buddhawannabe

A little while ago, I had an interesting encounter on a Vancouver transit (TransLink) bus that is still making me smile big, and even laugh out loud occasionally. I was standing waiting for the bus: it was kind of a grey day, and it was the end of the work day. There were a number of us waiting, standing around with the kind of overall energy you would expect at a bus stop, at the end of a work day, on a grey day. We’re all just wanting to go home, plod our way through the chores part of the evening and curl up into whatever reward is waiting on the other side – be it a favourite TV show or movie rental, a few drinks, a hot bath, a game of cards, a snuggle on the couch, a conversation with a friend, an interesting project, book or night class. Huddled in our line-up and not very connected to one another, we are waiting for that great blue and yellow chariot, which is sitting right in front of us but without the doors open to entrants yet, to whisk us away to Something Better. I, for one, am not really interested in chatting, being asked for change or even overhearing the conversations of my fellow commuters. I’ve got my own lists, conflicts and bills, thank you very much, I hardly need to crowd my brain with yours.

So none of us is tremendously receptive when a young man joins us, pushing one of those fold-up, umbrella-type strollers containing a very agitated and cranky toddler. This child is between two and three, by my estimation, with gorgeous long blonde hair, but is dressed in such a way that it’s hard to pin down the gender. Also, the volume of the agitation is quite high and insistent. The man, who I assume to be the father, pushes the stroller and merges into the line. He is clearly very uncomfortable, and I can’t say I blame him. It’s not fun to be with a screaming child in public; I think the sensitivity to possible judgment of witnesses is pretty high. He has the look of one who hasn’t done anything to provoke this rage and indignation but is highly aware that the people watching are bound to be wondering what exactly he has inflicted upon our Little Hero/Heroine (LH/H), and assessing his overall suitability to remain in guardianship of the child. Well, the closest of us start to perk up with curiosity. Our LH/H is basically despondent. The crying has already reached the stage where gasps are needed to form words, and though the sounds coming out of the LHH’s mouth resemble language, it’s not one spoken in general circles. Whatever the problem is, it is clearly of epic proportions. LH/H is inconsolable. One by one, several of us are awakened out of our grey, end-of-day stupor, and I can feel our spines lengthen as we all become a bit enlivened, trying to figure out what the drama could possibly be about.

Soon, the driver opens the door to admit us. In the front of the bus is the area designated for strollers, and the very self-conscious young man takes his station against a bank of seats that are folded up, facing the rear of the bus, while the rest of us find our places together in the surrounding seats, facing him and LH/H, like an audience. Tension mounts; I feel that some people have really started to get concerned for the child’s welfare, as the man/father is a bit rough around the edges and unshaven. The bus coughs to a start and vrooms away from the bay to begin its outbound journey, with an increasing intensity to the torrent of tears and angry verbalizations. Gradually, the sounds starts to be recognizable as a phrase in repetition/cycle of some kind… still not understandable but with some structure. By now, a few people are starting to bristle. LH/H escalates to full-on tantrum mode: writhing in the stroller, high pitched screams, spasms with an arched back and tears splashing out in gushes. All at once, a few of us get the meaning of the phrased noises: I WANT THE NEW BUS. I look around, and see several corners of mouths, including mine, turn up and the overall tension begins to ease. Seeing the emerging smiles in his audience, the young man also smiles apologetically. His relief is almost palpable. He explains that the New Bus has these handles that a passenger would pull out to put the seat down, that LH/H loves to play with, while our current bus, which is older, does not have the same kind of handles. I know the very ones: they are shiny and yellow and special, with the undeniable appeal of beinglocated at exactly eye level to a toddler stuck in a stroller after a boring trip to the bank. The mystery has been solved. The tantrum began as soon as LH/H got close enough to see that it was an Old Bus waiting at the bay and grew steadily worse as the anguish of having to get on the Old Bus became reality. I have to hand it to the crowd. I think all of us wanted to ROFLMAO, as they say in IM/text world. The restraint of the group, in deference and sensitivity to the depth of LH/H’s despair, is admirable. Most of us remain relatively straight faced, but we are all definitely working pretty hard not to burst into peals of laughter. A couple of people, parents no doubt, begin to pull out and offer various apparatus, looking for something with buttons that our LH/H, who is still bereft but also becoming interested in people’s reactions, could be distracted with. No success, really, but the tantrum does begin to ebb. The tension is completely gone by this time, so I feel the spell is broken. Plus, the previous, disconnected and glum group is now united in a common experience. It’s a felt change.

My stop is the next one. I exit, and as I plant my foot on the sidewalk, it hits me. Really, LH/H is totally in our face, screaming all of our pain out, letting the alligator tears totally flow with the absolute devastation of it all. I mean, truth be told, I want the new bus, too! Don’t we all? There’s a spoiled brat in every single one of us that wants the whole City of Vancouver Transit System to organize itself completely around our whims and schedules. Why can’t the world just revolve around me? How hard can it be? I don’t want to do all the stuff on the list, handle the conflicts or pay any of the bills, I just want to play with the yellow handle on the New Bus. Our Little Hero/Heroine has very eloquently and effectively named and released all of the stress and frustration for all the grownups who were sitting within earshot, just by being three and not having all the layers of social niceties obscuring her truth, like the rest of us. It’s magical. I turn and begin to walk down the sidewalk to my home, and Neil Young’s voice comes into my head: “A little part of it in everyone…” With a giggle and a light step, I head home to defrost, scrub, cipher, change the litter box, and, if I’m not too tired, catch a little Seinfeld.

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