It's been a long time since I had a really epic commute to get to work. For a few months many years ago, I was working as an off-the-books office manager for a meglomaniacal buttnut way up in the north end of Toronto and had an hour-long, three-transfer public transit ride to get up there.
The subway part was fine (I was younger then and hated people less) but the part with the bus . . . sometimes I still hear the screaming. The bus was stuffed with teens every morning and they all disembarked at the stop AFTER mine, so I had to be in a certain spot if I wanted to get off . . . the bus. Thus, the most exciting moments of the morning occurred when I would engage in a battle of the wills at the bus depot with a little person, who wanted the same seat as I did. Some days, I would deke her out; other days, she would flash past me like tiny, bitchy lightning and smirk triumphantly at me for most of the ride. I've often thought about tracking that woman down and doing a TLC special on her. Check your local listings! 8 p.m.: Little People, Big World. 9:00 p.m.: Tiny, Bitchy Lightning.
Nowadays, my commute is pretty short and is generally accomplished in bare feet. But I got to relive some of that tasty commuter fun last week when Katr and I were in Toronto briefly for work. Of course, we were taking the GO Train against traffic and our hotel was right across from Union Station, so it was more like commuter-tourism than commuting. Like going on commuter safari, but with laptop bags instead of those big hats. We marvelled at the herds of people arriving into the city. We were trod upon by wingtips. I hummed that Carly Simon song from Working Girl.
On our first morning at Union, I found the "on-the-go" spirit of the commuters infectious and insisted that Katr and I both have smoothies for breakfast, because they are "healthy" and make me feel very efficient and no-nonsense. Also, I figured there would be less chance of dribbling on my "nice shirt" (which I subsequently dribbled on at lunch). This worked well for our first morning, but on the second day, it turned out we were hungrier. We both slammed our smoothies just before getting on the train and were sitting there discussing how we probably should have gotten something with bacon instead when another passenger joined us on the train. It was a man.
A man with a bag of McMuffins.
We were instantly riveted.
I know that McMuffins are wrong. But sometimes they feel so right. I was cursing myself for not acquiring our own McLardWads and heaving a heavy sigh of resignation when the strangest thing happened. This McMuffin man settled in a seat close to ours and then he got up, LEFT THE MCMUFFINS ON HIS SEAT and walked by us, in search of a paper. Katr and I cast sidelong glances at this man's abandoned breakfast. How could he just LEAVE them there, delicious and unattended? Words passed between us as we eyed the food.
Me: (barely a whisper) It's like BAIT.
Katr: (nodding vigorously, also barely whispering) Creampuff bait.
We teetered on the edge of indecision. Would we just leave the breakfast sandwiches alone and pretend that they weren't calling our names? Or would we teach this guy a lesson and have him return to find two creampuffs making sweet, sweet love to the lonely McMuffins?
Our hesitation cost us the prize. Just as I was about to make my move (and just as Katr whipped out her camera to capture the liberation of the McMuffs), the guy strode back to his seat, opened the bag and started to chow down. I may have shed a little tear. Thank goodness there were Timbits when we got to the office or the whole day might have been a wash.
On our last evening in town, Katr took off to see her hairdresser (as she has yet to find one in Vancouver - part of our ongoing "failing to commit to our new city" issues, like how I still have a Toronto cell phone) and I took the train back alone. I had actually brought some editing work with me and was feeling quite fancy and just like the other commuters, on their laptops and Blackberries. I snapped my gum importantly as I circled formatting errors and scribbled notes in the margins.
By the time the train arrived at Union, my gum was stale and as I exited the train, amid a sea of commuters, I looked for a place to deposit it. I saw a garbage can and, in an uncharacteristic move, I decided to lean over and spit my gum out, instead of using my hands. Just as I leaned and spit, I was mightily jostled by a small woman with a large shopping bag and, in a glistening arc, my gum went flying into some lady's open purse.
I froze.
I've been known to perpetrate a social gaffe from time to time, but it's a rare day that I'll hawk into someone's purse. I had no idea what to do. Reach in and retrieve it? Apologize? Let the wave of commuters carry me away? My fight or flight response kicked into gear when the lady's friend said in a loud voice:
"Did she just . . . SPIT IN YOUR PURSE?"
Suddenly, everything was in slow motion. The lady bent her head to look into her purse as her friend raised her hand to point her manicured nails in my direction. I turned and, like a fat gazelle, leapt over some guy's briefcase and dodged a pair of Mormons. I made for the escalators, head down, heart racing, waiting for a claw-like hand to clamp down on my shoulder and rub my gum into my hair. I was almost at the hotel when I realized that I'd escaped.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I popped another stick of gum. And then I started laughing so hard, I choked on my gum.
So, purse lady, if you're out there - I'm sorry I spit my gum into your purse. I hope it didn't ruin anything (other than your day). And as for you, McMuffin Man - keep those sandwiches close. You might not be so lucky next time.
