DanOCan

I watch the C-Train pull in to the City Hall station, already packed to overflowing.  I join the throngs of people who are pushing their way towards the edge of the platform, everyone eager to grab one of the few available standing room spots before the train departs.

I end up jammed close to the door.  I attempt to reach my phone so I can listen to some podcasts.  No such luck – I could likely manoeuvre my hand into my pocket to retrieve it but doing so puts me at real risk of getting charged with some sort of perverted sex crime by the high school girl in front of me.  I opt to forego the technology and focus on the people.

Immediately I begin to assign names to the various people around me.  There is “High School Chick” in front of me, “Professional Chick” on a bench nearby and “Librarian Chick” a couple seats away.  (Hey, nothing says I have to be politically correct in my own mind, right?)

Librarian Chick (named because of her conservative manner of dressing, glasses and hair tied tightly in a bun) has the classic “closed body language” pose going on – her left arm folded right across her body, which itself is squeezed as far over to the right side of the seat as possible.  She clutches a paperback upon which she keeps her eyes focused at all times.

I see why.  Sitting to her left is “Gangsta Boy".  He is your typical white suburban “hip hop” type – baggy pants around his ass, gold chains around his neck and – to properly complete the ensemble – a New York Yankees baseball cap perched backwards on his head.  His right leg is resting against Librarian Chick and he is making no effort to hide the fact that he is enjoying this forced intimacy.  A wry smile is on his face which morphs into a smug self-satisfied look the longer the contact continues.

In front of me, wedged up against High School Chick is a white-haired gentleman who earned the name “Captain Kangaroo”.  Next to him and off to my left is “Mark Zuckerberg”, so named because he looks very much like the Facebook founder.

The train pulls into the first station.  The doors open and a couple more people wedge in.  High School Chick backs into me and says “Haha, nice to meet you.  Looks like we’re going to get to know each other before this ride is over.”  Not often I am left speechless, but I manage to stammer something incoherent.  Just as I am mentally beating myself up for being such a dork (“C’mon, your’re more than twice her age, you should not be rendered dumbfounded by a female anymore, dimwit!”) the lights of the train go off and there is the disheartening sound of everything shutting down that is very familiar to anyone who rides the train on any sort of regular basis.

You can hear the entire car sigh as a collective.  Someone mutters “I wonder if this will be twenty minutes again.”  Like prisoners of war, we have all formed an immediate bond due to circumstance.  There is a second collective sigh, this time one of relief, as the lights come on once again and the train lurches forward, immediately sending a woman who was standing behind me stumbling backwards.  Damn Newtonian physics!

She is in the process of apologizing and explaining there was nothing to hold on to.  I decide that given the newfound bond we all share to take advantage of my captive audience.  “Calgary Transit doesn’t believe in handholds,” I explain.  “Their philosophy is that if you actually have room to topple over then clearly the car is not packed enough.”

There is a slight chuckle from those in close proximity to me.  Mark Zuckerberg is given a sudden boost of confidence by my ice breaker.  He starts in with a simple “Calgary Transit breaks down at least once a week.”

Like a good improv team, I follow up his opening with “Well, you know, it IS raining.  We certainly wouldn’t want to design a train system that can operate in the rain.”  It’s not a great line, but it is one I used to use in the winter when we were told the train was being delayed due to snow.  It works better in the winter, but I had to work with what I was given.

Mark continues the momentum.  “Yeah.  It’s not designed to work above ground.  Or below ground.  Or on days that end in ‘y’.”  We chuckle.  I’m sure if we were physically capable of turning around to look at people we would see a few eyes rolling.  I can sense the moment has passed and it is time to once again shut up.

High School Chick speaks.  “Yeah, it sure doesn’t take much to shut down the entire C-Train line, does it?”

Immediately Mark Zuckerberg’s comes to full attention.  He has garnered the attention of a female who is close to his age.  With renewed enthusiasm he carries on.

“It’s like when the voice says "’Thank you for choosing Calgary Transit.’ What a joke!  What other choice do we have?  Drive?  You ever tried driving these roads at rush hour?  All you need to do is stall a car on Deerfoot and you can shut down the whole city.”

There is a momentary silence.  Not taking the queue that it’s time to wind up the act, he continues – now launching into a Rick Mercer style rant:  “Rubber neckers!  It’s like they’ve never seen a stalled car before!  They slow down and look just to see what’s happening, never mind what it does to everyone else on the road.  What’s up with that???”

Another silence. 

I speak up.  “Well, they probably think it’s a photo radar vehicle or something.”  Yeah, sometimes I can’t help myself – nothing like holding a drowning man under water, eh?

Mark grabs that idea and runs with it some more.  “Yeah!  You’re already doing ten klicks under the speed limit – why would you think you need to slam on your brakes?  Don’t people know how fast they are going?  That causes accidents!”

Mark has now completely given up on witty repartee and has moved onto political commentary.  I decide enough is enough and leave well enough alone.  Using body language I try to convey to the rest of the patrons that I am now separating myself from Mark.  The Mark and Dan show is over, thanks for coming out!

While Mark continues to go on and on, I look around.  Gangsta Boy is still resting his leg against Librarian Chick who continues to immerse herself in her novel.  High School Chick is sorting through the text messages on her phone.  I am able to read over her shoulder and quickly learn her name is Jackie and she is meeting a number of friends after school and she feels the need to update them with every station we pass.

Mark is still going.  He has now moved on to a rant about how the same person who decides his bus should leave 30 seconds before his train gets to the transfer point is also the same person who synchronizes the traffic lights.  Captain Kangaroo hasn’t changed his expression once, continuing to have the same unimpressed look that asks the world “Why did I have to get stuck here with these young people?”

As we get further down the line the crowd thins out.  High School Ch—er, Jackie gets off.  No longer doing our impression of high density feedlot the cattle are able to start free ranging around the car a little more.  For the first time Librarian Chick looks up from her book to survey the immediate area for a vacant seat.  No such luck, deary – you’re going to be stuck for awhile yet.

I make a bet with myself.  I have no doubt Gangsta Boy will be riding all the way to the end of the line.  Anyone who is trying that hard to convey the image of a tough guy just HAS to live way out in the suburbs.  I’m sure if you were to dump him in the middle of south-central L.A. with real gangsters he would run crying home to his mamma.  There is nothing worse than a rich white kid.

I watch the passing “scenery”.  The muffled voice continues to announce each station as we stop.  Some people join our little club, but our membership is dwindling.  Librarian Chick has exited to freedom.  Captain Kangaroo also bails out on us.  Mark Zuckerberg left several stops ago with an exasperated “Yep, there’s my bus leaving now, damn it!”  Gangsta Boy surprises me by leaving one stop before the end of the line.  Dang.  Professional Chick left quietly, so much so that I didn’t even notice until now.

We reach the final stop and I disembark.  As I walk towards my car I have just two thoughts:  “I sure hope I don’t find my car window smashed.” and “Maybe it’s a good thing I don’t take transit more often.”

I’ve often said that I never feel more alive than when I am standing on top of a mountain.  There is something in the core of the human soul that surfaces when one feels like he has triumphed over a major obstacle, especially one that manifests itself in such a physical way like a mountain.

It almost seems that before we can appreciate life we must be confronted with death.  Whether it is facing it ourselves or watching it claim a loved one, it seems we need that virtual slap in the face to make us realize how limited our time on this planet really is. 

I was reminded of this in two very different ways this past weekend.

The first occurred on the way to hike Mount Yamnuska.  As I passed Redwood Meadows, I looked over at the fire hall to my old stomping grounds of 50 Station.  I noticed a large number of cars parked in front.  With it being just a touch past 6:30am I knew this was not a good sign.  Further north on Highway 22 I discovered the reason why those dedicated volunteers had been rudely awakened on an early Sunday morning.  I could see the flashing lights on the TransCanada Highway long before I got there.

The ramp onto eastbound Highway 1 was blocked off, guarded by a solitary firefighter and a truck from Springbank station.  As I crested the overpass I could see the line of police vehicles on the roadside.  That’s not a good sign.  I assumed a fatality, and I assumed that considering it was a single vehicle on a straight stretch of dry road that it was a very preventable fatality.  Later that day my suspicions would be confirmed when I learned a 19 year-old woman had died and alcohol was likely a factor in the crash.

Someone Wasn’t Destined to See the Morning Sun on the Mountains

The second reminder came several hours later as I stood on the summit of Mount Yamnuska.  I stood at the edge of the towering cliffs staring down at a drop of approximately 350m.  At that moment one is struck with the fragility of life – a single slip, a moment of vertigo and it’s all over.  Knowing those facts, humans are still drawn to the cliff face to look over the edge.  It’s like we need to stare death in the face so we can truly appreciate what we have done.

Staring Down into the Abyss

Two experiences – one life-affirming and the other frustrating in its futility.  In both cases a single choice makes all the difference.  Every single day is a gamble and we don’t know who holds all the cards.

“Paying anything to roll the dice just one more time.  Some will win, some will lose, some are born to sing the blues.” – Journey

The lesson?  Don’t take anything or anyone for granted.  Live like today is your last day on Earth, for it very well could be.  Don’t put things off.  When your time is up, will you be doing something you love?  Will you be surrounded by those who mattered the most?  Will it be in a noble pursuit or will it be a waste?

I’m sitting at my desk working away when my cell phone rings.  It is a blocked number, which should immediately ring alarm bells.  Instead, the only bell I hear is the “old fashioned telephone” ringtone I use as my default ringer.  I keep meaning to change that, because it used to be cool but then everyone started using it.  Anyway…

I answer the phone with my standard “Good morning.  Dan speaking.”

The voice on the other end sounds gruff.  It is a woman, her voice slightly raspy, likely from a lifetime of cigarettes.

“Who is this?”

I fight back my immediate impulse to become snarky.  With a “Perhaps I should be asking YOU that question.” in the back of my mind I politely respond with a simple “Dan.”

“What company do you work for?”

Hmm, I don’t like the direction this call is taking.  She has gone from gruff to downright snotty.

“University of Calgary”, I respond.  I figure I better stay consistent with my strategy of giving away as little information as possible until I see how this plays out.

There is a moment of silence.  Not long enough to be called awkward, but long enough to let me know I have not given her any of the answers she was expecting.  Just as I was about to say “I assume you have the wrong number.” the cigarette-ravaged voice derails my train of thought.  “You called my house in Fort Worth Saturday morning.”  Not a question, a statement.  And, a statement made in the sort of tone that clearly implied this Saturday morning phone call was not a welcome intrusion into her life.  Perhaps it interrupted her Saturday morning cigarette break?

I decide to respond to her statement with a question.  “Did I?”

Now it is her turn to start giving shorter and shorter answers.  “Yes.”

I decide to take a different tack.  I turn on my ‘sooth the angry client’ phone voice.  “I’m sorry, but there seems to be some confusion.  I do not recall making any calls at all on Saturday morning, let alone a long distance call to your home in Fort Worth.  Is it possible you have the wrong number?”  I read out my cell number, complete with area code hoping she will have misdialled a digit and get me out of this conversation.

No such luck.

She replies, “Yes.”  However, through the raspy voice I hear a slight weakening in her off-putting stance.  “You didn’t call and speak to my husband {name removed}?”  Finally!  She has moved from statements to questions, indicating that perhaps I am getting through to her.

“No, I didn’t.  Perhaps your number was dialled randomly when the phone was in my pocket or something?  I’m really sorry, that seems unlikely, but I don’t have any explanation for why you would think my number called your house.”

More silence.  Perhaps I have made my breakthrough?

The last thing I hear is a muttered “Whatever.” followed by dead air.  The call is over.

I want to know the rest of the story.  I want to know what the conversation with her husband was about.  What conversation took place in Fort Worth on Saturday morning that was so important she had to call back on behalf of her husband two days later?  Was it a prank call?  A collection agency?  A drug deal going bad?  Is her husband having an affair and he made up some false phone number to try and explain some odd conversation she caught him having? 

Just for kicks, I checked the call log on my cell phone and verified there were no outgoing calls on Saturday.  Heck, there were NO calls on Saturday, incoming or outgoing.  I wish Paul Harvey was still alive so he could use his grandfatherly voice to explain the situation to me, to make some random connection to something in my life and then assure me “Now you know…the rest of the story.”