Public transit is feral. Waking up at 6 a.m. to make it to the bus stop in time just to wait in line behind thousands of people in the cold is the lowest point of my day. Especially when I have to stand between sweaty millennials and crying children on my way to school.
It's worse than pub fights, bad fries or, the Harlem Shake. But, there is only one thing that makes the ride bearable: the corner seat. I thought it was a myth, but I’ve seen its glory with my own eyes.
Tucked into the corners beside the side window, guarded by the keeper (that sweaty millennial) — these seats are what I live for. In every bus, there is a ledge supporting the seats in front of you. If you can make it onto the bus and be lucky enough to get that seat, you get a FOOT REST. You’re basically in paradise for the entirety of your commute. That's the kind of luxury that should be a sin.
When I heard of this myth from the deep dark web, I thought they were bluffing. No way public transit has that kind of luxury. But I swear, it’s real. I’ve watched with vicious envy as the most strategic commuters put their feet up while I sat between a bus NPC and some kid too small to be alive.
I wanted that seat. I will get that seat. All I want for Christmas is you, and by you, I mean that damn bus seat. So, I set my plan into action Friday morning. Thousands of people were hustling with their umbrellas, pushing to the front of the lines trying to get first seats. People were slipping and colliding left, right and centre on ice, snow and tampon flyers from Shoppers Drug Mart.
I breezed past a bunch of transit noobs wrapping their umbrellas up and trying not to fall. But I only managed to get through 200 people and let too many buses go by. I was on the verge of being late.
I bulldozed my way through the crowd, stepping on feet and dodging flailing arms. The bus turned the corner and headed toward the bus stop. It came rambling down the road and everyone became vicious. There were 600 people between me and that bus, but nothing was stopping me from getting that seat.
I pushed and shoved through the mob as fights broke out. The bus was coming to a stop as I sprinted through the mob at the back doors, reducing Bay 9 to rubble behind me. The doors opened and the flood of people tried to take their Compass Cards out to try and get in. Hah, noobs. I was in before any of them could say Dorito.
I turned to the back of the bus, congratulating myself on my victory when I screeched to a halt. The seats were occupied. When they saw my face, they smirked. My face hardened as I realized who they were: fifth-year commuters. I thought they went extinct, all of them living on their own in the distant reaches of the city (which gives them access to the first seats on the bus) and paying taxes.
It was too late. The flood of people rushing in left me standing in the middle aisle. I sent them a glare while I lived my punishment: standing next to sweaty athletes and making awkward eye contact when, sigh, I’m just trying to look out the window.
My ego was shattered, my body wet and my eyes dry, but I was not ready to give up.
I will get that seat one day. Mark my words.
The Dingbat is The Ubyssey's humour section. Send pitches and completed pieces to email@example.com.