I was deep into my Gameboy on the subway north to work when at Bloor, a woman clutching tightly a crumpled Kleenex in one hand and a purse in the other, got on and stood before me in the crowded car. Her tissue, which could have been freshly used, I don’t know, her only barrier between the rough cracked skin around her nails and the germs that live on the poles. Yes, she was that close to see details.

The train lurched forward and she relaxed a bit. ‘A bit’ being enough to lower her carrier bag purse onto my knees. I shifted my knees a little to signal to her that she was using me as a hall table. She didn’t clue in or didn’t care. I stuffed the Katamari Damancy-growing ball of anger of having my personal space invaded by this careless person, down into my throat and shift my knees again so that the straps of her bag tug on her somewhat limp arm. There we go. She moves the bag off my knees and lets it hang.

…and lets it hit my shins at every shift of the train.

With every shin-bump I wonder what went wrong with the TTC. Sharkboy says that Toronto is experiencing growing pains like NYC did back in the 80s and I agree. I take the streetcar every day and I wonder the exact date when drivers stopped suggesting to riders that they exit through the back doors to save everyone time. Then I wonder that if some state in the Good Ol’ US of A can propose a law making teens pull up their pants so their undies aren’t showing, surely Canadians can suggest a law where people take off their backpacks in a crowded transit car. Is this not common sense?

Bump. Bump.

Like the Telltale Heart, the slightest hit digs into my nerves.

And the rest of Canada wonders why Toronto is seen as harsh. Winnipeg Winnie never got a Jaguar napsack whacked across her ass as she tries to get to a seat near the back.

At Eglinton, the car empties out some and I slide my feet out to push her bag away and my boots knock into her shoes. She moves away.

Readers, I apoligise that yammering about public transit is nothing new in the blogosphere, but I needed to get it off my chest or Sharkboy would divorce me for stupid whining. Thanks for being there for me, internet! Rant Over! F.A.B. Father!