Precisely at 7:31, the 496 Burrard Station wheels out of Steveston with Uncle Fred and Yours Truly aboard. Uncle Fred, it has been said, has lived in our village for so long that he remembers when it was called Steves Town, hearkening back to a time when everyone knew everyone else's business and everyone talked to everyone else about everything but mostly about fish.
Steveston has grown up since then. It even has its own Rotary club now. Uncle Fred, who is bound for, who knows where, sits up front to yarn with the driver. Uncle Fred is a strange duck, who gets off on a whim each morning. One day, at the north end of Seymour, when the back door had jammed, I asked the driver about him while we were waiting for the light to change.
The driver explained that Uncle Fred is now too old to venture out on the water, so he takes a bus jaunt every morning. Apparently, he has breakfast somewhere different each day, chats with whomever and then comes home. I, for one, would prefer not to learn of the sad state of other people's lives.
On this as on other mornings, I make it a practice to skedaddle to the back. By the time we reach Freshwater, about six stops along, an additional eight or nine isolated souls have straggled aboard and are soon spaced out from front to rear. Have you ever noticed how uptight and bored most people on the bus are? These early riders are no exception. Once the bus has turned onto Railway, it stops to let Our Man aboard. He is a fairly good-looking young gentleman, two or three years older than I, late twenties to early thirties. He wears smart suits, the kind conservative business men prefer. After saying good morning to the driver and flashing his monthly pass, he has a word for Uncle Fred.
Then in turn, he says hello to simply everyone. When he reaches the back of the bus, he asks me how I'm doing. The first time he did this, I was a bit annoyed because I was engrossed in the Sun crossword puzzle and did not appreciate being interrupted but now I look forward to his greeting. Our Man then slides into the far side of the six-person bench which we share. I nod, mumble and return to my puzzle.
His accent is charming. It reminds me of Father O'Flannigan's Bronx brogue. I'm a sucker for the Irish. On Sunday mornings at St. Joseph the Worker, the good Father works the room almost as well although Our Man gives no indication that he is working the bus. Without an ounce of guile, he sashays down the aisle spreading good cheer.
Once ensconced, Our Man snaps open his briefcase and pulls out a clipboard. He does not merely check over documents, proposals or other mundane business papers. My goodness no! He is obviously a scribe. Between fits and starts, when the bus is travelling smoothly and in brief spells after it has shuddered to a halt to allow passengers to embark and disembark, he manages to get down a few words. When the ride is too jerky, he chews on his pen, a filthy habit, which I do not condone but do understand for I have chewed the top off many a biro.
I'm filled with curiosity as to what sort of stuff he is penning. I shift in my seat to watch him surreptitiously over the top of my puzzle. Our Man's actions have no apparent effect on the dynamics of our group of early boarders. However a latent effect eventually becomes evident. A couple of the ladies, members of our group of eight, begin to sit together. Who knows how long each had been a fellow traveller in a parallel universe? Had it been as long as a year or two or perhaps even three?
As soon as Our Man has departed at the corner of Seymour and West Georgia, there is a quiet buzz. It takes perhaps three weeks or a month before others begin to gravitate towards the rear. Then the buzz begins to sound like a swarm. Once Our Man has gone, there is speculation as to his identity and purpose in life. He is certainly a person of interest, as the police would say. Of course there is the inevitable supposition about what Our Man is writing. He is compiling a novel, penning poems, putting together short story plots or writing to his sainted mother in Ireland. However, this fascination is soon usurped by the love interest. One of the older women suggests that Our Man is good marriage material but not for herself, you understand.