Little Pleasures (Praise for a TTC Driver)
I’m into my ninth minute in line alongside about a dozen others at the King and Portland Dollarama. It’s half past 5 on a Friday night and I just dashed off from work. It’s one of those good old Canadian nights where it looks like it could be midnight outside already, and you begin to question why fleece-lined jeans are not a more popular apparel. Plus of course, it’s raining.TGIF, TGIF, I repeat in my head as I latch onto my little bag of $1 Cheetos. Yes, this is why I am now into my tenth minute in line. I can’t resist the little pleasures. A warm Starbucks on a lazy Sunday, a kiss on the cheek on a Monday morning, and yes, a bag of Cheetos on a Friday night. Actually, $1.15 now that I’m at the cash and we no longer use the penny.
I bolt out the door, scarf wrapped around my messy hair, gripping tightly onto my new little pleasure along with folders and documents from work. It’s raining harder now and I need the streetcar. Badly. All I can think is how mortifying it will be if I soak my work materials in the rain all because I was waiting for my little pleasure — my crunchy, little fake orange treasure. The streetcar door closes and I am out of luck by a second. TGIF…..I repeat in my head. As I turn to my left to look down the traffic-jammed street to see no streetcar in sight, I hear the doors open in front of me. “YES!” I think in my head. I rush up the steps, gleeful to be let into the dry club, and say “Thank you so much!” as I drop my tiny token in the empty translucent box. “You made it! Congratulations!” says the driver back to me. I take one, two steps in, and all at once “Happy Friday!” and a roaring applause from the passengers. I smile. I hit the jackpot. It’s that TTC driver.
You know the one. The one who tells jokes, sings songs, writes and reveals poetry to his passengers as he channels down the 1.5hr 504 route. Yes, that one. This was my second time and I knew immediately that I was in luck. I sit on the bright red seat, relax, and open my Cheetos. Crunch. I am so ready to enjoy this ride.
An older gentleman is next to me, donning grey hair and an ill-fitting hat. He’s shuffling a bit and I can tell he wants to chat. I smile. “Isn’t this wonderful?” he says. “50 years I’ve been taking public transit, and never have I ever had something like this. Isn’t it great?”. “Yeah” I nod. “I’ve had him before, he’s funny”. The man continues, “It reminds me of one of my teachers. Out of all the teachers I had there was just one who stuck out. It was a poetry class. Each lesson, he wouldn’t just read poetry like the others, he would bring in records…like Simon and Garfunkel, and he would play them for us. And that would be the lesson” he says, almost tearfully. We chat for awhile about how important these people can become — the ones who stick out. The ones who bring joy to other people just because they can. The driver cuts up our conversation by telling us he’s going to share a poem, and the whole car falls silent. The old man stops talking immediately as his smile brightens. “It’s raining, it’s pouring, my passengers are boring” he says, with a monotone delivery, and everyone laughs. A crowd gets on at the next stop…and everyone claps. There is no sign of the driver running out of material at this point. “Next stop, Sudbury street” comes over the speakers. I get up. But I don’t want to. “Have a really nice weekend” the old man says. TGIF, I repeat.
