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the commuting unconscious

the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-seven years and one million words

I've been taking the bus a lot of late, getting out to the site of the job I'm at for the moment. It's in the heart of Miserysauga, way out at Eglinton and Dixie. I've been seeing a lot of the same faces, naturally, since I catch the same buses every day (the 8:29 from Islington, for instance). Most of us take the same seats every day, and some of the regulars seem to have been doing this for years - they have that old familiarity.

But today on the subway it was a little special. The fellow on the far side of the door from me kept passing out between stops, only to come to every time the driver let the brakes engage. He'd panic and sort out where he was, and would be dozing again before the train was rolling once more. The woman beside me had a different approach - she was flat out unconscious. Must have been a special night last night. I guess all it would take would be a new reality show.

(did I get enough sarcasm in there?)