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Music to listen to while you read:The General Specific by Band of Horses

I’ve never really liked taking public transit. In particular, the TTC. There isn’t much to like about grumpy bus drivers, pushy passengers and black tar-like substances smeared all over the velvet subway seats. In my past life, I would take public transit and people would think I was such an environmentalist. I’d smile and agree with them. Secretly, I just couldn’t afford the gas for my rice rocket.

I recently bought my dad a Metropass for Christmas. He instantly turned stone-faced and didn’t say a word. I thought it was the Tim Horton’s coffee acting up again. He shoved it into his vest pocket and that was that. Oh well, I thought. I guess he’d rather I got him a car. But later, he told my mom that I was his favourite son. He was so excited, he asked her to go with him to Islington station and buy one for herself so that they could go downtown together.

My dad’s generally a very outgoing guy. He’s always got a smile on his face. He spends 15 minutes each day combing back the silver strands of hair atop his head. He wears a neat charcoal vest outside his white dress shirt that he tucks into his slacks. This outfit has outlasted the Bee Gees, and it’ll continue to be his outfit until well past the rest of this decade.

Often, my mom has confided in me that she thinks he’s having an affair. Suspicions, but nothing concrete. On the days that I take my mom to the doctor’s she tells me everything. Not that she cares too much, but I think the drama is necessary for a pair of retired and restless old folks.

Nearly 90 and he’s galavanting downtown to meet up with those harlots, she calls them. Old Cantonese women who share an intimate bowl of Wonton noodles over a boiling pot of tea. Likely they convene at New Ho King, she reports. She suggests we hire a private investigator, but instead an idea comes to her. She’ll surreptitiously follow him on the GO bus. He won’t suspect a thing!

The problem with traveling with my father is that he panics a lot. It is a natural recourse to panic when you are in a foreign country and everyone thinks you are insane. Not speaking the language is also a setback.

When you travel with my father, either on horseback or otherwise, there are a few things to remember.

1) Never let him out of your sight. For an old man, he is readily sprinty.

2) Do not be the chump left outside the subway doors as the chimes go off. He won’t wait for you, so best that you hurry.

2) Wear running shoes (see #1)

This is not a stroll in the park, with my dad. There is a goal, and a mission. We are here, we need to get there. The subway waits for no man, and neither will he. If those subway doors close and we are not on the inside, you are a chump and will likely be disowned shortly.

I’ve thought about this strange unrest with him. It’s more common with immigrants and older people, but they always tend to push and shove their way onto streetcars, subways and restaurants. If you arrive at Spadina station, and line up for the streetcar, my dad will wave at you from the front of the line and say that you’re a moron for waiting that far away. After all, the doors are right here!

Amid the embarrassment of having to cut the line and apologize to other people patiently waiting in line, I join my father at the front. He whispers quietly to me that all these other people are suckers and they will likely die suckers. So get with the program, junior! Yessir!

Of course, we’re joined at the front with all the same sorts of characters. They chatter away in Chinese and I stand by my father, blocking the way to prevent anyone to get in front of me, as instructed.

I guess they’ve all grown up in a place where if you weren’t at the front of the line, you were either going to starve and die or be ridiculed for the rest of your life. Living in shame, is just not worth the wait.

For us Westerners, its perfectly sane to take things easy and if we miss that subway, yes it totally sucks, but there’ll be another one shortly. For my father, if you miss that subway, he’s going to take his slipper off and beat you over the head with it. Fair enough, I suppose.

So my mom tried to go with him on the various GO buses, streetcars and subways that it takes to get downtown from Mississauga. She told me that she couldn’t keep up with him, and last saw him at Union Station waving her to stay back 15 feet in case one of his friends saw him. In my youth, I can remember my older sister adopting this same policy.

They would tell me, “Stay back about 5 feet. If my friends come, I’ll say the code word and you scram.” That was about when I was 10 and my sister was 16. So her teenaged friends were not interested in a tag-along little brother. My only restitution was a bag of chips and a dog-eared Cosmopolitan magazine which I read cover to cover, relentlessly searching for the crossword puzzle. I never did find any, but I did learn a lot more about how to tie scarves.

My mother eventually gave up on her investigation and considered the case closed. He is definitely having an affair, she concluded. I continued to smile and let her rant. They’ve been married for close to 50 years. I have no doubt nothing remains in that relationship but a quirky companionship and a common reverence for what they’ve accomplished. Maybe someday, I will dust off my own runners and go with my father on his two and a half hour journey from the mundane suburban to the bustling Chinatown. At any rate, I suppose I could be his wing man.

I did two good deeds today. Its inconvenient for us to think that we would only do such deeds during the holidays, but its certainly no coincidence that I’ve never felt more aware of my past guilt than during Christmas. I gave a reasonably well-dressed young man a subway token, when he at first asked for spare change (no, it wasn’t Liam, although I did give Liam a token too. I’m more or less use to him asking me for spare change and unwarranted high fives).

Its been a few years since I’ve been a regular transit rider, and on the subway today, I grew fondly reminiscent. Mostly of the passing daydreams and secret TTC crushes, and less of the interminable waiting periods between streetcars. It is perhaps, if anything, comforting embarking on this solitary travel by the companionship of a million strangers.

Taking transit gives us an opportunity to sit quietly and anonymously, sometimes overhearing odd conversations between passengers about their lives. I overheard one group as they discussed their friend’s recent abortion. The girl was 16 and already had two abortions, one caused by her boyfriend throwing her down a flight of stairs. I was certain that was just an urban myth, but apparently, it seems to work reasonably well.

In passing, I have seen the faces of dozens of remarkable and unremarkable people, knowing that I would only see them once, and nevermore.

In Vancouver, I rode the bus often, and just as often, slept soundly with head against the window (likely with gaping mouth and drool coming out of the corners). It was hardly a welcoming sight for people to sit next to me. I suppose when the bus is full, if anyone would sit next to the smelly, greased-up fat guy, that wears a wrinkled suit everyday on the #6 Davie bus, I would be a welcome alternative. Well, maybe that is extreme.

On one of those trips, I awoke and realized I was sitting beside a young girl about my age. She looked over at me as I roused. Feeling her eyes, I lifted my head and deftly wiped the tiny bit of spittle from the corner of my mouth. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and smiled at her. She had on a light blue tank-top with white trim and held a gym bag on her lap. The tank-top straps hung loosely on her shoulders.

She wore her strawberry blonde hair down (more blonde, than strawberry), falling lightly around her bare shoulders and framing her slightly rounded face. I can remember this clearly, and without much effort, even though this was more than two years ago.

Her figure was average, though she carried herself with a delicate grace and balance. She had bronzed skin, likely from being outdoors and her smile was spellbinding. She asked a quick question about the upcoming stop, and I gave a short reply. It hadn’t crossed my mind that she might be interested in having a conversation about more than just transit stops.

We continued to chat and have small talk. Having grown up in a relatively small town, I tend to relate better to other people from small towns, and she had grown up in Delta. While the conversation winded its way around friends, and hang-out spots in Vancouver, I noticed the bus was soon heading to its final stop.

We got up and said our goodbyes. I walked away in the opposite direction, almost immediately regretting that decision. I knew I would never see her again. I turned around and nearly ran back, searching for any sign of her. I ran down the six-stories of escalators of Burrard Station, looking for her and uncertain what to say if I had found her. Of course, she had long gone by then.

The regret then eventually dissipated. I began to take on a different perspective of these encounters. Are these moments regrettable? I think that these encounters are meant to be enjoyed for the time that they happen. Live that moment, remember it, and then let it go. You can’t cling to those moments anymore than you can contain it in a bottle. Otherwise, there will only be the unbearable heaviness of being.

Becoming light puts into perspective these moments and reveals their fleeting nature. Hold onto it, and you will grieve over it. Let it go, and you remain the victor, having received all its spoils. We shared that moment on the bus, and passed through each other’s lives as we were in transit from one point to another. That was the moment to remember, and that’s what it will always just be.