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epitome of incomprehensibility
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So so so. The gist of this story is
there was a massive snowstorm yesterday and I didn't get home from work until 1:30.
My definition of a snowstorm isn't just a) wind or b) lots of snow. It has to be both at once. This one fit the criteria.
I was eating supper at the office, finishing some text for the centre's website, when I noticed that the wind was howling an eerie melody. Then I realized that the wind didn't howl so melodically, and there was another person in the office. This discovery was not scary: a student had stayed after his class to study. It's a nice place to study, he said. Very calm.
Yes, yes, I said, but I have to catch a train, and I have to be the last person out to lock the door.
"I'll be a few minutes," he said.
So I washed up the dishes and put my coat on and he was still inside the little classroom. I reminded him again, not harshly.
Perhaps I should've been harsher, because by the time I ran to the train station, the train was just pulling away.
Oh well. What could I do? Take the bus. That was the usual way of things. So I went to the usual bus stop. The first woman in line was wailing - making some sort of unhappy noise, anyway - and people were ignoring her, so I went up and asked what was wrong. She said she was cold.
"I can't help you there, but you're in a warmer place in the shelter than in the wind," I said, or something like it.
"I haven't eaten all day. I need some money."
Now, I had $20 in my wallet, but hardly any change. I was too selfish to part with this amount, and the bus pass hanging by a lanyard around her neck didn't make her seem completely destitute. Her misery was real enough, though, whatever its cause, so I promised to go around the block and get her something to eat.
I knew there was a nearby depanneur (Quebec to Ontario translation: corner store; not sure what Americans call it), but I couldn't find the thing. Probably it was closed. I couldn't see any lights on except in a pool table/gaming sort of place, and the wind was blowing so much that I had to stop and turn around at one point. The world looked deserted and white, but the presence of a human walking a dog reassured me. Finally I reached the bus stop again. The woman with the bus pass around her neck was gone. My face was stinging and cold. There were about four buses' worth of people standing in line, but the thing to do was just wait patiently.
For a while I didn't mind. The two guys in front of me were having a mildly entertaining conversation. One pointed out that it'd been a bad idea to wear running shoes; the other answered, "Well, I brought BOOTS," and stamped his feet for emphasis. He added that his jeans were tight on his knees, not nice in cold weather: "I know I'm sexy, but..."
On my other side, a man gave a running commentary to the person listening through his phone. "Another one bites the dust," he said, after a girl talking on her phone arranged to be picked up, thus exiting the line.
I called my parents briefly, telling them I'd be late. It was just a matter of waiting, I thought. But even as the line moved up, no buses were coming. An STM (Montreal Transport) car was parked between the line and the bus, preventing us from leading a revolution and deposing the bus driver... or, more realistically, trying to get in to keep warm. Why not allow that? I started to get annoyed. I was the one they were afraid of, the potentially unhinged commuter who can't speak French when she's pissed off: "OU EST-CE QUE LA CHOSE PARTIR?" I called out, when they weren't answering the question of when the bus would leave; the running-commentary man was laughing at me, I fear. And after I'd called my parents for the second time, I muttered, "Fucking stupid student," referring to the one who contributed to my missing the train. But nobody else knew that. Anger is a silly response to life.
The worst of it was the cold. It was only around -5, but standing still with wet feet made me colder and colder. How many polyesters were killed to make my coat? A lot. But I was still shivering.
(And I guess I have to finish my exciting story another time, because I'm scheduled to do classy class things tomorrow. But I'll be your go-to for painstakingly detailed records of irrational reactions to snowstorms, I promise. See Centennial_Park.)
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