A trip there and back

By Glenn Lawrie

The siren song of the city was one I found impossible to resist. So, every six or eight weeks, I boarded the day's first bus for the three-hour trip up to The Big Smoke. There, I would replenish my supply of books, stationery supplies, and quality chocolate, a list I prioritized in roughly the same order.

Six o'clock on a Saturday morning follows too closely on the heels of Friday evening, so I liked to find my seat, get ensconced, and slip back into the Land of Nod for a few more hours of physical and psychological restoration.

Such was not to be the case on this trip. As the other passengers boarded, a few caught my eye. A young woman with a puppy in her purse caused a few ears to cock. The hyperactive beast made more noise than an unruly child. I sighed, for this trend-follower defied the odds and opted not to sedate her pet.

A middle-aged man followed her. Despite the season and the predicted record high for the day, he wore a black wool suit. Not a sartorial affront, he just looked uncomfortably warm. However, the bus was air-conditioned, and he settled into his aisle seat five or six rows ahead of me.

Barely had the bus pulled out of the station when he started working his smartphone. Unfortunately, it wasn't his style to busy himself in a game application and simply annoy those around him with the shrill sound effects that accompany every minor accomplishment or defeat. No, he had to convince his captive audience that he was a very (self-) important person. Every two or three minutes, he barked into his cell phone and issued curt and stern dictates that were quite bereft of any and all social niceties. Who was he? No idea. He sounded like an old-school autocrat, a captain of industry, someone not keen on listening to any feedback whatsoever. I sighed again, for his stentorian rants precluded the possibility of any shut-eye.

As we approached the city, the lanes multiplied, the traffic thickened, drivers' aggression increased, and their patience decreased. Perhaps it was an indication of the urbanites' psyche, but the following distance shrank to less than a second. There was no safety margin at all.

And then it happened: an Irish Setter tried to cross the road but stopped right in our lane. He looked dead into my eyes, and although the bus driver tried to brake and then to swerve, he lacked any wiggle room, so the inevitable happened. We hit the dog, clunk! and the poor beast was in doggie heaven before the dualies and tandem axles ran over him, bump-bump. A sad coda to the trip.

A whirlwind tour of the city netted me everything I had on my list, and four hours later, I was back at the bus terminal for the return trip. No sooner had I settled into my designated seat when the same man from my morning trip walked down the aisle.

"Hello, my friend! It's so nice to see you again. Going back already?"

"Yes, I got everything done in record time. And you?"

"Yes, I had some very important business to attend to."

Standing right next to me, I noticed that his suit needed a good laundering and pressing. Topnotes of sour sweat and urine contradicted the image he was trying to project.

And then he took his seat, this time a mere one row ahead of me and across the aisle. In his left hand, he clutched his smartphone. Again, no sooner had the bus pulled out of the station when he started delivering his overly-loud dictates to God knows who. Keeping an eye on him, I soon noticed that he wasn't making any calls on his phone. Nor was he answering any calls that either announced their presence with vibration or a ring-tone.

A sham, a ruse, a total act. I wondered how many people it fooled. Obviously hungry for recognition and status, the route he chose was fairly common. Tuning him out as not worthy of any further consideration, the hum of the engine and the thrum of the tires soon overpowered his tired act, and I fell asleep.

The author is a Canadian who last taught at Hong-Nong Middle School in South Jeolla Province. He can be reached at gmedius@hotmail.com.