Bad behavior in public, part 3.

If you need to catch up on the story, you'll find part 1 here...
You'll find part 2 here...

There was a great clamour and confusion surrounding us in the parking lot. I certainly wasn’t the only one who wanted to get away from the Steveston Tall Ship Festival. I realize that, while we are all unique in this world, similar folks will often find themselves placed together by circumstance. I was one of several hundred mildly smart people who had come to the conclusion that they’d been tricked into attending a huge, under-organized, painful non-event. We were the ones who knew that, if you wanted to get out, it would be best to flee before all those dorks down by the river tired of their crushing, banal experience and decided to migrate home. It would be best to be ahead of that horde of goofy, sun-stroked enthusiasts and leave them to the fate they richly deserved. As such, there was an “every man for himself” vibe on the scene. We were all abandoning ship and looking for lifeboats.

Tired seniors, parents with their meltdown toddlers, dissatisfied yuppies, and I all clutched the same leaflet with instructions as to which bus you needed to catch and where it might be found. We puzzled over these scraps of paper like they were papyrus inscribed with some ancient, cuneiform writing. The bus names were non-representational and numerical, their locations were obscure, and their destinations were cryptic to the non-resident. After much consideration I concluded that I needed bus # G473 to Meanderville, which might be found in the sector 12 quadrant of the lot. (Okay, I made that up because I can’t remember what it actually was. Mine is easier to remember. You get the idea.)

Armed with an ephemeral hunch as to what I needed to find, I doggedly dragged my boy around the never-ending rim of the lot and pushed through the rapidly growing crowds. I needed to inspect the cards stuck next to the entrance door of each bus. The few buses in attendance were either full, or their doors were closed with a rough, crowdesque queue bunching up within sprinting distance for when the doors actually opened. After fifteen minutes of hiking, shoving, inspecting, and eliminating I finally came across bus # G473 to Meanderville. We arrived just in time to see the last people implausibly wedge themselves into its door as the damn thing chugged away.

And then another one pulled up at my feet. Immediately! It was empty! I goggled at the card on the door. G473 fer Chissakes! The door opened with a hiss and a shudder. Angels sang and blew trumpets. My son and I strode in with pride and chose those cherry seats about a third of the way down, with the extra legroom. This was it! Our miracle conveyance to the real world had arrived and escape was imminent. It was at this precise moment that a certain woman, her husband and her dogs swept in.

Truth be told, I didn’t give much thought to this group when I saw them follow us on. The important thing to understand is that, besides the driver, we were the only ones to see them enter. Thinking back, it was as follows: A stout, barrel-bosomed woman in walking shorts and a tilly-endurable hat entered with her spindly and similarly-attired male partner. They had two small dust-mop dogs on leashes. The couple sat down about four rows in front of us, across the aisle, and immediately tucked the dogs under their seats. The woman glanced shiftily around the bus, caught my eye, and looked ahead. She seemed flustered.

Word must have escaped that a new bus had arrived because a flood of humanity immediately jammed every available inch of room inside the vehicle. It was all armpits in faces and sweaty thighs rubbing together as you try to politely ignore the stranger who is suddenly closer to you than the last person you had sex with. Strangely, when this happens to me it always seems to be the old Italian guy, and never the freckle-faced, tattooed girl from the local roller derby team. I guess that’s just my karma.

The murmuring realist in my head pointed out that it was growing mighty warm and crowded on the bus, yet we had not yet begun the journey. There was an upbeat hubbub. Riders were chatting about what a lame time they’d had, how they never saw a ship, how glad they were to be on the bus… that sort of thing. There was a tinny noise in the background, which tried to penetrate the general rhubarb. At first you couldn’t really hear what the driver was saying on the intercom. As the crowd fell quiet you could catch the end of the phrase, “…off the bus as required by Translink regulations.” Then the driver killed the ignition on the idling bus and our world took on that quiet, inert and lifeless feeling.

People started talking to one another. “What was that?” they asked. A little kid who still had good hearing said, “I don’t see any animals.” The chattering noise grew as people wondered what was going on. I was foolish enough to actually feel encouraged. Although no one else had seen them, it was obvious to me that the driver had made an announcement about the woman’s dogs. “Thank God it’s not a real problem,” I thought, “We can finally get moving.” Then I looked at her and the murmuring realist in my head laughed the giggle of the dismayed.

She sat with her shoulders forward, her feet firmly on the ground, and her jaw set. Her wrinkled face held a bullish obstinance that one feared from old ladies as a child, and learned to resent as an adult. Her flinty eyes glanced about her challengingly and matched her battleship-gray hair perfectly. She elbowed her partner, shot him a dirty look and did not budge. The general chatter on the packed bus continued as people wondered what the problem was.

It is important to understand that what happened next was only viewed by roughly the front third of the bus. It was so hot, busy and bewildering that, unless you were near the action, there could be no way that you would know what had occurred. After a few minutes (which felt exponentially longer) the driver got up and wormed his way back to where the woman was sitting. He steadied himself on the handrail and said, “Look, really, you’re not allowed to have your dogs on the bus. It’s against the rules.” Then I heard her speak and the murmuring realist in my head ground his teeth in antipathy.

She barked, more than spoke, in a drawling British accent that those of us descended from the English know very well. In tones soaked in defiance and condescension she stated, “We are taking the same bus that brought us here in the first place. There is no other way home. If you have a problem with it, perhaps you should take it up with the other driver. He certainly had no problem with our dogs when he brought them with us in the shuttle earlier in the day.” She glowered at him meaningfully and for good measure.

The weary and unintimidated civic employee tried again. He offered helpfully, “Translink rules clearly state that, other than assistants such as seeing-eye dogs, no animals are permitted on the bus.” The woman nearly vibrated out of her chair at him. She looked him in the eye and offered imperiously, “We came on these buses and we will be going home on these buses. We will not be getting off this bus under any circumstances, so you better go do your job, and drive… Now.” She made a brushing and dismissive motion with her hand. The driver shrugged his shoulders, made his way back to his seat and spoke to someone on his CB radio. Then he gathered his belongings and left the vehicle. My heart sank. The murmuring realist in my head knew when to keep his mouth shut.

There we were left to bake in the hot afternoon sun for approximately thirty minutes. We sardines in the can did as best we could. Many folks on the bus had no idea as to what their reality was, but we were all packed in tight and weren’t going anywhere. I understood with painful clarity what was happening. The driver was in the right and didn’t like the way that woman was dealing with him. He was not authorized nor required to physically eject her from the bus, but he was not permitted to operate the bus with the dogs on board. Another driver might have fudged it, but this guy, after dealing with such an unholy bitch as our dowager empress, did what any intelligent union employee with rights would do. He tossed the problem up the chain of command and fucked off for a coffee.

So we waited. My son had checked out and was drowsing the sleep of the heat-damaged, clammily draped over my damp shoulder. I peered out the window. It looked like a George Romero movie outside, with hundreds of shambling undead milling about, coming towards us, looking for anyway out of this Hell. I was astonished at the strangeness of human nature. Pretty much everyone on the bus was just sucking it up, making small talk and waiting. The mean lady sat rigid, looking for all the world like she had won some kind of battle. I began, for the first time that day, to lose my patience. Was there no one present who could get things moving?

As if on cue, some guy in a security windbreaker cautiously stuck his head into the door of the bus. He looked like he’d much rather be just about anywhere else, which means he only looked half as bad as we did. “Hello?” he said. “Apparently there are animals on the bus? They, uh, need to be removed, please?” he quavered. And it all began again, but this time most of the bus was catching onto what was destroying their hopes of life and freedom. Queen Victoria barked at the security guy and informed him that these buses brought them in and could bloody-well take them out. The loser husband weakly bobbed his head in agreement. Security guy shrugged his shoulders and left the building.

I heard someone from the back of the bus, who couldn’t perceive the activities at the front, ask, “What’s going on? Why isn’t the bus going anywhere?” My son blinked at me blearily and whimpered, “Daddy, when are we going to go hooooome?” The murmuring realist left the back of my mind, climbed into my mouth and took over.

I craned my head towards the back of the bus and said loudly and clearly, “There is a woman up here with two dogs under her seat. She’s been told several times to remove them, but she refuses. That’s why we are not moving.” Some nimrod offered, “Hey man… the dogs aren’t bothering anyone. Why can’t they just stay?” There was some support for this viewpoint offered down the line. I was getting all Henry Fonda on their asses. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “This is not a committee or a democracy. Don’t you get it?! We don’t get to decide. The driver has left and no-one is going to operate this machine until that woman gets her dogs out of here.” I pointed at her angrily to punctuate the statement.

The woman turned to face me with malice in her eyes. “I think you should mind your own business, young man,” she clipped, “ This bus system brought us here with our dogs, and we have every right to expect this bus system to return us home in the same manner.” Her words dripped venom as she spoke.

I decided to up the ante and got all Jimmy Stewart on her. “Every right?! I proclaimed, “Do you have a right to imprison an entire bus load of people in this hot Hellish place because you couldn’t be bothered to obey the transit rules? It doesn’t matter what you think your rights are. The people who operate the vehicle will not do your bidding. In order for the rest of us to go home you gotta get those dogs out from under your chair and out of this bus…. you sack of shit!"

Yeah. I didn’t plan for that last bit, but it came out. It was inappropriate, and I meant it. Some politically correct asshat from the back of the bus mewled forth, “Hey! There are children on this bus.” I responded by saying, “I know there are kids on this bus. My five-year-old is passed out here next to me and none of us, or our kids, will ever get to go home because this person won’t get her damn dogs off this damn bus.” I pointed at her again, with a rigid arm, for emphasis.

This horrible harridan, this nemesis, this Lex Luthor of a woman drew herself up. Medusa-like, she turned her baleful gaze upon me. Somewhere livestock was casting forth it’s young prematurely. In a low, menacing voice she intoned, “Well… Aren’t you a revolting creature.” It wasn’t a question. It was a curse.

Occasionally in life you actually say the exact perfect thing in an argument at exactly the right moment (instead of realizing what you should have said later). This was such a time. I made myself big and began speaking softly, growing in volume and intensity, “Yes. I am revolting. But if you think I’m revolting now, you had better be careful because you have no idea how revolting I’m going to be in a few minutes if you don’t get those DAMN… DOGS… OFF… THIS… BUS!”

There was a ripple of assent in the crowd. I felt public opinion shifting to the side of the realist. She knew it too because she deflated by about a half an inch, gathered her husband and dogs, and scuttled towards the door. It was lovely because it was so awkward and hard for her to get out. She had to trip and push to escape with her brood, trying wordlessly not to look anyone in the eye. Then she was gone.

Shortly thereafter our driver returned. We cheered as he turned on the ignition and we were, at last, underway. A cool breeze wafted through the windows and helped dispel the oppressive atmosphere of conflict, body odor and excessive carbon dioxide. I tried to chat with my neighbours, but no one liked me much, even though I was their savior. I had broken several rules of public politeness and had done it unapologetically. I would do it again and I offer this: Against all expectations I learned that, under certain circumstances, it is acceptable and necessary to call a little old lady a sack of shit in a busy, public forum. That day it was cathartic and fun to boot.

As our blessed bus left the Steveston parking lot I heard cheering and brouhaha behind me. I looked out the window, past the swarming anthill of people and over the roofs of the shops and restaurants towards where I suspected the Fraser River might be. I’m almost certain I saw the tippy-top of a mainsail above it all in the distance. Damned if the ships hadn’t finally arrived.