Did you ever go to a museum and see the old buses and rail cars that have leather everywhere? I’m talking a pre-vinyl contraption where the luggage racks are made of strips of fabric or leather and the seats are leather and stuffed with something with slightly more give than rocks, but not much. I got to RIDE in one of those buses. My best childhood friend, the long-suffering Sarah, and I boarded the bus after a band concert or drama provincials…I don’t remember now, but what reminded me in the first place was how goddamned COLD it was that day. And, of course, SOMEONE wasn’t wearing socks.
I still don’t wear socks. Not even in winter. Not even on days like yesterday where it felt like outer SPACE it was so cold.
So we get on this bus, and there’s all these people we didn’t know, which was a little off-putting, because usually when you go on a band or drama trip, you get to ride on a bus that’s specially commissioned for you. But not this time. I think Lorne Calvert was on the bus, actually. I remember that because the man, nice though he is, looks just like a potato.
And there was this Aussie guy on there, and another fellow who was a *terribly* good kisser. Not that I went around kissing strange young men on non-commissioned buses, with a fellow who would be premier of the province and who is a church minister looking on, but sometimes, you just can’t help yourself.
As it turns out, the terminal point of this bus was somewhere in Australia – good bit of luck for the Aussie who was riding. The rest of the people got off before our final stop, in the middle of the outback. Even my good kisser, who hopped off the bus to meet his wife at the station. I wonder if she knew what a good kisser he was.
Now, I know Viper Pilot is going to get tetchy about this next bit, but it was only a hop, skip, and a jump through the outback and then I was just where I had originally set out to be, which was in Smarty Pants’ garage. I think I was sleeping there, in the van. I woke to the smell of coffee.
In real life, I woke to the sound of my children repeatedly slamming the door downstairs and shrieking at the tops of their lungs, soon to be followed by the announcer on the radio saying not only something like “what’s the better case scenario” or “things couldn’t be best”; I don’t remember which, but I did make a mental note to hunt the fellow down and poke him in the eye. But THEN he followed that up with “things went from bad to worst”, and I levitated several feet above the bed, because my angry was causing a quantum EVENT, and I’m pretty sure my eyes were shaking. That was the moment I decided to dedicate the next day of my life to discussing comparatives and superlatives.
In a letter to that radio announcer’s studio.