|
|
Friday, December 17, 2004
|
|
 A LOVE LETTER TO MICHELLE, THE DRIVER OF THE 9:10 PM 190 ROCKET BUS FROM SCARBOROUGH TOWN CENTER TO DON MILLS STATION
I know how you folks are fascinated with my private life, and since I'm in a sharing mood, I'll share my declaration of love to a bus driver with you all. Frankly, I'm convinced that it'll give you a deeper appreciation of the real me. Besides, my girlfriend can't read this, so what could happen?
Shit, I just realized that my girlfriend's brother and two-thirds of her town can read this. Opps. Tell you what, if you live in Michigan, you may continue reading provided you don't tell my girlfriend. Having her cross an international border to surprise me with a sharp blow to the testicles would suck.
Deal? Cool.
Okay, as some of you know, I'm once again a loss prevention investigator. Before, I was one for the world's worst department store chain ever. I'll probably write more about that this weekend. Now I work for a contract company, which requires that I walk around in pointless circles in several different places a day. This sucks, but this is mitigated by meeting Michelle.
I should first tell you that I have a complicated relationship with bus drivers. Firstly, I feel that they make entirely too much money for driving a bus. They also threaten to strike a lot, which makes getting to work difficult for Toronto's 3 million souls. Bus drivers are also surly and almost universally unattractive. Don't get me wrong, I dig surly if you're hot. I think it's sexy. But if you're a pig and surly, then you're just another pain in my ass and I have more than enough of those already.
As you've probably concluded, one of my regular stops in the Scarborough Town Center. There's a bus station and light rail train stop there too. Michelle was my regular driver when I completed my business in that mall.
Michelle is, to put it plainly, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in a TTC uniform. God damn but she's pretty. She has a great big smile that she would give me every night. This made me feel special. It also made me throb in a particularly private place. She's also not surly, In fact, she's really, really friendly.
Chances are that Michelle will never read this. But there's a long shot that she or one of her friends is one of my regular readers. Oddly enough, I get a number of local readers. None of them ever write though. People in Toronto suck. But maybe, just maybe, Michelle will read this some day and fall desperately in love with me.
Well, probably not. Just like you, Michelle has actually seen me and knows that I'm a titanic mess. But I can dream right? But maybe if she reads the lavish praise I get from school teachers in Virginia, she grow to cherish her time with the inner "balding, misanthropic and caustic" skippy. Failing that, I'll shoot a former member of Pantera to impress her. There are three left, right?
So, I thought I'd write a little letter to Michelle. And you get to read it. Feel special yet?
Dear Michelle.
If you actually ever do read this, I'd like you to ignore every other post on this dopey blog. They make me look bad. To get to know me through this thing would lead you to believe that I'm a narcissitic, misanthropic, borderline alcoholic with an unhealthy obsession with my own penis and the endless possibilities of where I could place it. That's not to say that these things aren't all true........They're just a really bad foundation to build a relationship upon.
I guess I should introduce myself first. I'm that guy who got on your bus three nights a week. You know, the guy who came on with the look of combined despair and defeat on his face? Maybe you didn't notice that, because when you smiled at me I probably looked more like a five year old. Okay, a retarded five year old.
Sometimes I had a dopey orange beard flecked with gray and other times I had a orange goatee, flecked with gray and trimmed with a precision foreign to most heterosexual males. I know, I know, I should do something about the gray, but Just For Men doesn't come in clown orange. I checked.
I suppose that you had some questions about why I looked different every time you saw me, I know. Each day, I wore a different hat and coat. Sometimes I had a beard and other times not. I imagine you found this mysterious and sexy. In fact, it has more to do with my employers being stupid. Here's an experiment, Michelle. Go to a store at two in the afternoon. Then go back at six. If you see one customer both times, he or she is one of two things; either loss prevention or demented.....as if the two are mutually exclusive. So long as I go to the same six stores, I need to change up my appearance or the bad guys will get to know me.
But I digress.
Maybe you still can't place the face. I've been told that I look like a male model would if he took sharp blows to the face with a rubber mallet daily for fifteen or sixteen years and uses battery acid for aftershave.
So we've established that I'm that really ugly guy who changes his ugliness on a regular basis. I'm also 11 feet tall and weigh about 26 pounds. Recognize me now?
Michelle, I know that you probably noticed the manical glances I would steal of you. There were two reasons for those. Firstly, you're really, really cute. Secondly, I was trying to see your left hand to determine if you were married. If you are married, that's really no big deal. In fact, I think it's sexy. My last two girlfriends can tell you that.
I also know that you have a child, which is neat. Both of my last two girlfriends do, too. And their sons LOVE me. They think I'm just the greatest guy. This is probably because I think and read at their level, but it works. On the other hand - and I'll be completely honest about this - both of their daughters think I'm a dick. I guess little girls actually are smarter than little boys.
But enough about me, Michelle. The more you know about me, the more you'll hate me. You'd be surprised how often that happens. Really, you would.
About two hours ago, I got off your bus at Don Mills station and said that I hope that you have a good weekend. You were busy talking to another, decidely short, TTC guy. Just after I got off the bus, I heard you call out "WAIT!" to me.
This was it, I thought. You were every bit into me as I am into you. I turned on my heel to face my future.
Oh, I didn't mention that I'm delusional where the fairer sex is concerned, did I? My bad.
I looked into your beuatiful face as you spoke the fateful words that still haunt me as I write them; "This is my last night on this route." I can only hope that the heartbreak didn't show on my face. "I have to move on," you said, "I'm doing the Morningside route." Then you gave the cutest pouty face I've ever seen.
I wanted to reboard the bus and take you by the shoulders and cry out, "But I don't WORK on Morningside! There's nothing ON Morningside! Indeed, if the world was flat, it would END at Morningside and if some shithead in a Camero cut you off, you could fall off the planet! No, this won't do. It won't do at all. You must stay on he route and grace me with your beauty two to four nights a week until my boss gets smart and moves me away. Then I'll quit my job! I figure with my powers of arrest and the way you look so hot in a uniform, we could run off and fight crime together. We just can't run off to Michigan. Or New Jersey. Don't worry, I'll explain later." Then I'd take your perfect, tiny chin in my hand and kiss you as gently as you dreamed a man would when you were little. Then I would lift you out of your giant, comfy bus driver chair and carry you, all An Officer and a Gentleman -like to the Don Mills North bus and back to my place, where I would devote months to kissing you all over until your head spun in circles and, ultimately, fell off in pleasure.
But we both know that didn't happen, don't we, Michelle? After all, I'm no Kilgore.
Instead, I turned and looked suddenly pathetic and said, "But....that isn't fair" as I attempted to put on a cute pouty face of my own. In retrospect, I'm pretty sure that my cute pouty face probably looked like I was having a stroke, I know. I wasn't. That was the look of man's heart breaking, Michelle. Of course, I'm sure you've seen that before. Just without the spasms and twitching.
Then I walked off into the cold, cold night, alone. Well, at least until the Don Mills North bus came.
I just want you to know that I'll always remember the 190 Rocket with you, Michelle. And I'll always dream of what could have been if I wasn't such a douchebag.
Love,
skippy
There, I've bared my soul. Are you motherfuckers happy now?
Permalink
Labels: Life With skippy
|
|
|
| |
