Bus Fare, Anybody? C. Doug Blair, Waterloo, ON. 2014
Good Fortune They would gather at the shiny blue bus parked outside the coffee shop and headed for Niagara Falls and the casinos. The young man whose cousin knew a guy who needed a good warehouse forklift operator. The divorced driver who had been sober these past eleven years, and who desperately needed to bring others some happiness. The two young women whose uncommon approach to amusement would help the one cope with a devastating marriage break-up. The man who stole purses in the midst of the excitement and clatter. He knew that he had the best bet in the house. The non-custodial father who wanted to see Marineland and the Falls with his teenager before a new job took him out of province for several months. The spinster who looked forward to a delicious meal and the chance of casual anonymous conversation. The two couples of seniors who simply needed to feel young again ‘midst the bright lights and music. Years back one of them had had a big win. They held on to the hint of escape from fixed income. The on-and-off city worker who used the bus ride to read his adventure novels and used his crack numbers system to work the slots. The sleep-deprived grad student who had stood before with the crowds at the railing watching the cascading turquoise and feeling within her that strange compulsion to jump. The young man on workers’ compensation with a bad leg and “bored out of his tree”. A forties-something woman whose folly with department store credit cards had led to another
addiction. The well-dressed man with the comb-over who had heard that many of the waitresses were fun-loving. He held a one-way ticket. A small-time bar musician and singer with tickets to see a couple of the Big Names. The retired public school teacher who liked to be reminded of her many class trips. She had known love, and that richly. A Father had died with lung cancer. A young Husband had been lost in police service. She knew that she needed no other good fortune. It was hoped to be a good and safe trip. Hoped. There were Christmas decorations inside the bus. The rain had started. Roads looked slick. But the forecast bet on clearing up by early afternoon.
Kenny
I see him periodically around town. Coffee shops. Malls. Doing his postal delivery. I remember the night when I first met Kenny over 16 years ago. We were on the bus at end of work day. He was complaining out loud, almost to anyone who would listen. He was shocked at changes to Kitchener. Apparently he had been absent for a considerable time. He had been in a restaurant earlier that afternoon and had had to ask for a key to use the washroom. "Imagine a place so fearful and vandalized that even the 'John' has to be locked up! What has happened to my home town. The place where I had lived with wife and daughters! I have been in large American cities and have not seen this kind of paranoia!" Well, by this time he really had my attention, and a free chair had opened up for us to sit together. Kenny was pleased that he had found a listener while all other faces had remained eyes forward, disconnected. Soon I was being told that he once was the husband of a beloved local television personality. He had gotten involved in some unscrupulous pyramid schemes as a promoter and ultimately went to prison for fraud. He went on to describe conditions at Millhaven in Kingston and even the occurrence of one significant prison riot. He was known as the "chicken man" because of his lean appearance. He could source all kinds of things for prisoners. He got to know the likes of Harold Ballard, one-time owner of the Toronto Maple Leafs, and incarcerated. But most significantly, he found Jesus in jail. Both of us got off the bus at the Waterloo Town Square, but the conversation continued. Kenny was pleased that he had found a sympathetic fellow-believer who was not turned off by the gruff exterior...and I do mean gruff. This was a man who had found his Saviour to be masculine, capable, courageous, available, trustworthy and interested in the heart rather than appearances. His Jesus did not sip tea at strawberry socials. His Jesus faced detractors with courage and brilliance, but always had time and compassion for the downcast. Kenny wanted me to know the tremendous blessing which he had derived from the writings of Chuck Colson, of Watergate conspiracy renown. Colson had become the spearhead of Prison Fellowships. One-time advisor in the office next to Richard Nixon. Kenny wanted to make sure that I would take a look at the title "The Body" written by Colson. It tells stories of the Church in the most unlikely of places and doing what good intentions, government and social services could not do. I read it shortly thereafter with much blessing. I would think again of Kenny.
Pacing Waiting at the bus kiosk Cross the street Illuminated by our headlights At McDonald’s. And she paced And she paced In that little glass cage Cigarette in hand While the rain visited Out of season. Was she irritated, frightened Attention deficit Bills pressing upon the heart Christmas wishes beyond attainment Grumpy supervisor waiting at work An argument with a loved one Turned sour? Kids already rushed to day-care With gritty eyes and runny noses. Saw an animal like that Once at the zoo Just a kid I was But already sorry For its limitations As the sun shone On my shoulders.
Christmas Coach
Christmas Eve
Night-time shift
Number Eight Loop Crystal drift Bus a-humming Toasty warm Pulling over Waving arm She a mother Stroller too Baby bundle All in blue Tears were present Face was flushed Folding door would Groan when pushed. Can you help me But no cash Had to make A fearful dash. Boyfriend livid
High on dope Jobless Christmas Little hope. “Come in Sweetheart Shut the door” All of this He’d seen before. Blanket tucked in Precious kiss Harvey whistling “What child is this?” Let her rest here Newfound friend Women’s shelter At the end.
The Nickel
It was Wednesday. Payday tomorrow. The new job at the cabinet factory was proving a real
education. Industrial grade woodworking. Routers. Panel saws. Planers. Radial arm saws. People…artisans from all parts of Europe. Dennis had never been in this kind of environment. Challenging for sure. But a job’s a job. And walking, cash strapped, to work early in the morning and again late at night. Ninety minutes each way. This afternoon it seemed as if the March sun hung on a little longer. Hinting spring. He got two-thirds of the way and stopped at the downtown park. Geese flapping on the small lake. Happy cardinals atop three different trees. Prophesying “It’ll come. It’ll come.” Not too proud to check the sidewalks for lost change. Had all but five cents needed for bus fare. Dennis found a comfortable spot at a bench and pulled out his pocket Testament for a couple of chapters, resting. Collecting himself, he reached down for his lunch box, and saw it. Glittering in the late afternoon sun. A nickel. American mint. He picked it up chuckling to himself. American. With the inscription “In God We Trust”. (No such acknowledgment on the Canadian five-cent piece.) He would insert the discovery in a special place in his wallet as a keepsake. God was talking to him. The bus ride would be forfeited. The feet had new zip. Besides there were only forty minutes left until home. Smiling. Encouraged. (1989)
Ralph Cranston
Today while pumping gas very early in the morning, Hilary and I watched a bus driver wait at the corner through an entire street light exchange while an intending passenger ran to catch up. Deathly cold. The runner poorly dressed for the weather. Hoping not to have to wait another 30 minutes for the next ride. Chalk one up for the driver! It got me thinking about our transit drivers. For many years I had to take the bus. I watched these men and women perform many roles as goodwill ambassadors for the City, patient
listeners to the hurting and extra eyes and helps for the police. Their role is much more than the advertised standard. Next in my stream of consciuosness was an image of Jackie Gleason playing the TV comedy role of Ralph Cranston in the pioneer series “The Honeymooners”. He portrayed a City bus driver. Heavy, grumpy, seemingly impatient, but underneath carrying a heart of gold toward his wife Alice and apartment neighbours Ed and Trixie Norton. Once in a short radio biography I learned something significant about Gleason. His Father skipped town and the family. Consequently, in many respects young Jackie took up the fatherly role in a struggling family. Next came the music and then the television and acting. It was insisted by Gleason that the series would portray many simple examples of conflict, but that no episode would ever conclude without reconciliation, forgiveness, a hug and “Alice, you’re the greatest”. This was Jackie’s testimonial to the riches of marriage and the wisdom of ‘never letting the sun go down on your wrath’. Bravo, “Ralphie Baby”.
The Bus Fare
Years ago I thoroughly enjoyed reading "The Hiding Place" and "Tramp for the Lord", books written by Corrie ten Boom (1892-1983) and telling of her itinerant life both during and after the Second World War.
Her family of clock-makers in Holland were arrested by the Nazis for harbouring Jewish people in their home. In the camp Corrie proved a real blessing to the women around her, conducting Bible studies and talking through problems. Her sister became ill and was denied crucial medical care. Corrie remembers discovering her dead body stacked with others like so much cord-wood. In the closing days of the war Corrie miraculously escaped one final truckload of prisoners destined for the gas ovens.
In the post-war years she became convinced that her major purpose was to assist in establishing forgiveness, trust and cooperation between the ravaged peoples of Europe. Upon simple invitations she travelled extensively to tell her story in small community halls, hospitals and churches. Jesus had been her hiding place.
Arrangements always seemed to be last-minute and Corrie would jokingly tell friends that "God never provided the bus fare until she was about ready to take the trip." How often have I thought of this quaint saying when considering an imminent trial, challenge or difficulty. Corrie's experience and wisdom have helped.
The story is also told of her visit to a crippled patient in a hospital ward. Anger and self-pity consumed the man. He would hear none of her Jesus. Undeterred, Corrie reached into her purse and produced a nearly completed work of needlepoint. She held the underside of the piece toward the man, all twisted, knotted and seemingly messy. "My friend, this must be your point of view on your life. But remember two things: 1) It is unfinished and 2) You do not have God's point of view on the project." Corrie then turned the needlepoint over to reveal a beautiful still-life image.
Another incident involved the aftermath of a town-hall meeting when she was approached by a man whom she recognized as one of the most senior and brutal of guards at the prison camp. Smiling awkwardly, he advised that he had turned his life over to Christ and had repented of all the evil done during the war. Could she find it in her heart to forgive him?
Corrie's thoughts raced over the next few seconds. She saw the camp. The young women in despair. The indignities. The seemingly endless menial labour. Her sister's dead body. The deadly truck departures. In an unspoken prayer she confessed that she did not have the grace to forgive. Would God provide it. A sensation of warmth passed through her right arm and it was extended by reflex for the handshake. Both individuals were then teary-eyed and the kiss on the cheek and the embrace were soon accomplished. No longer enemies. But family.
Here again was the bus fare.
Numbers Dave
Close to 100 people attended his funeral at First Baptist Church in Waterloo. He had had about ten months of really critical condition with cancer in the intestine. His foster parents Jim and Ruth Ann Reist thought that they were going to lose him last November and here it is September of the year following. He was only thirty-five.
My family had lived in his neighbourhood for eleven years and we had struck up an acquaintance with Dave
Faulkner walking , on the bus, at the corner store, at the malls, at the Dairy Queen. He was quick to engage in conversation, monotone voice, slightly blunted affect, socially awkward, child-like in ways. But sincere, without guile, giving honest friendship, loyal to his Christian upbringing and Church family.
Occasionally I would hear of a part-time job, perhaps a girlfriend, numerous foster-care siblings, a Jewish mother and sisters somewhere in the U.S., numerous R.V. trips to warm, exotic places. Dave had an uncanny aptitude with arithmetic and memory and particularly birth days of acquaintances. If once he learned your birthday he would never forget it. "So now, Doug, you are are fifty-five, right? April 6th, 1951." "Hi Doug, how was your birthday? April 6th, 2007 and fifty-six now, eh?"
I remember one occasion early in our acquaintance when traveling on the bus I observed Dave being harassed by a couple of teens. The alpha teen was joking about Dave's up-front testimony for Jesus and smirking at his apparent handicap. At a certain point I drew the line and stepped in and took a strip off this other youth. I confirmed Dave's words from John 14 about Jesus the one way, truth and life. Immediately another handicapped passenger piped up with Gospel support and a little Oriental college student went into her purse for a tract. Revival, right there on the bus. At the funeral we heard other accounts of Dave's willingness to give a word about Jesus and about lives changed.
Several months ago his foster father had a discussion at the hospital with him about funeral arrangements. No anger. No fear. He realized it had to be addressed. More recently his options were reviewed. Palliative care and repeated surgeries adding only months to his life, or a program to go more quickly to be with the Lord. Dave promptly chose the latter. One of his chosen songs for the funeral was "Blessed Assurance" written by Fanny Crosby, a blind woman. One of the lyrics anticipates Heaven, "Visions of rapture now burst on my sight." Gone the handicap.
Sometimes God does a "quick work". Dave was an assayer of the mettle of those he met, in sensitivity, in patience, in candour, in open-faced friendship, in good humour. He loved to walk great distances around the twin cities and he met and engaged with many. He gave testimony to staff and fellow patients at the hospital.
Interestingly Dave was brought up in a conversation with good friends last Sunday evening. They have a part-time business washing windows for coffee shops and other clients. They would often chat with Dave, and they could identify many of his interesting characteristics. Unknown to us all, Dave died that very evening. Wednesday Hilary and I read the obituary.
I hadn't crossed paths with Dave for around eighteen months. Had I known...
Released, free in essence, new marching orders, much to learn, much joy, near his Best Friend.