By: Jennifer Low, Peak Associate
Dear Diary,
The early arrival of the 145 bus at Production Way-University SkyTrain Station signaled a promising start to our journey. With no other busses in sight, we were met with the annoyed glares of many prospective passengers that were unable to board the bus before the doors sealed. (Today, these people consider themselves lucky that their tardiness prevented their ability to get on this particular bus.)
No whistles blew, no farewells were spoken as we set out. As we turned out of the station, an alarming creaking from the old bus caused me, for the first time in years, to cross my fingers: a ritualistic thing that I did as a child.
“Goodness” I thought to myself, “You are frightfully paranoid” and with that, the unintelligent twit that I was, pushed all ghastly thoughts from my head.
Dear Diary,
The sweltering heat of the bus began to take its toll. Compared with the freezing temperatures outside of the vehicle, all the passengers were sweating in the muggy, humid air. We stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the tightly packed aisles with nary a place to put one’s hand for support.
Perhaps it was just as well. Perhaps many of us would have fainted if we had the space to fall down. The uncomfortably tight nature of the bus’s seating caused awkward tension. I accidentally brushed elbows with someone on my left.
“Insolent fool,” I cursed myself, “what must they think of me now? Might they think I was courting them?” I decided that from then on, I would never brush elbows with such delicate grace, lest a stranger on the bus fall madly in love with me.
Dear Diary,
The first major turn came as a surprise to everyone on board. Without warning the bus suddenly careened to the right. I gripped the small stretch of pole I had with all my strength causing my knuckles to whiten. I desperately tried to plant my feet on the slippery floor and prayed the effort did not show on my face.The sudden shift threw a student in headphones tumbling into the lap of a student seated in a chair. My heart went out to the poor lad.
Dear Diary,
The bus made a sputtering sound and someone voiced the question on everyone’s mind: “Are we moving?” Unfortunately, we were informed that we had broken down. Thus began the most terrifying 15 minutes of my life.
Dear Diary,
Cars drove by, unsympathetic to our plight. We were, undeniably, alone. God save our souls.
Dear Diary,
Food! I’d only the emergency banana I’d grabbed as I’d left. It was too green and mushy to be eaten. I would starve. I began to consider how I might harvest food from other students’ backpacks and which students perhaps had the most meat on their bones.
Rescue seemed unlikely. After all, who would rush to assist a group of stranded scholars on the side of a mountain? Mother was right, though I’ll never tell her so: I should have worn my thickest woollen sweater. Perhaps I shall not starve to death if I freeze first.
Dear Diary,
The “keeners,” fueled by the fear of losing participation marks, decided to hike the remaining distance on foot. I wished them well and offered their leader my banana as a show of good faith, though I feared I would never see them again. The “complainers” are bringing down group morale. Their depressive attitude has begun to annoy some of the others. In happier news, I have mentally decided who will be consumed first amongst our little group should it come to it.
There is no leadership. Without water or a bathroom, I seriously considered the roadside snow bank as a solution to both problems.
Dear Diary,
The driver informed us he’d solved the issue. I had my doubts about his abilities, but nevertheless, hurriedly we boarded the metal death trap again and continued the commute. I didn’t uncross my fingers until we reached the doors of SFU and I found myself a water fountain and a washroom. It was a feeling of relief, but uneasiness knowing we’d have to make the same journey home and I’d missed my tutorial.
