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The Queen of San Quinton
Apologies for being late. I was badly damaged when I arrived home and required a few hours of curled in a ball regaining HP.
You Do Not Have a Choice In The Matter
Me: “Good evening, <company>”
SC: “Yeah, can I get a cab?”
Me: “I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.”
SC: “No.”
The string of words I wove together for you was not a question, it was a statement. You do not get a say in this. This is not a democracy. Your rejection of it means nothing to me and there is nothing you can change by voicing your objections. Understand this, pleb, my rule here is absolute and no force of your making shall topple me from my dark throne.
Er….oh, and yeah, wrong number. Sorry.
A Level of Idiocy I Have Not Yet Encountered
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “No, I was just calling to see if I was the winner.”
Me: “Pardon?”
SC: “The brochure I have in my hand here says Could You Be The Winner? Call now xxx-xxx-xxxx”
Me: “….ok?”
SC: “Says Final Chance for $100,000 draw. Final cut off deadline Oct xx. Could You Be The Winner? Call xxx-xxx-xxxx to order your tickets today!”
Yes, that’s right. The brochure includes the rhetorical question “Could You Be The Winner?” before telling you to order to see if you could indeed be said winner and this shambling intellect here called us up to ask if he was the winner. Not to order tickets. Not because he had already ordered tickets. But because he thought the question was aimed at him personally and was calling to find out if he was indeed the winner as the brochure seemed to hint at.
I have searched my vocabulary for several minutes attempting to find word’s that can accurately describe this level of raw stupidity. However the only term I’ve been able to come up with so far is “fucktastichasmic”.
Wha?
Me: “And your first name please?”
SC: “Marie”
Me: “How do you spell it?”
SC: “M-A-R-E-8”
I….don’t think that’s right. I do not claim to be any sort of master scholar of the English language, however I am quite positive the alphabet does not include the number 8. Nor any number for that matter. I did briefly debate the theory you were the 8th in a series of experimental cybernetic killing machines designed and built by some super villain in his frigid Fortress of Solitute. But seeing as most of you have only just barely conquered the complex technology of the telephone, that seems highly unlikely. Unless you were constructed entirely from old snow mobile parts, a beer cooler and somebody's drunken passed out cousin.
Hot Tips
SC: “Yeah, what do you think of Prince Charles’s ass?”
…alrighty, give me a moment would you? I need to pen in a new entry on my list of things I’d never thought I’d be asked in my lifetime.
SC: “Do you think his ass would be really popular in San Quinton?“
Cover your ears children, we’re going to a dark, scary place now.
SC: “Then he could become someone’s Prince Charming and become the Queen of the place.”
Honestly, I’d much rather go with your previous method of dry cleaning the existing Queen to ascend the throne. It seems much easier and far far less physically and emotionally traumatizing.
Optimism
SC: “I have an appointment with <lawyer> in the morning, but I got caught again.”
Let me get this straight. You’re such a talented and resourceful criminal mastermind that you managed to get arrested again 5 hours before your appointment with your lawyer over the last time you were arrested? Bravo. I actually had to take my hands off the keyboard for a moment and golf clap for your accomplishments halfway through the call.
SC: “Just let him know: Please get me out!”
Here’s a novel suggestion: Stop breaking the law. It might help with this whole being incarcerated problem you have.
SC: “Tell him to please come tomorrow!”
……..Are you.....are you crying? Because I assure you tears have utterly no affect on me in any regard. My black heart sucks them up like a Bounty sheet on a Kool-aid spill. But yes, I will inform him of your predicament. In the meantime, cheer up lad! I know the world seems all gloomy and grey, especially from your 6 x 6 dark grey cell. But you have to look at the bright side of things. Sure, you got arrested and you’re already on the verge of tears. However, if someone like you gets sent to jail you’ve got a pretty good shot of being the Queen of San Quinton inside of a week.
Yes, I am aware that I am a terrible, terrible person.
Hot Tips
SC: “Yeah, what do you think of Prince Charles’s ass?”
…alrighty, give me a moment to pen a new entry onto my list of things I never thought I’d be asked again in my lifetime. But while we’re on the topic…again, what is it with you and the Prince’s heiny? You seem to be invested an unusual amount of time and effort into the topic. Do you really sit around at night plotting the various outcomes of the Prince’s buttocks if they were placed in various situations? How do you come to the conclusions? Do you have graphs? Maybe a Powerpoint presentation? Is there a website you refer people too?
Sigh
SC: “Do I hafta give ma mailing address?”
Nah, just give me a general area. We can just push it out of the back of the plane at low altitude. Than you can go on an exciting, drunken dog sled ride treasure hunt through the beautiful unending frigid hell plane you live on. In fact it’s actually safer and more affordable for us. Doesn’t cost as much in fuel for the plane and the pilot doesn’t have to risk himself by landing on the questionably clear field of ice and snow you turned into a run way by making two lines of yellow dish washing gloves and having Jim stumble out in the middle of it and do jumping jacks in his mom's orange parka.
Jerk
SC: “Have a great evening! Whatever’s left of it.”
Oh, I assure you. I have quite a bit left in my evening. But thank you for that insensitive jerkish comment anyway! It was greatly appreciated and while its utterly irrelevant to my shift at least you tried your best. And that’s what’s really important after all.
Your Anguish Sustains Me
I’m afraid that I am saddened this evening. For I missed what must have been a rather significant event of human failure by mere moments. As I was coming up the escalator out of Granville I heard a rather loud cacophony. But could see nothing from my slowly ascending position and thought little of it. That was till I reached the summit and rounded the corner….and there lay the broken, writhing form of what I believe is termed a sk8terboi. Sans any and all protective gear of course. Because preventing broken bones and concussions is for pussies.
I did not see how he ended up half curled into a little ball of simpering puppy like noises, with his friends looking down on him in a mixture of concern and amusement. But it must have been rather spectacular for he was sitting by the Tim Hortons, with half of his skateboard. The other half was at least 50 feet away in front of the liquor store. I have no idea what sort of magnificent failure could have led to such damage spread across such a distance. But I am deeply sorrowful that I missed the unfolding of these tragic ( yet hilarious ) events.
I can only hope it will find its way to Youtube within the coming days.
Me Pot O' Gold
Me: “Your tickets should arrive in a week or two."
SC: “They better be the lucky ones!”
Statistically speaking the probability of them being “lucky” is rather remote. I also hold no power or sway over the inherent fortune of any given ticket. So threatening me will net you nothing I’m afraid. I am not a leprechaun and you cannot ensure that you get me pot o’ gold by merely capturing me and forcing me to reveal its closely guarded location. At best threatening my person will make me lead you to delicious cereal. Which, while tasty, is likely not the sort of return on a $250 purchase that you’d want.
I Give Up
Me: “Alright, anything else?”
SC: “I’ll get this one here…..oh, no, this one. I’ll get this.”
I can’t see, hold the catalog closer to the phone.
Hot Tip
SC": “Yeah, what do you think about Prince Char-"
Stop stop STOP. Jesus CHRIST. I do not know. I do not even want to know. I have heard quite enough about Prince Charles and his ass cheeks as of late. I don’t know what the heck is wrong with you or why you’re so fixated on them and any one or thing that might be...docking...with them, but leave the rest of us out of it. Geez man. I mean sure your crazy little theories about Prince Charles and the anti-Christ and what not were sort of entertaining the first time. But ever since you started focusing on particular….regions….of royalty things have become a lot less amusing and a whole lot more creepy.
Rage~
Calling me every 2 minutes to complain about how important your problem is and how big of an emergency it is will not endear me to hasten the process of netting you assistance. I have already given your case to a techand he will call as soon as possible. In fact he has probably been trying to call for the last 10 minutes but it’s ringing busy because you keep calling me over and over at 120 second intervals.
Perhaps if you stopped rage dialing long enough for him to penetrate your busy signal you might actually get your issue resolved.
Its Not That Hard
Me: “Alright, and your first name please?”
SC: “Cecilia”
Me: “Can you spell it for me please?”
SC: “……Cecilia”
Me: “Yes, but can you spell it for me please?”
SC: “………”
Me: “………?”
SC: “….Cecilia.”
Me: “Can you spell it for me please?”
SC: “Cecilia.”
Yes, Cecilia. I caught that part. I understand that part. You have stated that part multiple times. We are all clear on that part. Mission control has given us an all green and we are ready to launch that part at any time. But that is not the question I am asking you. I am asking you to break Cecilia down into its component pieces. It dissemble it into its most primitive forms. The very materia that was used to forge it into a moniker to begin with.
Here, I will even give you a hint. It starts with C.
That Was Easy
Me: “Alright, and the problem?”
SC: “The problem is…….my like……uhhh…..”
Do you need to call a time out? Maybe consult your team captain or the assistant manager? See if you can work out some sort of play that will lead to an answer for this rather basic question? Heck it’s really not that hard. I bet you could ask Fred, the guy that brings in the Gatorade and even he’d be able to solve this one for you. I mean the whole reason you called was because you had a problem, right? If you don’t have a problem, than there’s no need to call and no reason for us to continue to converse in this manner.
My Injuries Are Deep
My journey home this morning was one of suffering and woe. As the Skytrain broke down and I guess it was Bring Your Kid To Work And Leave Them There To Do Your Job For You Day at Skytrain Control. For there was no warning of this ominous turn of events and no direction from which we might find salvation.
It started simple enough. When I got on they announced there was a problem train at Metrotown there would be some delays as they were running only one track between Edmonds and Metrotown. Fair enough. They also said they expected to have the train moved and regular service back in 20-30 minutes. Excellent! I thought. For it would take me about 20 minutes to get there anyhow. So I likely won’t be affected too badly at all.
Oh, how naïve I was.
I made it to Metrotown and even beyond. But than my train slowed and switched tracks. No worries, I thought, they said they were running one track so it is to be expected……but than my train stopped….and started going back to Metrotown. We pulled into Metrotown with a sea of confused faces on our train. No announcement, no direction and certainly no explanation for this treachery was forthcoming. Three Skytrain attendant stood impassively nearby. We looked at them. They looked at us. But they said nothing. People began to worry and started getting off the train, fearful it was going the wrong way. Still, the blue coat trio said nothing. I smelled the faint, tangy ordour of incompetence and decided to disembark myself. Minutes later, sure enough, the train headed back the way from whence I had come.
So, here we are, milling around uselessly. No announcements. No directions. Trains keep arriving from downtown and offloading more confused people. But every train on both sides heads back downtown. Soon the crowd has reached critical mass and people are dangerously close to the edges of the platform. The blue coat trio seems baffled as to why this is happening but it must have finally registered hey maybe we should show some leadership before someone dies. At which point they announce oh hey, there isn’t actually any eastbound service past Metrotown despite all the announcements saying otherwise you heard leading up to Metrotown. Surprise!
Seeing as its still Leave Your Kid At Work To Shut Down The Lower Mainland Day at Skytrain Control, there’s no shuttle buses or extra buses or anything really prepared to handle the deluge of confused angry commuters. So I am left to my own devices to attempt to plot a course home using unfamiliar bus routes. Oh joy. I meander around the Metrotown bus loop till I spot the stop for the xx7. xx7! I think. I know that number. It shows up at the Skytrain station I am attempting to reach. I shall await its arrival than ride it to safe haven.
So I wait…and wait….and wait. While the driver of the xx7 watches us impassively. Hey, no worry over there. Not like the backbone of the city’s transit system is crippled or anything. Finish your sausage McMuffin before you get a move on. Finally he lurches our chariot into motion and thus begins the winding, unfamiliar, even alien terrain of a bus route I have never taken before. But I reassure myself that eventually….hopefully….it will at some point reach my station.
After some time we do reach a station. One I do not recognize. The bus driver announces that anyone wanting to reach my station should get off the bus here and get on the Skytrain, as this is the Millennium Line, and we can ride it around to the other end of service gap. He explains that his route is all weird and long and curvy and it will be quite some time before he gets there. So this will be much faster. A sound plan, good bus driver. Thank you. I shall attempt this endeavour.
Course what he didn’t mention is that this station was only like 2-3 down from the Broadway station switch over and to get to my station I would have to ride practically the entire Millennium line than a third of the Expo line to reach my stop. A trip which Translink’s website informs me would take approximately 25 minutes on a good day. But alright, perhaps his route is particularly long and terrifying and this will be faster. While I’m waiting they announce that they have restored regular service ( Yay! ) but still have delays ( Boo. ). But this does mean the circuit has been restored and I am free to go straight home…….by taking the faster route from Broadway which takes approximately 14 minutes. Technically, I’m right back where I started. This saddens me briefly.
By the time I reach my station I am tired and sore, as I have been carrying around several litres of precious Coke Zero and 2 bags of groceries for some time now, but at least I am finally on my way back to home base. I arrive at my stop without incident and await the Accursed Chariot, the xx2. Which I believe I have spoken of many times before. I waited, hoping at the very least the Dark Engine will spare me any additional misery this day. I see it, parked nearby with the driver on break. Luckily, I only need wait a minute or two for it to pull up and the doors open…..
…..aaaaaannnnnd it’s the driver of the xx7. It’s the same bus, he’s just changing to the xx2 route. So while I took his “faster” suggestion he had enough time to arrive at my stop and take his 15 minute break. Truly this chariot is CURSED and at its helm is a cruel, heartless husk of a man. No good can ever come of this bus nor any time spent within the grasp of its shadowy confines.
To his credit he recognized me, and could not meet my gaze. He looked away. Shamefaced and guilty, knowing full well the torturous path he had deceived me down. He didn’t charge me bus fare either, as my transit pass had long since expired at that point thanks to my little side trip. Oh yes, he knew what he had wrought.
All in all I left work at 7am and got home at 9:15am. It normally only takes me an hour. So to say I was saddened by the time I reached my front door would be an understatement. Than of course I open the door and the cat acts like I had abandoned her. Accursed feline, it is not me you miss, but my ability to reach the treat bag in the cupboard. An ability which was over an hour overdue.
annnd rest. Painfully.
You Do Not Have a Choice In The Matter
Me: “Good evening, <company>”
SC: “Yeah, can I get a cab?”
Me: “I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.”
SC: “No.”
The string of words I wove together for you was not a question, it was a statement. You do not get a say in this. This is not a democracy. Your rejection of it means nothing to me and there is nothing you can change by voicing your objections. Understand this, pleb, my rule here is absolute and no force of your making shall topple me from my dark throne.
Er….oh, and yeah, wrong number. Sorry.
A Level of Idiocy I Have Not Yet Encountered
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “No, I was just calling to see if I was the winner.”
Me: “Pardon?”
SC: “The brochure I have in my hand here says Could You Be The Winner? Call now xxx-xxx-xxxx”
Me: “….ok?”
SC: “Says Final Chance for $100,000 draw. Final cut off deadline Oct xx. Could You Be The Winner? Call xxx-xxx-xxxx to order your tickets today!”
Yes, that’s right. The brochure includes the rhetorical question “Could You Be The Winner?” before telling you to order to see if you could indeed be said winner and this shambling intellect here called us up to ask if he was the winner. Not to order tickets. Not because he had already ordered tickets. But because he thought the question was aimed at him personally and was calling to find out if he was indeed the winner as the brochure seemed to hint at.
I have searched my vocabulary for several minutes attempting to find word’s that can accurately describe this level of raw stupidity. However the only term I’ve been able to come up with so far is “fucktastichasmic”.
Wha?
Me: “And your first name please?”
SC: “Marie”
Me: “How do you spell it?”
SC: “M-A-R-E-8”
I….don’t think that’s right. I do not claim to be any sort of master scholar of the English language, however I am quite positive the alphabet does not include the number 8. Nor any number for that matter. I did briefly debate the theory you were the 8th in a series of experimental cybernetic killing machines designed and built by some super villain in his frigid Fortress of Solitute. But seeing as most of you have only just barely conquered the complex technology of the telephone, that seems highly unlikely. Unless you were constructed entirely from old snow mobile parts, a beer cooler and somebody's drunken passed out cousin.
Hot Tips
SC: “Yeah, what do you think of Prince Charles’s ass?”
…alrighty, give me a moment would you? I need to pen in a new entry on my list of things I’d never thought I’d be asked in my lifetime.
SC: “Do you think his ass would be really popular in San Quinton?“
Cover your ears children, we’re going to a dark, scary place now.
SC: “Then he could become someone’s Prince Charming and become the Queen of the place.”
Honestly, I’d much rather go with your previous method of dry cleaning the existing Queen to ascend the throne. It seems much easier and far far less physically and emotionally traumatizing.
Optimism
SC: “I have an appointment with <lawyer> in the morning, but I got caught again.”
Let me get this straight. You’re such a talented and resourceful criminal mastermind that you managed to get arrested again 5 hours before your appointment with your lawyer over the last time you were arrested? Bravo. I actually had to take my hands off the keyboard for a moment and golf clap for your accomplishments halfway through the call.
SC: “Just let him know: Please get me out!”
Here’s a novel suggestion: Stop breaking the law. It might help with this whole being incarcerated problem you have.
SC: “Tell him to please come tomorrow!”
……..Are you.....are you crying? Because I assure you tears have utterly no affect on me in any regard. My black heart sucks them up like a Bounty sheet on a Kool-aid spill. But yes, I will inform him of your predicament. In the meantime, cheer up lad! I know the world seems all gloomy and grey, especially from your 6 x 6 dark grey cell. But you have to look at the bright side of things. Sure, you got arrested and you’re already on the verge of tears. However, if someone like you gets sent to jail you’ve got a pretty good shot of being the Queen of San Quinton inside of a week.
Yes, I am aware that I am a terrible, terrible person.
Hot Tips
SC: “Yeah, what do you think of Prince Charles’s ass?”
…alrighty, give me a moment to pen a new entry onto my list of things I never thought I’d be asked again in my lifetime. But while we’re on the topic…again, what is it with you and the Prince’s heiny? You seem to be invested an unusual amount of time and effort into the topic. Do you really sit around at night plotting the various outcomes of the Prince’s buttocks if they were placed in various situations? How do you come to the conclusions? Do you have graphs? Maybe a Powerpoint presentation? Is there a website you refer people too?
Sigh
SC: “Do I hafta give ma mailing address?”
Nah, just give me a general area. We can just push it out of the back of the plane at low altitude. Than you can go on an exciting, drunken dog sled ride treasure hunt through the beautiful unending frigid hell plane you live on. In fact it’s actually safer and more affordable for us. Doesn’t cost as much in fuel for the plane and the pilot doesn’t have to risk himself by landing on the questionably clear field of ice and snow you turned into a run way by making two lines of yellow dish washing gloves and having Jim stumble out in the middle of it and do jumping jacks in his mom's orange parka.
Jerk
SC: “Have a great evening! Whatever’s left of it.”
Oh, I assure you. I have quite a bit left in my evening. But thank you for that insensitive jerkish comment anyway! It was greatly appreciated and while its utterly irrelevant to my shift at least you tried your best. And that’s what’s really important after all.
Your Anguish Sustains Me
I’m afraid that I am saddened this evening. For I missed what must have been a rather significant event of human failure by mere moments. As I was coming up the escalator out of Granville I heard a rather loud cacophony. But could see nothing from my slowly ascending position and thought little of it. That was till I reached the summit and rounded the corner….and there lay the broken, writhing form of what I believe is termed a sk8terboi. Sans any and all protective gear of course. Because preventing broken bones and concussions is for pussies.
I did not see how he ended up half curled into a little ball of simpering puppy like noises, with his friends looking down on him in a mixture of concern and amusement. But it must have been rather spectacular for he was sitting by the Tim Hortons, with half of his skateboard. The other half was at least 50 feet away in front of the liquor store. I have no idea what sort of magnificent failure could have led to such damage spread across such a distance. But I am deeply sorrowful that I missed the unfolding of these tragic ( yet hilarious ) events.
I can only hope it will find its way to Youtube within the coming days.
Me Pot O' Gold
Me: “Your tickets should arrive in a week or two."
SC: “They better be the lucky ones!”
Statistically speaking the probability of them being “lucky” is rather remote. I also hold no power or sway over the inherent fortune of any given ticket. So threatening me will net you nothing I’m afraid. I am not a leprechaun and you cannot ensure that you get me pot o’ gold by merely capturing me and forcing me to reveal its closely guarded location. At best threatening my person will make me lead you to delicious cereal. Which, while tasty, is likely not the sort of return on a $250 purchase that you’d want.
I Give Up
Me: “Alright, anything else?”
SC: “I’ll get this one here…..oh, no, this one. I’ll get this.”
I can’t see, hold the catalog closer to the phone.
Hot Tip
SC": “Yeah, what do you think about Prince Char-"
Stop stop STOP. Jesus CHRIST. I do not know. I do not even want to know. I have heard quite enough about Prince Charles and his ass cheeks as of late. I don’t know what the heck is wrong with you or why you’re so fixated on them and any one or thing that might be...docking...with them, but leave the rest of us out of it. Geez man. I mean sure your crazy little theories about Prince Charles and the anti-Christ and what not were sort of entertaining the first time. But ever since you started focusing on particular….regions….of royalty things have become a lot less amusing and a whole lot more creepy.
Rage~
Calling me every 2 minutes to complain about how important your problem is and how big of an emergency it is will not endear me to hasten the process of netting you assistance. I have already given your case to a techand he will call as soon as possible. In fact he has probably been trying to call for the last 10 minutes but it’s ringing busy because you keep calling me over and over at 120 second intervals.
Perhaps if you stopped rage dialing long enough for him to penetrate your busy signal you might actually get your issue resolved.
Its Not That Hard
Me: “Alright, and your first name please?”
SC: “Cecilia”
Me: “Can you spell it for me please?”
SC: “……Cecilia”
Me: “Yes, but can you spell it for me please?”
SC: “………”
Me: “………?”
SC: “….Cecilia.”
Me: “Can you spell it for me please?”
SC: “Cecilia.”
Yes, Cecilia. I caught that part. I understand that part. You have stated that part multiple times. We are all clear on that part. Mission control has given us an all green and we are ready to launch that part at any time. But that is not the question I am asking you. I am asking you to break Cecilia down into its component pieces. It dissemble it into its most primitive forms. The very materia that was used to forge it into a moniker to begin with.
Here, I will even give you a hint. It starts with C.
That Was Easy
Me: “Alright, and the problem?”
SC: “The problem is…….my like……uhhh…..”
Do you need to call a time out? Maybe consult your team captain or the assistant manager? See if you can work out some sort of play that will lead to an answer for this rather basic question? Heck it’s really not that hard. I bet you could ask Fred, the guy that brings in the Gatorade and even he’d be able to solve this one for you. I mean the whole reason you called was because you had a problem, right? If you don’t have a problem, than there’s no need to call and no reason for us to continue to converse in this manner.
My Injuries Are Deep
My journey home this morning was one of suffering and woe. As the Skytrain broke down and I guess it was Bring Your Kid To Work And Leave Them There To Do Your Job For You Day at Skytrain Control. For there was no warning of this ominous turn of events and no direction from which we might find salvation.
It started simple enough. When I got on they announced there was a problem train at Metrotown there would be some delays as they were running only one track between Edmonds and Metrotown. Fair enough. They also said they expected to have the train moved and regular service back in 20-30 minutes. Excellent! I thought. For it would take me about 20 minutes to get there anyhow. So I likely won’t be affected too badly at all.
Oh, how naïve I was.
I made it to Metrotown and even beyond. But than my train slowed and switched tracks. No worries, I thought, they said they were running one track so it is to be expected……but than my train stopped….and started going back to Metrotown. We pulled into Metrotown with a sea of confused faces on our train. No announcement, no direction and certainly no explanation for this treachery was forthcoming. Three Skytrain attendant stood impassively nearby. We looked at them. They looked at us. But they said nothing. People began to worry and started getting off the train, fearful it was going the wrong way. Still, the blue coat trio said nothing. I smelled the faint, tangy ordour of incompetence and decided to disembark myself. Minutes later, sure enough, the train headed back the way from whence I had come.
So, here we are, milling around uselessly. No announcements. No directions. Trains keep arriving from downtown and offloading more confused people. But every train on both sides heads back downtown. Soon the crowd has reached critical mass and people are dangerously close to the edges of the platform. The blue coat trio seems baffled as to why this is happening but it must have finally registered hey maybe we should show some leadership before someone dies. At which point they announce oh hey, there isn’t actually any eastbound service past Metrotown despite all the announcements saying otherwise you heard leading up to Metrotown. Surprise!
Seeing as its still Leave Your Kid At Work To Shut Down The Lower Mainland Day at Skytrain Control, there’s no shuttle buses or extra buses or anything really prepared to handle the deluge of confused angry commuters. So I am left to my own devices to attempt to plot a course home using unfamiliar bus routes. Oh joy. I meander around the Metrotown bus loop till I spot the stop for the xx7. xx7! I think. I know that number. It shows up at the Skytrain station I am attempting to reach. I shall await its arrival than ride it to safe haven.
So I wait…and wait….and wait. While the driver of the xx7 watches us impassively. Hey, no worry over there. Not like the backbone of the city’s transit system is crippled or anything. Finish your sausage McMuffin before you get a move on. Finally he lurches our chariot into motion and thus begins the winding, unfamiliar, even alien terrain of a bus route I have never taken before. But I reassure myself that eventually….hopefully….it will at some point reach my station.
After some time we do reach a station. One I do not recognize. The bus driver announces that anyone wanting to reach my station should get off the bus here and get on the Skytrain, as this is the Millennium Line, and we can ride it around to the other end of service gap. He explains that his route is all weird and long and curvy and it will be quite some time before he gets there. So this will be much faster. A sound plan, good bus driver. Thank you. I shall attempt this endeavour.
Course what he didn’t mention is that this station was only like 2-3 down from the Broadway station switch over and to get to my station I would have to ride practically the entire Millennium line than a third of the Expo line to reach my stop. A trip which Translink’s website informs me would take approximately 25 minutes on a good day. But alright, perhaps his route is particularly long and terrifying and this will be faster. While I’m waiting they announce that they have restored regular service ( Yay! ) but still have delays ( Boo. ). But this does mean the circuit has been restored and I am free to go straight home…….by taking the faster route from Broadway which takes approximately 14 minutes. Technically, I’m right back where I started. This saddens me briefly.
By the time I reach my station I am tired and sore, as I have been carrying around several litres of precious Coke Zero and 2 bags of groceries for some time now, but at least I am finally on my way back to home base. I arrive at my stop without incident and await the Accursed Chariot, the xx2. Which I believe I have spoken of many times before. I waited, hoping at the very least the Dark Engine will spare me any additional misery this day. I see it, parked nearby with the driver on break. Luckily, I only need wait a minute or two for it to pull up and the doors open…..
…..aaaaaannnnnd it’s the driver of the xx7. It’s the same bus, he’s just changing to the xx2 route. So while I took his “faster” suggestion he had enough time to arrive at my stop and take his 15 minute break. Truly this chariot is CURSED and at its helm is a cruel, heartless husk of a man. No good can ever come of this bus nor any time spent within the grasp of its shadowy confines.
To his credit he recognized me, and could not meet my gaze. He looked away. Shamefaced and guilty, knowing full well the torturous path he had deceived me down. He didn’t charge me bus fare either, as my transit pass had long since expired at that point thanks to my little side trip. Oh yes, he knew what he had wrought.
All in all I left work at 7am and got home at 9:15am. It normally only takes me an hour. So to say I was saddened by the time I reached my front door would be an understatement. Than of course I open the door and the cat acts like I had abandoned her. Accursed feline, it is not me you miss, but my ability to reach the treat bag in the cupboard. An ability which was over an hour overdue.
annnd rest. Painfully.
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