I was on the 250 Horseshoe Bay today, which takes about an hour from Downtown Vancouver to final destination. It's a long ride, a lot of starts and stops, but good for clearing the head. On this particular trip, however, having absentmindedly left my iPod at home as well as the book I'm reading right now (I Love the Word Impossible by Anne Kiemel), I had little to entertain myself with, save a pen with no lid and the back of a receipt on which to write - so classy.
I was in a conundrum, yes, but decided to do some people watching to pass the time, avoiding direct eye contact, of course.
For a few minutes, sightings of interest were scarce, so I just allowed myself to eavesdrop on the musings of retirees in wigs and stockings on their daily shopping adventures. But then I saw him -- the narcoleptic plumber.
He was sitting up, tool belt safely secured to waist, long pipe in hand (about a meter from the ground up - not sure why he brought this on the bus), with his head slumped forward, mouth wide open, faaast asleep. I was first curious about the mouth drooping open, wondering if he was going to drool and if I should prepare myself to be grossed out. I decided to put that one on the backburner. I did, however, notice he was ever so slowly stooping further and further forward in slumber towards the pipe he was holding on to and that, come one more bump in the road or fast start, he was going to hit it bang on, and hard.
I then began to question if this situation was one which required some intervention, some level of social benevolence. I chuckled at the thoroughness of my conscience, and after considering all of my options, I concluded there was no comfortable or pithy way of communicating a message to the effect of, "WAKE UP Mr. Wrench, you're going to hit your head on your pipe".
Yeah, that's what I was thinking.
So, I decided to make the most of the situation by granting myself the permission (guilt free) to be entertained by the plumber's plight. (Wow, who knew alliteration would make it into this post?!)
I watched for five minutes, enthralled in a slightly puckish manner, as he inched closer and closer toward the pipe. Then finally, after a red light on 13th Street...
BANG!
Mr. Wrench woke up.
He was jolted out of slumber, confused at what had just transpired, horrified at the little dabble of drool at the side of his mouth, and in pain after hitting his head on an unidentified hard object - the one he happened to be holding on to. It took him a couple of moments to orient himself and put two and two together; I found the whole scenario altogether amusing.
It was over almost before it began, and worth ever second.
This is why I love public transit - it is the stuff of blogs.
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