for everyone, most bus My political future was a strong one. They said I was an underachiever and in the high percentiles of intelligence. I didn't listen, of course. People who believe in the probability that a statistic will tell them the truth are fools. An interesting statistic I heard recently was that 34 people died by throwing themselves in front of Skytrains. Thats not how they died. They died from a life of horrors and depression, a life that had nothing for them and left nothing to be desired by being there. The Skytrain had nothing to do with the matter. It was only a matter of time before their shattered skulls would be found somewhere. I could imagine the bone slamming against the front of the train as the train rode into the station. Blood splattering the windows, the quivering remainder of the body pushed forward by the razor-shape wheels. People in the front car screaming in terror. Then the questions. No matter. No one was going to throw themselves towards my train, I was to unfortunate for that. The miracle of death is one that is so rarely witnessed. And the violence, oh, the violence would have been wonderful. --- more memoirs from a bus The bus ride brought back a lot of memories today. I think I saw someone who reminded me so much of my youth. There was a girl just a little ways from my house when I was young. Almost every night, her father would come home from his job. No one really knew what he did, but he must have held some sort of nine to five-type job. Her mother stayed at home and cooked, cleaned and sewed. We all assumed it was her choice to do so. I became good friends with the girl, she was sweet. Her name was Melissa, she had freckled cheeks, and pretty blonde hair. I was 13 and she was only 11. We would walk to school together and she'd tell me uninteresting stories about how her classes were doing the same thing that I had done 2 years before. I didn't mind, her cheerful voice seemed to help me feel better. One day, Melissa couldn't walk to school. The next day, she walked, but she walked quietly and hung her head because she had a large bruise on her eye and cheek. I asked her what happened and all she muttered was "How could he do this.." I've been crying ever since. And the bus just kept on running. --- and the bus keeps rolling. Rain poured down around me tonight. The bus was strangely empty, and I sat pulling my knees in towards my chest, holding on tight for warmth. The heater wasn't on in the bus and it was cold and damp outside. The glow of streetlights outside only made it lighter. Three boys boarded the bus, they couldn't have been more than 10 years old. They wore expensive clothing and blue plaid badanas around their heads. It made them appear rather ridiculous. A single girl boarded the bus. She wore a white shirt with black pants. Her light brown hair fell flat on her chest. She was short, skinny and appeared to be young. Something in her eyes told me she knew more than she let on by her appearance. Outerward appearances virtually never reflect inner turmoil. The ten year olds were subliminally projecting the image of being without trouble while at the same time attempting to put out a picture of down, out, rejected youth. Youth can never be down, out and rejected. --- just for my baby, tonight. L'autobus pushed its way through heavy traffic. Inside the bus, I had my fare looked over by a large man in a silly soot-grey BC Transit Security uniform. He represents yet another in a long time of un-employable police men left to live a life of moderate crime prevention, on the outside looking in, simply because of an injury suffered during highschool football (when they thought they were going to make college) or because they were too fat to jump over a wall in the pigpen. Might also be because the Vancouver Police Department hired entirely non-white employees these days, because this young man appeared to be quite healthy, of a southern European decent. He glanced at my fare, muttered "Faresaver", and sent me on my way. The bus driver appeared somewhat frightened, considering a security guard was looking over his shoulder and counting his fair. Bus drivers are always frightened, they drive a vehicle built for mass consumption and the bus drivers are always the first digested. On the last new years, I heard that three bus drivers were stabbed by drunks with bad cases of postal employee syndrome. At the time, I merely grinned. Serves them right for asking me for my Go-Card. I go to high school, believe it, if I had a real life or job.. I wouldn't be talking to you right now. --- this one goes out to the lady, with the lunchbox in the aisle In the back of the bus, along the line of 5 seats that end the interior in a rather fatalistic solid line, two young women sat. To each side of either woman were two large men. One of the women resembled the pop singer, Sheryl Crow. She wore a crop-top that showed her bellybutton piercing. Following her was a large, burly man, balding and wearing a leather jacket. She was carrying a large pouch. She greeted an aging colored lady, who was wearing a flowered blouse and black jeans with a pouch wrapped around her waist. Following her was an equally aging man with balding hair down to his mid-back. He wore sunglasses that were a generic brand, far too large for his face. He had the appearance of David Hasslehoff, circa Knight Rider, on crack. The two women begin discussing how their lives have been continuing lately. The young blonde remarked that she was still alive, which, to the average observer was quite noticeable. Continued dialogue was engaged, the majority of which, unfortunatly, did not reach my strained ears. Finally, Sheryl unzipped her leather pouch. Reaching in, she removed approximately 10 needles, 3 with orange plungers and 7 with clear plastic. They were going to the needle exchange, so she allowed the elder lady to 'borrow' some of the needles she was goi to exchange. Judging from the size of the pouch, an estimate of at least 100 needles would be conservative. Damn junkies. --- more tales from the four wheeled thing. The darkened bus rolled through the street as the moon reached a full beacon over the city. The night had come and my mental state was as dark as the cloud-free sky. I passed into a lapse of daze and walked back out. She had said something but I wasn't sure what it was. I thought of what my future held. I am a whore because I like to do drugs and dance around with flowers in my hair. I am a whore because I dance on gravestones in the bright sun so that I can bring life to the dead. I am a whore because I can feel the breeze through my skirt and love the tickling of the wind against my inner thighs. Passing another moment of loss, another moment of indecision. No, I won't be raped when I take off my clothes to feel the water pierce my heart and fill my lungs with the liquid they so desparatly need. I can't let them take that from me. I fell asleep and the bus kept on rolling. --- the future of the bus.. any comments? I thought back to what a girl said to me that day in school. Often, I took the bus to Metrotown with her, she was sweet conversation. She had told me there was one last term left in my high school years. Just one, Patricia, just one. Where do I go from here? The paranoia that a procrastinator feels when he realizes the time has come for action. That is what I feel now. For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to go to university. Now, all my hopes are rested on one final term of high school and 2 weeks of exams. What if I fail? If I don't make university, I hope to work in an video store. I enjoy films and working there would provide both a solid income and a past-time to kill the feeling of failure. Now, instead of a higher education and a shot at making a difference in my life, I can place youth behind me and settle into the contentment of ignorance and the subtle joys of being nothing. With my new income, I can get a place of my own. All I need is a stereo, a computer and a bed. The stereo and computer to pass the hours when I am alone and the bed to pass the hours when I am with someone. Since abstainment through education is lost, the least I owe myself is an excess dose of carnal pleasure and short term fixes of extascy. Income is also drug money, but it can't be an 'intelligent' drug, a six pack will do just fine. Its easier not to be great, its easier not to try to make a difference. Will having no higher education help to make a difference, for me? It seems like such a silly, petty goal. Making a difference? Ha. If you wait long enough no one will remember you anyways. Perhaps seeking the raw pleasures is the only secret in life. We deny ourselves the pleasures because of an odd proposition that it will change you for the better.. later. Rush Limbaugh never went to college, and now he leads a huge right-wing organization determined to change government. Could I do something like that? I doubt it. No talent, no leadership, the only skill I possess is the skill to procrastinate. Perhaps, with my own apartment, I can decorate it just the way I want it. Put up modern art, my own art. A stereo, nouveau interior design, musical equipment to play with, a new computer. Perhaps, I will barely survive to eat each week. That may be the only way to keep myself in check and not submit to temptation and evils. If I make university, I stay at home and study more and more. If I do not make university, I leave home, get a job and place of my own. If I do not get a job, I am left to be nothing. If I do get a job, I am left to be nothing. If I do make university, nothing will change. Sure enough, the bus kept the same route, picked up the same commuters, and stayed on the straight and narrow path for yet another day. And nothing will change. droooool --- BITTER BUS BITTER BUS BITTER BUS BITTER BUS BITTER BUS BITTER BUS The Skytrain pulled up to Surrey Central Station. I looked over Surrey, and its strip malls. I wish I had been born and raised here. It seems so peaceful, people here are different. They are all my future or my present. The men drive pick-up trucks home from their nine to five occupations. The women do the same, only in small Toyotas. They come home to their children, the teenage daughter is suffering from the pains of teenage angst, the younger son tried marijuana for the first time today. I grew up in a neighbourhood with people who I can never relate to. Here, people do not speak the same language as I do. Here, people have more money than I do and look down on me because of my colour and culture. They think I am less than they are and remind me of it constantly. To combat this, I remind myself that across the river, everything is different. In the strip malls and middle income housing lie people that look like I do. There are people there that feel like I do and that live life through the same eyes as I do. In Surrey, people are free about sex, drugs and music. Sex is feared in my school and its cultures and considered an evil, digusting thing. Drugs are virtually unheard of except the rare 'stoner'. Instead, everyone gets drunk with the intelligence of felines to catnip. There is on one type of music in my community and it is not my type of music. I have gone through seventeen years of life here to realize this. I am lonely for people who I can identify culture with and not be treated like an outcast. In Surrey, I can be popular. I can have friends in Surrey because in Surrey, I would be accepted. In Surrey, people are more open minded and can listen. I have lived my life as a minority, but I know only a small piece of the razor blade. True minorities have no Surrey to turn to for a realization of their own communities. An ocean, not a river, separates them from their culture. While Surrey is peaceful (except on particularily wild Saturday nights), war rages in their countries. I just need somewhere where I can be cool. Somewhere that people talk to me about something other than my physical appearance. Somewhere that people are open about sex, don't care about sexual images and just go with the flow. The same applies to everything that I am interested in. I don't care about the color of my skin. I care about being cool, having sex, getting stoned, getting drunk, driving around, yelling, moshing at school dances, rocking with the boys and having a fucking awesome time. I want to have a life where this happens, where I have a 'life'. Instead, I dedicate my time to studying and sitting on a train thinking about what could have been if my parents had less money and needed cheaper housing. I could have lost my virginity at 13, gotten drunk the same year, driving by 16 and been super-cool the whole time. Somehow, I doubt it would ever happen. I am a consistant loser in many sports; girls, drinking, football, penis size.. Surrey can't change who I am. Nothing can make me have friends that understand. SAUCE00Tales from the bus Magik Elvis Independant 19950302¨4P