Portage

On the 3A and the 3B, the Portage Avenue routes, the bus makes many stops. Some are planned; others occur when necessary, e.g. when there’s too much swearing. “Profanity is not acceptable,” says the driver into his microphone.

Grizzled men protest their innocence.

“My bad,” says an old lady. “I said fuck.”

The bus starts up again; the bantering is resumed; the bus stops. “If you continue using that language,” says the driver, “I’ll throw you off the bus.” The crowd giggles. Camaraderie.

Two men sit down next to me. “Relax,” says one. “It’s OK to be seated next to a black man.” (On the bus I’m not unused to this sort of challenge.) I glare. They laugh. “Just messin’,” they say. We fist-bump.

“I don’t care if you make fun of me,” I tell them. They pretend not to hear.

“What are you reading?” they ask. I show them An Experiment in Love by Hilary Mantel, who’s twice won the Man Booker.

Solemnly, they nod. Respect.

Some drivers are less patient than others, and so I always make sure to thank them; this has put me into their good graces. Still, it’s not surprising that the driver who’s kindest to me is another puny white guy. When I disembark, I thank him, and he warmly says: “Take care.”

As I step out onto the pavement, I have a vision: a banquet hall (a warehouse) with many tables at which are seated the passengers and drivers. I hear my name called out: I’m summoned to the podium. I’ve been chosen as the MVP. The MVP of riding the bus.

Lame

Foot pain has been preventing me from running. I’ve ordered a new pair of shoes: until they arrive, I’ll sit back and rest. Which is to say, I won’t get any rest, because all the while I’ll feel antsy.

Because of the foot pain, whenever I go on errands I walk with a ridiculous limp.

On Sunday I was jaywalking with Stephen. “Let’s cross here,” he said. “All right,” I said. And when we were halfway across the road, a car loomed up and I had to limp with double speed.

Yesterday I rode the bus to Walmart and then limped over to Great Clips for a haircut. The stylist had plenty of piercings and tattoos, and her manner was aggressive. I felt obliged to pretend to be a badass.

“Cut it very short,” I said.

“You do realize,” she said, “when it grows out, it’ll stick up in the back.”

“Honestly I don’t even care,” I said.

“You don’t like to get your hair cut, do you,” she said.

“No, I don’t,” I said.

“When was the last time — eight months ago?” she said.

“Five and a half,” I said. Bam.

Admiringly she said: “Your hair grows really fast. You’re really healthy.” I said: “You mean, like, I don’t have cancer.”

She was amused by that.

When it was done she said I looked like a different person. I asked whether that was a good or a bad thing. “Well, I enjoy the shock value,” she said. “I will, too,” I said.

“See you in six months,” she said. “If I come back at all,” I said. Bam.

I have no idea how to do nice, normal smalltalk.

Kenny asked which stylist it was. He knew her. I told him about the conversation. He said I should ask her for a date. Kenny is always telling me to ask people for a date. But I don’t want to go on a date.

Kenny’s mom told me I need to drive a car: if I won’t drive a car, I won’t get a wife. You make a good point, I said. Kenny’s mom told me she’d pray for me to get a wife. I told her I’d appreciate that prayer. I’d appreciate any prayer on my behalf, including that one.

KPC

This year I’m looking at job ads in a different way. For example, there’s one from a college in rural Saskatchewan. Last year I would’ve leaped at it, anticipating that Netflix and Amazon would sustain me. But now I’m warier: I want to know which churches are in that place.

For the first time, I’m being picky about where to worship. I don’t want to just settle for the nearest building or for the most familiar denomination (i.e., the least distant relation). I wish I could choose a church first, and move to it.

Why am I being so picky? I guess it’s because I’m (surprisingly) glad to be worshiping at Keller Park. I’ve often had enthusiasm about this church; I used to admire what it did for other people (or what it was trying to do). But now I’m experiencing its influence:

• my resistance (intellectual, emotional) is loosening;
• my prayers are more frequent and less vexed;
• I’m more interested in the other congregants.

And if elsewhere I don’t continue experiencing these things, I’ll be disappointed.

When I do get hired to teach philosophy, I’ll be sad to move away from KPC. But I remind myself that right now I’m enjoying a respite, not fulfilling my vocation. For all I know, the blessings here will cool if I overstay my season.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

At the bus stop, a beggar fleeces me. We converse; he notices the wound on the back of my hand.

How did you get that?

I spattered hot cooking oil onto my hand.

You should cover it with cocoa butter.

No.

Yes, that’s what you should do for burns. Be careful. Those scabs will scar.

I wouldn’t mind. That would look cool.

[Delighted:] Like a tattoo?

Yes, like a tattoo. And I’m pleased with these scabs because people talk to me about them.

[He sits down next to me.] Where are you from?

Ecuador.

Where’s that?

South America.

South America! And where do you live?

Here. In the neighborhood.

[We discuss our schooling, our work. He is a mechanic. He wants to be trained to become a welder but first must earn his G.E.D.]

[The bus is arriving. Now is my chance. I say:]

Do you go to church?

Yes, at First Methodist.

I attend the Keller Park Church. That’s why I moved into the neighborhood. To attend that church.

[A wave of feeling washes over him. He smiles with his three teeth:]

Well that’s wonderful.

[Fist bump.]

I board the bus. He walks down the sidewalk with the fare I’ve given him.