Chapter 2 - Mudslide

My dad, the one who so graciously passed on his cowboy boots to his only son, is away on vacation for the second time this summer, and for the second time in a row, he hasn’t taken any of his children with him. In fact, back in March, while away on another vacation with none of his kids, he told my sister that she could not go on vacation to Montreal, because he had no money because he had been going on too many vacations with only his girlfriend. My sister ended up paying for her own vacation to come visit me, and my dad, who apparently had no money to pay for his daughter’s vacation to visit her brother, has since gone on two more vacations, as mentioned above. So let’s make that three vacations in a row now that my dad has gone on vacation with none of his kids and only his girlfriend. Also, my dad says since he has no money to pay for my university (because he has gone on too many vacations with only his girlfriend and none of his kids) that all the money I’ll be making here this summer will go towards this year of schooling. (Please note that the vacations my dad goes on are by no means little; in the past few months he has traveled to Italy, England, Scotland, the Caribbean, and he now finds himself in Ontario.)

Perhaps we can offer my father some benefit of doubt, as at least on this vacation he is visiting another one of his daughters, but apparently he doesn’t see it as too important if his kids see one another. Regardless, this is not what this is about, I am simply venting; this is just to provide a reason as to why I have been taking the bus to and from work (and having to walk down the street scared of looking like a model, and hence unintentionally walking like a cowboy).

As I took the bus home from work yesterday, we (myself, the bus driver and the other passengers) passed by an interesting man standing on the sidewalk. The windows to the bus were open, so for the three second period that sound waves were vibrating off his vocal chords, then echoing from his mouth through the air, and finally vibrating against my ear drums, I was able to hear the interesting things he had to say. From what I could tell in the brief span of time I was able to see this man, he looked to be in his mid to late thirties.

He was tubby and wearing sweat pants, a jean jacket, and one of those old baseball caps that most likely started out as orange, was a dark shade of green a couple of years ago, some multicoloured mix of browns last summer, and now permanently grey with the faint outlines of an old logo that couldn't even be deciphered by even the most expert of hieroglyphic specialists. I’ve no idea which particular force of nature compels any person to raise their arm, lift their ripped cap off its special holder and ignore the black, sweat stained rim whose stench (made worse by years of Febreze spray) could be mistaken for that of the Calgary Water Treatment Plant. (I had the wonderful fortune of going here on a field trip in ninth grade, and I will simply say that those of us with weaker stomachs quickly found them to be empty, our half digested lunches only adding [although hardly at all] to the mephitis of the main treatment chamber.) What part of a person’s brain allows them to put such a repulsive object on top of their head is beyond me, but still, you and I see many of these nature-defying people everyday, and apparently this man with the jean jacket and sweat pants was such a person. He bore a striking resemblance to Michael Moore, and both their stenches, although neither of my nostrils have endured their torturous odors, are most likely remarkably similar as well, as I’ve seen Michael Moore sport such a cap.

The man, let’s name him Mudslide, was also wearing those large type of headphones that cover the ears completely, and hence do a good job of blocking out any external noises. (I have a pair similar to his, but please do not associate me with Mudslide in any way whatsoever.)

It is completely normal, although extremely annoying to anyone you may be talking to at the time, to speak a little loudly when sporting headphones, especially ones that do a particularly good job at blocking out sound. It is annoying for two important reasons: One, it is very disagreeable to have to listen to someone who is practically yelling at you, and since most people don’t swallow enough, their saliva oftentimes will violently spray out of their mouths and land on various parts of your face (and of course the rest of your body, but you won’t feel this unless you happen to be naked) when ever they pronounce buh’s, muh’s, and any other sounds that cause the lips to join, and then explosively separate at the same time the lungs release air that with it carries a certain liquid. The second reason, of course, is that in order to achieve two-way communication, the headphone-wearing saliva-spitting monster needs to be able to hear what you have to say, but unless you are willing to embarrass yourself and shout at a volume that matched their own (and consequently return the favor of splattering all over them) they will, in all likelihood, not hear you. This, much to your dismay, will cause them to say "WHAT?!?" at an even louder volume than previously, and if they pronounce the "tuh" violently enough, you can enjoy your second slobbery shower (hopefully, since the perpetrator didn't grant you the courtesy of removing their headphones in the first place, he or she will not be polite enough to shout "PARDON ME?!?" Although less rude, the triple puh duh muh combination of warm goo hitting your face will, in all likelihood, be an unpleasant experience, unless you are perverted in ways I do not understand and therefore cannot describe).

Luckily Mudslide was on the sidewalk, and a thick sheet of glass separated my face from his open mouth. I would not have been surprised in the least to see droplets of moisture cling themselves to the window as we passed him, but I did not see any and will not exaggerate my story in order to better entertain you.

With his short stubby arms raised towards the heavens, and with hands clenched tightly into fists which he ferociously shook back and forth, Mudslide yelled to his one and only at the top of his lungs:

"OH GOD SAVE ME! MY LORD, MY SAVIOR, MY ALMIGHTY JESUS CHRIST, ONLY YOU WILL SAVE ME!"

The yelling and fist-waving and jumping up and down continued, but as the bus carried on its way, the vibrations emitting from his mouth were no longer pounding my ear drums with a force strong enough for my brain to interpret these as comprehensible language.

I remembered suddenly that my newly purchased iPod (I’ve decided that if my dad wants to take the money I earn so that he can go on more vacations without me, I might as well do with it what I can before it’s too late) was fully charged and sitting in my pocket. I pulled it out of its resting place, uncoiled the white headphone wire from around the still sleek and shiny masterpiece, and popped both ear buds in (if you must know, I put the right one in first).

"Tiny voices... make things harder!" came the whiny cackle of Tom Delonge's voice.

"He must be a schizophrenic," said Al, a friend living in my head.