It seems that every other month there’s a call to come back home. Only five hours away, which is nothing in the grand scheme of things, but nonetheless, beckoning begins when there’s something important to show up to. “It’s your cousin Becky’s wedding,” “your sister’s pregnant,” or worse, “your grandpa died.” And I’m stuck with it. 

Now I’m waiting in line for this bus to go 500 kilometers from Toronto to Montreal purely because it’s the cheapest option while still remaining relative in price to the train. There’s no hassle in the rudimentary practice of being on autopilot. Going with the familiar. Sure, the customer service here is just okay, but there’s no other choice really, a decision made by gods above and the fact it’s a recession. The woman next to me asks if I’m heading the same direction as she is. I start to respond, mimicking her confusion but the muffled intercom above interrupts us. We pause to look at each other and just laugh. 

Feeling cooked now.

The bus company agent mentions to me how sometimes “you just need to swallow your own pride.” Holding a pretzel in my left hand and a poorly opened mustard packet in my right. I think about how Wetzel’s Pretzels goes harder than Mr. Pretzels. I had the option to shower before I left, but after my friends convinced me to wear sweatpants in public I decide to accept my fate and lean into it. I tell myself I match my setting; those who know will know how cool these tearaway pants are. Or that when I wear my hoodie with my scarf in a specific way, I emanate a certain je ne sais quoi. My dry shampoo compliments the smell of industrial deodorant and I’m feeling fresh. 

Four hours into the ride, after falling asleep listening to podcasts and ambient music, my body instinctively rises at the feeling of entering Kingston, Ontario, a city centred around a cursed Tim Hortons which acts as a pit-stop along the highway. Awoken by the perverse thought of water entering down my throat, I recall other people’s experiences of  racism and fraternity culture here. Regretting only ordering strawberry lemonade at Wetzel’s Pretzels, I put on my wet Blundstones and run to fill my vices. Vending machine Doritos, Aquafina, a bagel, and peppermint tea. 

Back on the bus, a deep feeling of satisfaction and comfort comes over me. Having missed my first bus, I tell myself it’s the Toronto to Montreal—Montreal to Toronto rite of passage to experience this shit. Eventually it was going to happen.

A girl comes running up the stairs and announces to her friends that the driver just left and that it won’t be another two hours until the next driver shows up. A guy in Montreal is driving to come get us just to have to drive all the way back. I text my friend group “long live the Quebecois,” as well as another friend who went through this last week, saying “the driver really said fuck it, my shift is done.”

The girl relaying the news is part of a group of student journalists that are coming from Hamilton on their way back from a conference. I’m happy she’s on the clock and able to provide the updates I need. She asks me if I want to be in their vlog while we’re waiting for the next driver to arrive. I deny the offer, and she responds, “It’s okay I thought you could bring a little colour to the video.” I look down at the Dorito remnants on my fingertips, at the cuffs of my turquoise hoodie, and I thank her for thinking of me. 

For the next two hours I think of workers rights, whether I’m happy at my job or any job I’ve ever had, and if I have a crush on my friend. Whatever it is, I’m thinking about it. I’m stuck with my thoughts for two hours, cursing Kingston and recoiling that my friends were right. I should have taken the train. I’m stuck with my thoughts in goddamn Kingston, Ontario. With the goal of a fool to return home. 

Eventually the driver arrives after another hour of being late. He provides an update over the intercom that I can’t hear. I refuse to try to figure out what he’s saying by instead closing my eyes. Eased by the bumps of the rocky uncleared snow on the 401, I wake up next to Place Bonaventure. Six hours turned into a 15-hour ride, I tell myself I’ll just lean into it this time. An Uber to the Plateau costs $40. I call it anyways. 

Depart early, leave a little late 
Dealing with all this whimsy 
Let us all live without judgement 
In times it’s due 
Leave late, depart a little early 
—Depart from the clocks 
Get there late, arrive a little early 
Stranded from sleep 
17 books in the half of a carry-on 
Hearts wanting warmth 
Escaping the rotation of shift work 
Arrive there early, get there a little late 
Avoid writing poetry 
Instead play camp games with strangers 
Deny being featured in a vlog 
Show up on time, leave a little early