Stranger at the Bus-stop.

Stranger at the Bus-stop.

By L. Roger (QBall) Quilter.

The snow, that had been pristine white when it had fallen, had changed to a heavy grey slush. The bulk of the six days load from the mid-winter blizzard had crystallized in the severe cold that followed the storm. After the weather finally warmed up, the slush created more havoc for traffic and pedestrians, alike.

It was no good attempting to drive our car into town as most roads were impassable. The drifts had plugged our townhouse driveway, so we struggled through the mountainous heaps dumped by snowplows along the sidewalks. It was the responsibility of the municipality to clear the roads, but pedestrians on sidewalks were left to their own devices.

The nearest bus-stop was only a few feet from our door, but it took us several minutes of slipping and sliding to get there. We rested, breathing heavily from our exertions. Mixed rain and snow began to fall, adding to our misery. Mercifully, the arctic winds had ceased their frigid blowing and the clear sunshine that reflected dazzlingly off the snow, causing the eyes to squint, had been replaced by the low, scudding clouds of a typical Pacific front which now held us in its moist embrace.

“I wonder how late the buses are running,” my wife’s breath steamed as she spoke, “I hope one comes along soon.”

“We can always walk back,” I ventured, “Its warm there.”

I received a scathing look of annoyance for this suggestion. We were both bundled up in layers of clothing and it was difficult to see her features, but the tone of voice and her flashing eyes betrayed her rejection of my idea.

A figure materialized out of the now pouring sleet. He was just a featureless mound of clothing wearing the obligatory rubber boots, scarf and toque. He shuffled slowly, then stopped close to us and tottered back and forth.

“Hi!” I said.

There was no answer. I turned back to my wife and uttered, sotto voce, “Friendly, eh!”

“Ssh!” Her imitation of a steam train almost deafened me.

“Death! God! Help me! Death!” His soft voice was clear and his remarks seemed to be addressed to an invisible entity before him. His stare, dull and vacant with what seemed internal agony, seemed almost like a threat. “Gotta go, life is finished - -.” His voiced trailed off.

“Are you OK?” I queried. I was concerned at this man’s strange attitude. He appeared not to hear me.

“Hate to do this. Give me strength. Kill!” By this time my wife had edged away, which was difficult due to the narrowness of the sidewalk lined with piled snow.

We were saved from further discomfort as we saw our bus turn the corner and head for us, tire chains rattling. It was almost full of people taking advantage of the milder weather. As soon as the doors opened we hurried on board, paid our fare and sought seats. We were lucky, as two passengers alit as we were stepping on to the bus.

We found two seats, sat down and peered through the window to view the strange person still standing at the bus-stop. My wife smeared the condensation from the glass and we noted that he had accosted the two passengers, waving his arms in the air and stumbling as if intoxicated.

Our bus moved away from the curb and the last we saw was a tableau of three people who looked as if they were performing a slow, old fashioned waltz.

My wife was shaken by this episode and worried all the way to the mall. “He seemed mad,” she opined “I hope he didn’t do anything to those poor people.”

“He’s probably as peeved as I am when you nag me.” I said.

“Don’t even joke about it,” came her retort, “There was something wrong with him.”

As soon as we entered the overheated mall she forgot about him; shopping tends to do that to a woman. I even enjoyed the walk around the stores myself. That’s because I had been cooped up for too long, staring out the window at the endless snow that blanketed the Victoria area that winter.

The blizzard of ninety-six it came to be called, long after it was gone. Three feet of the white stuff fell, starting on Boxing Day. Victoria is situated on the southern shores of Vancouver Island and generally enjoys much milder temperatures than the rest of Canada. That year was an exception. A strong surge of arctic air met a vast Pacific front and the resulting clash hit the lower island like a bomb. The city ground to a stop and, for the first time in years, neighbors met neighbors as the population tried to dig itself out. Transportation ceased running for days and groups of people, heavily clothed to combat the severe chill of the strong, icy winds, stumbled to the grocery stores to stock up on provisions.

Once the snow stopped falling, the skies cleared and kept the temperatures down well below zero and the wind chill factor was unbearable. The quietness all around was strange, eerie and unusual. The only sounds that were clear were the shrieks of laughter from neighborhood children as they played in a substance so rarely seen in Victoria, and the scrape of myriad snow shovels that appeared from nowhere.

Eventually my wife and I returned home. The streets were empty when we got off the bus, but the location triggered the wife’s memory again and she fretted for the rest of the evening. I was to get little sleep that night. I had just dozed off when she asked, “Do you think he meant to murder somebody?’

“Dunno!”

“We should have called the police.”

“Snzz! Too late now. Gnight!”

“It’s alright for you, you don’t care.”

“Dunno him! Go to sleep, willya!”

Two minutes later her gentle snores rose from beneath the bedcovers. That’s when the itching began, Niacin, which I take for my heart condition, does that to me occasionally. Naturally I couldn’t go back to sleep.

Next morning the temperature had risen higher and the constant drip of melting snow could be heard everywhere. Tiredly, I got out of bed, made my way downstairs and poured some coffee for breakfast. For the first time in days the morning paper had been delivered on time, albeit the front page was soggy from the moisture on the wire rack located outside.

The item I sought was on page two and I read it out to my wife, who had put in an appearance.

“Man Dies At Bus-stop,” I read out.

“Oh, my God,” She yelled. “Who did he kill?”
She was very agitated.

“Nobody, he had a heart attack after we left and died.”

“We should have helped him.”

“The last thing you did was move away from him,” I replied. “You couldn’t wait to get on that bus.”

“Poor man.”

I pretended to read out some more. “Police are seeking a middle-aged couple who boarded a bus before he collapsed.”

“Oh, my God, that’s us!” My wife’s hands jerked up and covered the lower portion of her face, eyes staring in horror, “You rotten swine don’t even joke about it.” She had finally noticed the cheeky smile on my face.

I was in her bad books for the rest of the day.

The end.

1,222words.