CAN’T YOU READ THE SIGN?
On the bus, a harsh male voice interrupts me: “You’re not supposed to do that. Can’t you read the sign?”
I juggle backpack, wallet, toast in napkin, mostly full coffee mug, umbrella; wedging in hanging on to hanging strap struggling crushing crushed -
The man is old sour faced runny eyed sunken chest thin mouthed slack handed glitter eyed.
“I’m sorry – I just moved here. What sign?”
“Up at the front.”
“Where?”
“Up at the front.” Words spat.
This is the B Line bus, the 99. A monster of a bus, two sections, one tandem, joined by a pivoting plate, accordian sides. This worm, terrifying in its power, its speed, its alienness.
I force myself to focus and differentiate. I see signs with symbols. Sure enough, no food or drink allowed.
Tame the beast. Ride it.
“Thank you. I didn’t know.”
Silence.
I try to bridge: “Have you lived here for a long time?”
“Seventy-six years.” Spoken as accomplishment. Seventy-six years to shrivel body, heart, mind, spirit. What is left?
The man throws his voice, his seventy-six years of privilege, past me to the bus driver. He reviles my helpless ineptitude, my stupidity. I am shown that he belongs and I do not. This confrontation – is about territory.
My first day in a foreign land the city the university the B line number 99. I will tame this beast.
“Territoriality: the behaviour shown by an animal when establishing and defending its territory.” Collins Dictionary.