The Jazz of Death, It Be-Bops for thee

Well, I might have been killed tonight, all thanks to Jazz.

After my social history of alcohol class, I decide to go to Mike's place for a half pint. It's only fitting right? I mean, I had to listen for 2 and 1/2 hours about delicious, delicious alcohol, I may as well indulge eh?

But their our two new bartenders, Krista and Stephen. Nice enough people, they were real busy that night, but they were very friendly and talkative when they were free. I decide to forgo my usual half-pint and upgrade to the full pint. I don't know why. I fully intended to quaff the drink and return home post haste... but then I noticed something interesting.

A jazz band was setting up. They called themselves Mo' Jazz. I decided to stay and listen, and even get a second pint, breaking my own personal rule of never having more than one drink. Still, it was delicious Steamwhistler Pilsner and I soon forgave myself as I usually don't stay out late at all and it was nice to just sit and listen to Jazz, an artform that I admittedly know very little about.

I complimented the two beautiful vocalists for that evening, Emily and Xana (short for Alexandria) and even had Xana strike up a pleasant conversation with me, she got me to promise to come back to their Dec. 7 show at Mike's Place @ Carleton university. I duly promised to do so, so long as she came to one of my poetry shows. She said, yeah sure, but when I was giving her my info, her eyes held no spark of interest whatsoever. Which was disappointing, but hey, she's the one that started talking to me, not the other way around, so she had no one to blame but herself for my being boring. Perhaps when I see them on Dec. 7, I can convince them to come to my Dec. 10 improv performance at Res Commons.

Perhaps.

So I go outside and wait for the 4 hurdman so I can go to hurdman, connect on the 95 Orleans. I wait a short bit, get on and we are two stops away from hurdman when a surprise happens.

Now, someone had been hitting the stop button every stop. It was weird. Sometimes the driver wouldn't stop at the stop and I'd look behind me to see if anyone complained. No. No one did. Odd. Very odd.

Had we stopped at one of those stops, the dreadful accident might have been avoided. But no. We did not stop.

The 4 hurdman was hit by the 85. Now, I was sitting on a parallel sit that lets you look out straight from the window opposite you, I see the 85 turning into us. I knew we had no time to get away. I yell, "Get away from the Gla-" But it was too late. The 85 hit us. It struck us just before the bendy part of the bus.

Buses in Ottawa are doubles, meaning they have an extra carriage tacked on to the back and are twice as long. They are able to make turns because at the place where they join there is a flexy, bendy part of the bus that is kind of like a pendulum that stops immediately once it comes back to the centre.

Had the 85 hit the bendy mid section, at the speed it was going (and it wasn't even going that fast, maybe.... 15, 20 klicks, tops) I reckon it would have tore through the mid section and killed the 3 people sitting in those shitty chairs they put there.

Not a good way to good. Thankfully, they hit the point just before the bendy part. The whole part of the 4 that was hit was torn up pretty bad. The top of the window at the point of impact was knocked down and hit the poor fella who was sitting there in the head. He is SO lucky the glass didn't shatter.

When the bus came to a complete stop, I got up and said, "hold still, let me see the back of your head." He let me see. He says "Is it bleeding?"

Thankfully, it isn't. I search for sweeling, bruising or anything else. I find only a small bump.

I ask him "Do you feel dizzy, or sleepy? If you do, you might have a concussion."

He says no, he says he's just surprised. The driver asks if he is alright. I tell the driver he's fine.

I step off the bus. Rightly sensing that the driver had already radioed for help, I leave the scene and walk to hurdman. The surprised gentleman I was worried about joins me there about 3 or 4 minutes after I arrive. He tells me that he was asked to sign a release form after refusing to go to the hospital. I again ask him if he is ok. He continues to maintain that he is alright.

I feel that it is no longer my responsibility, I tell him to take it easy, and I hope that we never are put into that situation again.

He concurs.

I pass the rest of my bus journey in ease as I step on the 95 Orleans.

I arrive home about 20 minutes later to cold fish, MMMMMM, a taste of Nova Scotia, my home province.

I heat it up. No man should have to eat cold fish, no matter what the Samurai and their Emperor think. Fish is no good cold! Or raw for that matter. Silly Samurai.

And all of this could have been avoided if I hadn't been so interested in hearing some Jazz, making friends with my new bartenders and talking to hot hot Xana, who will probably forget about me even though I could have been killed because of her smooth, sexy, jazzy voice.

Oh well. That's life.

Oh, by the way, since OC Transpo (The bus company in Ottawa) has most of its drivers talking about strike (And thus robbing me of my only way to school) and have consistently driven past me, screaming and waving, as I wait at a seldom used bus stop and are usually late to ALL of their stops anyways, I hope that the guy driving the 85 gets so fired and can never find bus driving work again. The bus drivers of Ottawa really infuriate me sometimes, espicially since I make such a concerted effort to smile at them and say good morning and good night everytime I get on or off the front door.

So that was my night. Booze, Jazz and danger. What an adventure.