plumage - it is in stark contrast to the svelt, darker, sleeker plumage sported by the young who are still of mating age. In those birds, you will see racing stripes and sometimes corporate logos, but you will most certainly see every curve and every cranny of the bird's body, to advertise to the opposite sex that it is ready to mate.

Not so with this particular bird. Its baggy jacket clearly indicates that it is well past breeding years. It is dressing for warmth and comfort, something the young never do.

Note also the cuffs of the bird's pants are rolled - if you were to suggest to a young bird that she roll her cuffs, she would roll her eyes at you. Only older birds roll their cuffs. It is an indication they are completely uninterested in mating.

Another clue as to the bird's age are the baskets on the rear of the bicycle, which in this case contain a bag of knitting.

Lastly you will note the heavy steel-frame of the bicycle, and the high-ride handlebars. These are clear indicators that the bird is well past her prime, and is not "showing off" for anyone while she is out riding. We do not know why this bird continues to ride, since she is obviously not seeking a mate, but we may surmise that it is out of habit, or perhaps even simply to get from A to B.

One oddity remains, the pleasant expression on the bird's face. Since she is not ready to mate, we have no explanation. Perhaps she is visiting her grandchildren.

For further information on the Suburban Cyclist, contact the Canadian Wildlife and Fisheries Service, 52 Sparks St., Ottawa.