Thursday, August 09, 2007
So, most mornings I take the Queen’s Quay streetcar on my way to work. Once the streetcar emerges from the underground part, the ride is pleasant enough right near the water and the posh condos. The drivers are nice and it is only ever crowded for one stop. However, it has gotten much nicer lately because of a new fixture one stop below King. He is a TTC supervisor who now talks to the drivers and takes notes on time or whatever. I love him. I have seen him for several days now, and I think I am gonna write him a letter. I may even give it to the driver so he can pass it along. It is important that I tell this man how I feel. I think the letter will go something like this:
Dear TTC Supervisor Guy,
I don’t know why you appeared along my route to work, but I remember the exact day and time I first saw you, and my commute has been made better ever since. With every inch of road the streetcar rolls along, you are etched deeper and deeper into my heart. And I firmly believe that is where you will stay.
You make my morning both torturous and exhilarating at the same time. From the second I step onto the streetcar platform at Union Station, during the glide along Queen’s Quay and through the climb up Spadina, I sit in quivering anticipation, suffering until you appear in uniform.
Shamelessly I stare at you from the moment the car glides into your stop until I can no longer keep you in my eyesight as we pull away. The moment lasts less then two minutes, but every time I cling to the desperate hope that you will take a break from your note taking or short chat with the driver and look my way.
You look like you go about your day’s work in a serious manner. You don’t smile and despite my wishes you rarely hold up the driver. You relay your commands efficiently and it is my belief that you are there to ensure streetcars stick to a precise schedule. Perhaps you are too busy to notice, but when you approach the driver’s window, I am the one sitting four seats back, in the single chairs, with my heart on my sleeve, holding my breath.
I know that one day you will no longer appear at the stop below King Street. I know that I am headed for disappointment. Until that day I will remain caught up in your rapture. And after, although it breaks me to think about it, you will remain crystallized in my mind as perfection in grey trousers.
Yours in Public Transport,