- an ostrich feather, a small gibbon with a subdued gag reflex, fifty-two dollars in quarters.
- Portuguese bleach, fishing tackle, Moose.
- an Esperanto handbook , cinnamon, all outstanding warrants cleared.
- a recently cleaned gasoline tank, left-handed brass knuckles, an unusually large avocado.
- gift card for Big N' Tall, two blenders (one hand, one standing), an empty stomach.
- a zip cord from a WWII era paratrooper, a sony walkman (cassette) with a cheetah print velour cover, two bucks.
- a strong magnet, a switchblade comb, Diana (who used to be Kent).
- the libretto to Euridice, an incontinent Macy's clerk, a new car battery.
- Vaseline, the soundtrack to Quicksilver, a passable grasp of market Hungarian
Thanks to Jay Morrison for the photo. Transit Drivers Bus drivers are an archetype in North American culture. In the imagination they are generous in girth, have staunch opinions about unions and eat 300% the recommended intake of red meat. The odd one adheres to a strict conspiracy theory, which they manage to work into the most innocuous conversations. At least, that's what's been ingrained in our collective subconscious along with "Han shot first" and "Dukakis, 1988". But transit drivers, like everyone else, are individuals. Unique, utterly one of a kind from the 5 billion others who roam this spinning mass of molten iron with the cool, carbon life-form infested shell. Sure, you see the reticent ones, who have a 100 yard stare and coolly watch passengers get mild hypothermia while they take their union-sanctioned 15 minute break inside their cozy bus. But there are other, more colourful characters as well. In my city, there is one that calls out every st...
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