The People on the Bus Go 'Round and Get Stranger

Earlier this month, I stumbled across some of my old writing from high school. Even in my teen years, I gravitated towards personal essays as a storytelling format. Although, I doubt anyone who has spent any time talking to me and who has experienced my disastrous "mouth words" firsthand is surprised by my preference for written communication. As my final project for my Creative Writing 15 course, I completed a series of personal essays on various topics that were important to me at the time. These are exactly what I have decided to share with all of you through this blog over the coming weeks. Looking back at these pieces has given me the opportunity to observe the ways in which both my personality and my writing abilities have progressed over the years. I can look back and realize just how fearless my writing used to be, back before my pre-frontal cortex began to interfere with my lack of caring about social consequences. I tackled all sorts of topics that I would be reluctant to touch now. There is a sense of naivety that emerges through these old pieces, as they were all written before I had experienced some of the formative events that have shaped the person I've become since then. I am glad that I can see a marked improvement in my technical writing skills from what they used to be five years ago. Thank goodness I stopped writing entirely in passive voice... 

I have updated certain technical aspects of these pieces, but have attempted to keep the content authentic to my original drafts because 18-year-old me was way funnier before I had to throw out most of my humour to make room for learning APA style and thesis writing techniques. This first essay is a true story. Without further ado, here is high school personal essay #1! 

The People on the Bus Go 'Round and Get Stranger

Public transit. You meet the most interesting people on the bus. Some might make the argument that the people watching you are able to do during your morning commute to school or work is reason alone for opting out of owning a vehicle. There are those who find pensive tranquility and inner peace in their favourite seat next to the window, while others bump into their soul mates during their awkward shuffles out the door. Personally, I’ve had my fair share of memorable bus adventures over the years. Amidst the random conversations I’ve been forced into, the noxious smells my nose has witnessed, and the numerous personal bubbles I’ve had the misfortune of invading after a sudden brake, one particular incident stands out from among the rest.

For the three years I spent in Junior High, each morning began with me meeting up with my best friend before boarding the bus to school together. On the morning of this aforementioned life-altering event, our walk to our bus stop had been exceptionally normal. My friend had successfully completed her daily ritual, which consisted of her frantically scavenging for her misplaced school materials, before we proceeded to spend our walk filling each other in on our previous uneventful evenings. Our bus driver had acknowledged each of us with a slight nod of obligation and gratitude that neither of us had forgotten either of our bus passes that morning. Out of habit, we meandered towards the back of the clunky metal beast to our usual seats at the top of the stairs, just off to the left. That morning, however, our zombie-like promenade was halted abruptly by a middle-aged man wearing a brown jacket.

                “Look out. Look out.”

He spoke without emotion as he half-heartedly gestured toward the bus floor at the back exit where a disgusting puddle of sludge was occupying the pathway. My friend, who appeared to not have heard the monotone man’s warning, continued to advance precariously close to the unidentifiable pile of nasty.

                “Look out. Look out.”

Once again, the sludge guard repeated his unfeeling phrase to stop my friend from treading through that awful-smelling bus slime on the floor. She heard him in time and stopped just short of a ruined pair of sneakers.

                “Ooh! Peach smoothie!”

Perhaps, my friend would have been correct if we had boarded the bus a few stops earlier; the miscellaneous slime may very well have been a fellow bus passenger’s delicious peach smoothie at one point in time. However, it was apparent that it had become nothing more than a stomach-rejected breakfast fail. Needless to say, my friend and I quickly transferred to another bus that was carrying 100% less vomit than was our first vehicular attempt at commuting to school that day. 

I wish I could have seen the expressions on our faces for the entirety of that fateful bus ride. At the time, I wasn’t thinking anything more than about how disgusting that whole experience had been. Later, I found myself wondering more and more about that brown-jacketed man’s role in this weird story. Was he the protagonist of this tale? Was it HIS once-delicious smoothie that had evaded his small intestine for a chance at freedom within the public transit system? Perhaps, he felt guilty about how he had defiled an otherwise peaceful commute for his fellow passengers and decided he was now obligated to protect us oblivious teenage girls from an embarrassing first period of the school day. I wondered if, maybe, he was simply nothing more than the Good Samaritan who had watched this unfortunate exposition take place and was now playing the hero’s role in the story. Whatever the situation, both my friend and I were both grateful that he had raised his emotionless voice to steer us clear of a potentially disgusting fate.

I suppose it doesn’t really matter whose gastronomical fluid was residing on the bus floor. It was not important whether it belonged to the man in the brown jacket or to another transit taker who had since opted to take the scenic route to work. Even though nobody directly accepted the blame for the peach smoothie mistake, there was someone there who was willing to make sure that it did not unnecessarily ruin another person’s day. That monotone man stepped up and avoided a bystander losing their innocence to another stranger’s queasy stomach. I often think about what a wonderful world it could be if there were more of us who acted like Mr. Sludge Guard.

If people were more willing to help their fellow humans avoid potentially mortifying situations instead of silently ill-wishing them to a face-plant in the name of morbid entertainment, I am sure that there would be less war. Of course, America’s Funniest Home Videos would probably have to be taken off the air to achieve this radically pro-social goal, but I am positive that we could all find something better to do with our time than spending it watching crotch shot montages. It is probably true that the world would be a better place if everyone volunteered in their community and donated blood every two months.  Not to repeat another cliché, but it really is the little things that count. The least one could do is to hold the door open for the frantic looking stranger carrying a million bags of groceries in their arms. Failing that, one could at least assist said stranger in picking up their groceries after they explode all over the sidewalk. Pain is funny until it’s your own. It is unnecessary to intentionally inflict it upon another person. Standing by while someone walks into a disaster that you could have prevented leaves you just as guilty as if you were the one to push them into it. We are all in this together, friends. Pay it back. Pay it forward. Contribute in whatever way works best for you. If I ever happen to cross paths with that brown-jacketed man again, you better believe that I will be paying my debt by treating him to a peach smoothie.