Rituals
The Night is Yonge
From Toronto Life, June 2003

The drunk punk girl with faded red and yellow hair spits in the face of her drunk punk boyfriend. He pauses for a moment -- not as shocked as one might expect, definitely not as shocked as the rest of the passengers on the bus -- and spits back. She kicks him with her scuffed Doc Martens. The tall, black-leather-jacketed, pink-haired punk leans forward, kisses her and spits again. It's a tender Sid and Nancy moment.

Welcome aboard the Vomit Comet. The Zoo Bus. The TTC Taxi. The Puke Rocket.

The last subway train leaves Union Station at 1:42, and the last call at bars is 1:45 a.m. Give in to temptation and enjoy that final drink, as salvation awaits: since February 9, 1987, the blue night buses have been shuttling up and down Yonge every 15 minutes from 1:45 a.m. until 5:15 a.m. The 320 Yonge Street bus might not always be the "better way," but it's definitely the only way to get uptown on a budget.

For those who like to mock the city's dull, grey Protestant past, the night bus serves as evidence of Toronto the good and drunk, good and stoned, and good and stupid. The best way to cope with the mayhem is to be tipsy yourself: it eases social interaction. A goth girl in rainbow knee socks is soon talking about her better half with a South Asian suburban princess; five minutes ago, they were strangers. "My boyfriend is anti-social," says the goth, loudly. Her trench-coated paramour opens an eye and replies, "I'm drunk and tired." No doubt the $9 pitchers they had at Sneaky Dee's are to blame. The girls ignore him and debate the subtext of Saturday-morning cartoons ("Smurfette was a whore") and discuss the ins and outs of burlesque with a laconic busboy nicknamed Cornholio: "How can you work in a strip club? They're gross." He shrugs. The chatter helps pass the time.

Meanwhile, bus veterans -- mostly shift workers at least 10 to 20 years older than the partiers -- keep to themselves. They try to nod off or peer out the window or pop on headphones -- anything to shut out the swirling chaos. When the bus is full, and it usually is (except in deep winter), it takes a painful 48 minutes to go from Bay Street and Queens Quay (point A) to Steeles Avenue (point B). Regulars mentally tick off Yonge Street landmarks as they appear, like car bingo. Rosedale. The warm red neon of the CHUM 1050 building. Mount Pleasant. Davisville. The illuminated pillars of Silvercity at Eglinton. Lawrence. The 401 underpass. Sheppard. Mel Lastman Square. Finch. Each yank of the yellow cord and its accompanying ping means one stop closer to a warm bed.

In a throwback to junior high, the bad kids always sit at the back. A 20-something in a gray hoodie and toque turns to passengers at random and asks, "By any chance do you have herbs to sell? One suspects he isn't interested in parsley, sage, rosemary or thyme. Passenger scuffles are rare but do occur: whereas sardines don't get angry being packed together, because they're dead, the barely alive can get testy when asked to stand shoulder to shoulder in a bus for 40 minutes. If drivers can't diffuse an escalating situation with verbal diplomacy, they call for police and TTC security with a phone link that connects to a supervisor. They also have a silent alarm that is -- thankfully -- almost never needed.

And, of course, a gut full of beer shaken and stirred by a bumpy ride means someone getting sick is a matter of when, not if. The harsh fluorescent lighting makes it easier to spot the green shade of potential pukers. The bus is stopped while spills are cleaned up, meaning angry passengers have to empty out and wait for the next ride north. Experienced imbibers ask the driver to pull over.

The pilots who transport the club kids, mall rats, frat boys and enigmatic leftovers of Toronto nightlife (approximately 5,400 of them every Saturday night) are a breed removed from the chilly stoics who steer streetcars and subway trains by day. The night owls have plenty of humour, patience and sympathy. Riders caught short a dime or a quarter can plead their case and generally receive clemency. A homeless man drops a handful of pennies into the fare box, and the driver rips a transfer for him without comment. A young drunk guy in a Leafs jersey shakes the hand of his driver as he leaves the bus. Most people say thank you when they exit through the front doors. As the human cargo drains, its accumulated remains and silt become visible. Discarded bus transfers like leaves on the floor. A half-full container of potato wedges dropped behind a seat. Gum packets, chip bags, pizza plates.

Throw together 40 folks who have no one left to impress, and a certain camaraderie develops, as if by magic. "Do you guys like the blues?" asks the happy, unshaven drunk in a baseball cap, sitting four seats behind the driver. The tenor has just completed a cigarette-raspy rendition of "My Wild Irish Rose." With a shout of encouragement from the back of the bus, "Empty Bed Blues" begins.

A bored wag soon interrupts: "How about a little 'Stairway to Heaven'?"

"Give 'r" says someone else.

The tenor obliges, nailing the final lines of classic rock doggerel. And then a 20-nothing hip hop kid, apropos of nothing, convinces the passengers to start singing the theme from Polka Dot Door. A dozen people (myself included) chime in, loudly lurching through the lyrics as if it were a sea-shanty.

Polkaroo would be proud. And terrified.