Friday, yawn, bumble to the bus stop with a coffee in hand. Trip over some construction detritus on the way over. Street’s down to 1 lane in each direction and the crosswalks have been demolished and replaced with those strobe blinkers – not the best, but that’s what we have. Hit it, at the stop. Woman with her head in her phone – yes, this our natural posture and proclivity these days – and I am sympathetic: the morning is gray, the weekend is nigh, and we’ll soon be shivering out here on this temporarily broken street.
Rumble through the neighbourhood, cross the river to downtown. 15 minutes to my transfer point. Big avenue. Guy over there carrying a big duffel, like the one my father brought home from his stint in the Navy. Hauls it around like it’s no big deal – thick pipes, paws for hands. Might be nursing a medium-strength hangover.
The bus arrives, orange glow in the flat morning air, queue to get on. It’s been a while since I’ve ridden so I mistakenly jump the unofficial queue – the one that is recognized but not strictly enforced. First to arrive at the stop is the first on the bus. Oh well, plenty of time for me to correct.
We slide down 104, up 109, up Princess Elizabeth. I’ve got my ‘phones on – some sort of moody instrumental piece that flows into the next one. I step off close to work and wind my way through Dovercourt. Dominion Industrial now, all torn up, all under construction, the railroad tracks snipped, no more service spur line, no more occasional train horns in the neighbourhood. All that asphalt chewed up and forgotten, steel rail discarded in the swale, the crossing lights that haven’t worked for years reposing in final disuse in the gravel railbed. I say a word of goodbye for the Dominion spur line.
Job: Touch my fob to the sensor and damned if I didn’t have another cup and damned if it wasn’t a great day.