The Mystery Box

This morning, as I hobble towards my big green chariot, I hear a familiar voice call out to me.

“Hey!” Steve nearly falls out of the train car to greet me.

That’s more like it.

Make an effort for my attention.

I’m slightly annoyed that he’s not on his usual perch, and that I have to turn around to greet him.

I’m counting steps these days. Forward progress is important.

I’m not quite sure why he’s addressed commuting royalty in such a pedestrian way (#irony) but then I realize he likely doesn’t read my blog.

I hope to God he doesn’t read my blog.

I haven’t even changed his name.

I digress.

I’m about to respond to his “Hey!” with either “Hey is for horses!!!” Or “I ain’t no hollerback girl!!” and then surprise myself when I say “Hey! Happy belated Thanksgiving!”

I make a mental note to bully 3 extra people today to compensate for this level of friendliness.

What a jerk.

I realize how stupid “belated Thanksgiving” sounds.

Why is it we say “Happy New Year” well into February yet Thanksgiving has a shelf life of 3 days?

Why are we thankful only once a year?

Why is Valentine’s Day a thing, whereby the bigger the pageantry, the bigger the shamble of a relationship?
Why do we celebrate the luck of the Irish when their most notable historical contributions involve the potato famine,  cholera outbreak and bubonic plague?
Why do non-Catholic school kids get the day off on Good Friday?

Why aren’t there any tacos on this train?

I’m impressed at my above mentioned list and that its formulated in chronological order.

I could support breakfast tacos.

I could call them  “tacfasts” or “bracos”.

I could buy a food truck and park outside of the Hamilton Go Centre.

Ok, I’d never do that.

Food trucks are disgusting.

“Same to you!”

I snap out of my stupor and realize Steve is still there.

I would tell him I missed commuting yesterday, but I try to limit myself to 10 lies per day.

I’m already at 8.

I guess I could be thankful for this commute.

Without it, we wouldn’t have a blog.

Scary thoughts.

I board the train and start thinking up ways for “Lidia’s bracos tacos” to catch.

I make a note to launch my first franchise in Ireland.

Apparently things spread quickly there.

I’m proud of my new franchise.

I could have Leprechauns roaming the streets, looking to drum up business.

That’s an ignorant stereotype. I take it back.

I’m more of a global thinker than that.

Ok, so I target the drunks, the red heads and the bar brawlers.

I’m satisfied with my adjustment.

That pretty much takes care of the entire population, right?

Just as quickly as this idea enters my mind, I realize I’m off the train and making the schlep from by big green chariot to my red rocket.

The Toronto streetcar is called the Red Rocket. Sure, if rockets were slow, unfriendly and inefficient, then yes, this title is appropriate.

I’m excited because good old Sputnik has been an untapped resource for my blog.

As I mull over the possibilites, I walk past this peculiar object:

What have we here? It’s a TTC treasure chest!

Why haven’t I noticed this box before?

What could be in there?

Is is locked?

I put on my Horatio sunglasses, tilt my head, put my hands on hips and decide to investigate.

My investigation is assisted by the fact that the streetcar rarely appears when you need it, so I have some time on my hands.

“It’s a big, green mystery machine.”

I make a note to send a script to CBS.

What could be in there?

The Goonies Treasure?

The Secret of the Ooze?

The Continuum Transfunctioner?

I make a note to stop watching movies in general.

That seems far fetched.

Clearly, there’s enough space in there for all the husbands who forgot about Valentine’s Day.

The streetcar arrives.

Case closed.



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