A Bus Ticket

It’s December 4, 1982. I’m eighteen years old and I’m standing in the bus station in Belleville, Ontario as my bus pulls away…

I was on my way back from a visit to Toronto. Nothing had gone as planned. In fact, things had gone so badly that I got off in Belleville to call home (collect) because I needed to hear a friendly voice. I didn’t realize my bus was leaving until I saw it turn out of the parking lot and onto the highway. My bag was on board; so were my winter coat and my wallet. I had a couple of bucks in my pocket, the clothes on my back, and no idea how I was going to get back to Kingston.

I’m pretty sure I started to cry. I don’t actually remember if I did or not, but I do remember feeling like a complete loser.

I went to the counter and explained my situation to the woman selling tickets. She was sympathetic, but said there was nothing she could do, so I sat down on a bench and tried to figure out what to do. I could call my parents again, but what could they do from several thousand kilometers away?

And then a guy I’d never met before came over and handed me a one-way ticket to Kingston he had just bought for me and said, “Don’t screw this up.” He walked away and got in a cab before I could thank him or say that I didn’t want charity (although right then I really, really did).

I have no idea who he was, and as far as I know, I’ve never seen him since. I can’t even really remember his face any more, but in a way I think I’ve spent a lot of the last forty years trying to pay him back.

Time to make another cup of tea. If you came in peace, be welcome.