Taxi Driver, Bus Driver

I leave the FH in a rush convinced I’ve forgotten something and feeling guilty because my boss came in and I was leaving. The taxi is waiting and makes a huge U-turn to take me to the bus station. Off I go.
As a rule I really hate taxi rides, and bus rides. Living in Kingston I’ve had to get really used to both out of necessity. The taxis because the public transit in this city, speaking generously, really, really sucks, and so the taxis by default do a booming business. The buses because as my mother has pointed out “You have to come home sometime,” (oooh, out of context! I’m gonna hear about that one) and they terrify me only slightly less than trains. I have this whole transportation anxiety. As with my fear of grocery lines, it seems to me completely groundless. I have never been in an accident of any kind -- neither in transit, nor in a queue. My therapist (should I have one) would say, I suspect, that I have control issues. I choose to think I’m just wacky that way. “Wacky” sounds way more fun than “control freak”. The only way I really ever want to be thought of as a freak is in the ebonic sense of the word (parents please don’t look that up). But I digress.
I’ve had a lot of strange taxi drivers during the time I’ve lived here. I prefer the ones who don’t talk. I don’t like the pressure of having to make polite conversation with strangers. I’m paying you to drive me somewhere, and eventhough you may think your life story is a bonus to the service -- the chocolate on my pillow -- it’s just not. When I’m in a cab I’m usually so worried about getting to the bus on time, or so tired from being on a bus for 4 hours and worrying the entire time that there’ll be no cabs when I get there, that I just want to get from point A to point B with the minimum cerebral operation possible. Open door. Dump bag. Close door. Give address. Stare... Give money. Open door. Grab bag. Close door. A very simple transaction. So shut the hell up. Please. I know, I know, I’m such a bitch.
Today’s driver was likeable, in that he didn’t speak, and let me sit there and worry away, craning my head to see the traffic through the windshield. But when we were almost at the station, he rolled down both front windows. I would have really thought nothing of this action, but he looked into the rearview mirror and explained. “Sometimes there’s a sulfur smell from the engine.”
“Oh,” I said, nonplussed. A sulfur smell from the engine?
“I tell all the passengers that... so that they won’t think it’s me.”
“Oh,” I say again. I think, Now I do think it’s you.
I get to the bus on time (I choose to think that this is only thanks to my worrying -- if I didn’t worry, clearly I would miss it -- WACKY!), and get a seat by myself -- there are no fat or stinky people with cell phones or sandwiches in sight (that’s another, much funnier story). I watch out the window as the bus driver flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette, grinds the burning remains out on the exterior of the pack, and slips the rest of the cigarette back into place for later lung-blackening. A stray passenger is loading his own baggage and leaves on large bag out. The bus driver tells him no, that bag is too big, it has to go under. Clearly the skinny man in shorts and very high socks wants to take it on with him. Instead, he allows it to be stowed, but first opens the zipper and pulls out a huge bundle of what looks like new t-shirts and clutches them to his chest. He gets on the bus. I think, “Oooh, this is weird.”
The driver closes the baggage compartment, but it doesn’t close properly, he’s smushed it on someone’s duffel bag. He shoves the thing in with his foot, slams the compartment and gives it another kick for good measure. I think, “Shit someone’s going to be pissed off that their bags been all smushed,” and “Yes, let’s have the angry man drive us all in a large vehicle on the 401.” When he gets into his seat I half want to call out to him to go ahead and finish his cigarette, we can wait.
Behind me a girl sneezes 4 times in a row and snorks it back into her head. I’m all of a sudden reminded of the fragility of my mortality.
I think, “Oh my god. I’m going to die.”