Journeys Home from the Office

The other day, I was on my way home from the office, walking along in the warmth of spring.  It was pretty windy out, and not sunny, but the teeth of the wind bit sweet and gentle, and I turned my face into them as I crossed the street.


That's when the bus made its move.  Jasper Ave is down to two lanes of traffic at one point due to the construction at the First and Jasper building...

(like so)

... and they are detouring buses onto 102 Ave ...


RIGHT INTO MY PATH!


I didn't see the bus, and I would not have seen the bus if not for the roaring of its mighty diesel engine.  You see, bus drivers are like the Honey Badger.  They don't give a shit.  And I know he saw me, because when I made eye contact with him, he was already looking at me—not where the bus was going, at me!

He really don't!

Okay maybe I should have been watching for cars instead of turning my face into the warmth of spring, but the road was clear when I stepped into it and I had the right of way.  So there, Honey Bus Driver.


Little did I know, my two-block trip home was about to take a turn for the even worse.


I don't have an illustration of this next rage-inducing incident because I was afraid to take a photo because I thought someone might be watching.  I feel pretty bad about that.  How can I be an intrepid journalist if I'm afraid to take a photo of something because I think someone might be watching?


Anyway, one block farther on, I spied a yellow vespa parked on the sidewalk.


My body filled up with an urge to tip it over.  I suppressed this urge as I approached the vespa, then, as I came parallel with it, the urge came back, almost overwhelming me.  "I can't believe you are parked on the sidewalk!" I thought at it.  Then, tucked into the footrest, I noted a City of Edmonton parking ticket, and my desire to tip that vespa over was replaced with delighted satisfaction.  The satisfaction grew deeper as I saw a receipt for the adjacent parking lot nestled in the helmet, which the vespa driver had left attached to the seat.  


"Sucker!  You think you can pay for parking in a parking lot, then park on the sidewalk?" I silently crowed.  "Hahahah!" I thought, then continued on my way, regretting my cowardly decision to not photograph the idiotic parking job.


I had just one more street to cross before I was home, but first, I needed to drop some mail in the mailbox.  "What a beautiful afternoon," thought I, depositing my mail.

Let this set the scene for you!

That was when a minivan pulled up to the stop line.  But this was no ordinary minivan.  This was maroon.  This had its windows rolled down.  This had a ball-capped 30-something male for a driver.  And this driver?  He was blasting metal.


He was blasting metal so loudly I was embarrassed for him.


I wanted to go up to him, tap on his window, and say "You know you're in a minivan, right?  A maroon minivan?"


But I don't know.  Telling someone else he's an asshole seems like an asshole move.  Even if the other person is most definitely an asshole.


I suppose that can be my rationale for not giving the bus driver the finger, for not tipping over that vespa, and for not putting that minivan-driving dumbass in his place.


But sinking to their level ... oh!  It would have felt so good.




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Image credits here and here.