Tag: POV

I’m not certain how this is going to work out, but here’s the deal:

1. Write a scene and identify the point of view that it uses.
2. Then re-write the same scene from another point of view, and then another, and then another, until all four (first person, third person, third person limited, second person) are all done. For any other than third person you have the option to change character for each version or to maintain the same character.
3. For more practice, change characters and write some more versions and various combination of the scene. Ultimately you could have one third person and three versions for each character in your scene.

Sound simple enough?

# # #

Right now I’ve completed one version of all four POVs. The character for the three personal versions was accidental and did not exist in the third person version, which was the first one that I wrote. But I stuck with that character because 1) it’s easier to modify an existing personal version to the POVs, and 2) keeping this non-participating character allowed me to maintain a distance from the man in the wheelchair, or his wife, or the family, or even the woman in the fuzzy coat. Even the bus driver has a stake, and after writing the third person version first I was struck by how difficult I found all the stakeholder’s positions. This in itself is a bit unexpected since I know that my writing interest usually inclines toward odd characters. When I got to the third person limited version the character needed a name and I dubbed him Hugo. Hugo adds his own internal story to the story.

But by choosing an outside character that didn’t exist in the third person version I remained outside the events. That enabled me to keep a similar degree of distance and so all four versions are very similar. The perspective does not shift much, I never got deep inside any character, and I never experienced strong emotions. That is perhaps a failure in reaping all the potential benefit of this exercise, one which I may make up if I get around to doing step 3. and writing from some other character’s POVs.

Of all the versions I enjoy reading the second person version the most. The interesting thing about writing in second person is that you as the writer continually push the reader into the role that you have assigned to them. Saying “you” as opposed to “I” or “Hugo/he” feels much more authoritarian. You, as the writer, are not offering up a story that happened to yourself or to your protagonist, but instead you order the reader to imagine that they do and say and think and feel these things even if they don’t want to, as opposed to more passively watching you or your protagonist experience them.

 

It’s early but the late fall evening is already dark and the sky is spitting tiny droplets of cold rain. The Broadway articulated bus is heading south, away from downtown. On this section of the route more passengers exit than enter the bus. People are heading home and the bus is in the process of emptying.

In the courtesy area behind the driver a man is sitting in his wheelchair facing the back. He is past retirement age. His hair and moustache are fully gray and he wears a heavy knit jacket and square dark rimmed glasses with rounded off corners. On the other side of the aisle in a double seat facing forward are two Aboriginal women. They may be a grandmother and a mother, the older wearing a heavy sweater and the younger dressed in a dark blue ski jacket. A child of two or three is sitting on the aisle facing seat ahead of them. The child is squirming. She whines, then cries out. For a moment she pauses, then cries again though not loud enough to be heard by the passengers in the back half of the bus. The man mutters a comment which even fewer people can hear. But the mother of the child hears. She turns her head toward the man.

“Don’t be telling my child to be quiet,” she says.

The man glances toward the woman. “Well, someone’s gotta say something if you’re not going to.”

The woman glares. “She’s just a baby. You don’t tell someone else’s baby to shut up.”

“I didn’t say ‘shut up’. I said ‘be quiet’.” He is patient, like a teacher directing a misguided student.

“She’s my baby. Don’t go telling her to be quiet. She’s just a baby.” The woman pulls the child onto her lap and to her chest. Then she rubs her daughter’s back, trying to sooth her. The grandmother does not participate in the discussion.

The man’s head is only turned slightly and he looks at the mother from the corner of his eyes. His body still faces toward the back. “She’s a baby, but there are other people on the bus and they don’t want to hear a crying baby.”

“Who are you, old man, to be telling me to shut my baby up? This is a bus. It’s not your house.”

The man is in no hurry, but he’s not done either. “I know this is a bus. A bus is a public place. Out of consideration for the other people in a public place, some people try to keep their children quiet.”

“Nobody else is complaining. Just you.” The child is quiet now but continues to squirm.

The bus pulls to a stop. The doors open and two people who have been standing at the doors leave. No one enters. The bus pulls away from the curb.

“No one else is saying anything but I’m sure some of them are thinking it,” the man says.

“How do you know what people are thinking? You reading their minds or something?”

The man takes a moment before answering. “No. People just want a quiet ride home. If you’re not going to be considerate so they can have that, then they’re going to be irritated too.”

“Just drop it,” whispers the woman sitting alone on the seat in front of the wheelchair. She could be his wife riding with him. She looks to be of a similar age and economic status, wearing casual winter wear that has seen more than one year. Her hair is curly and is probably artificially not gray like his. Instead it is deep brown. The bus has been emptying out and she is the only person who still sits close to him.

“There’s nothing to drop,” he replies.

The child is kneeling in the mother’s lap, now looking at the man too. The mother says, “You don’t stop harassing us I’m going to call my husband.”

“‘I’m not harassing you. I just asked you to try to keep your child quiet.”

The mother calls over her shoulder, “Robert, this guy is harassing us. Robert!”

Robert comes from the middle of the bus and stands in the aisle behind the grandmother. He is also Aboriginal and a little under six feet tall. His body is not muscular but heavyset. The expression on his face is serious, immobile, and his eyes are already fixed on the man.

“Robert, this guy is giving us a bad time, just because the baby was crying.”

“You giving my family a bad time?” he asks the man in the wheelchair.

“No, I was only asking her to keep the baby from crying.” The man does not meet Robert’s stare.

“You mess with my family, you’re messing with me.”

“I’m not messing with anybody.” He glances at Robert, then looks away again. “I just asked her to try to keep the baby quiet.”

“She’s just a baby,” says the wife.

“She’s just a baby,” repeats Robert.

“I know she’s just a baby. I was just asking her to try to keep her quiet.”

“No. You’re giving me a bad time because you want her to be quiet,” says the wife.

“I’m not giving anyone a bad time. I just asked you to try to keep her quiet.” The man glances from the mother to Robert, and then to the floor of the bus beside Robert’s feet.

“Outside,” says Robert. “Next stop, you and me, outside.”

The man gives Robert a sideways glance. “You’re going to beat up someone in a wheelchair?”

“You mess with my family, you mess with me, wheelchair or not.”

“I’m not trying to mess with anybody.”

“You and me, outside.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the man replies, looking down the aisle again. “I’m just riding the bus.”

The bus arrives at the next stop. No one is waiting at the stop but the driver opens the door and keeps it open. “Hey, take it outside, off the bus. All of you,” he says. His words are clear but there is no overt emotion behind them. He is making a statement, not an order or a request.

The bus idles at the stop. All the other riders in the back are watching, listening. No one says anything. No one moves. Robert stares at the man in the wheelchair. The man keeps his eyes forward at the empty seat beside his own wife. The bus driver waits. The riders wait. A car passes in the left lane. Then another. No one says anything or does anything. The driver doesn’t repeat his statement. Instead he closes the door and pulls the bus back onto the street. The front area of the bus is in a standoff. Everyone’s position is clear, but no one does or says anything. No one moves. Even the child just watches.

The bell rings requesting the next stop. A middle aged woman in a fuzzy long coat moves forward to the doors and stands behind Robert. The bus stops. As the doors open the woman whispers, “Good on you. Standing up for your family. I saw it from back there.”

“Thank you,” Robert replies.

“Good on you,” the woman repeats.

“No one messes with my family.” The woman steps off the bus. The doors close. The bus pulls back onto the street.

The November meeting was done at 6:30 and you’re on the last leg of the bus trip home. It’s already dark and the wipers on the front window are going. You stare at them. Asymmetrical rhythms to you are like light to a moth. Bus wipers must operate by separate motors because they never stay in synch. Bomp, be-domp. Bomp, bomp-de, bomp, b-domp. Each one has its own tempo. Sometimes they hit together, but then they inevitably drift apart, further and further, then closer, and closer, until they meet again.

It’s an articulated bus and you are sitting behind the front area, between the hinge and the middle doors. When you got on the bus there were few seats available but now there are plenty because more people are getting off than are getting on. Most riders are heading home and as the bus gets further from downtown it becomes emptier.

At first you didn’t pay attention to the child making sounds. It’s a common enough occurrence on public transit and it came from up front so maybe you didn’t hear it clearly. Some sounds you don’t listen to until someone draws your attention to it and then you grab it from your short term memory. But you do notice when her mother says something to the man in the wheelchair across the aisle from her.

“Don’t be telling my child to be quiet,” she says.

The man is seated in the courtesy area behind the driver. His wheelchair is parked facing toward the back and you can see that he is older, grey haired, with dark plastic frame glasses. From your angle only the back of the head of the woman who spoke is visible. You can see her shoulder length straight dark hair and dark blue ski jacket. The woman sitting next to her has similar hair but with some grey in it.

The man had been looking straight ahead. Now turns his head toward the woman. “Well, someone’s gotta say something if you’re not going to.”

“She’s just a baby. You don’t tell someone else’s baby to shut up.”

“I didn’t say ‘shut up’. I said ‘be quiet’.” He’s not angry, but apparently he feels a need to be clear.

“She’s my baby. Don’t go telling her to be quiet. She’s just a baby.”

Two people walk past you to the doors and stand waiting to get off at the next stop. For the moment they block your view of the women and child. The man is still visible though. He is not looking at her anymore. He’s looking down the aisle and talking without meeting her eyes. “She’s a baby, but there are other people on the bus and they don’t want to hear a crying baby.”

“Who are you, old man, to be telling me to shut my baby up? This is a bus. It’s not your house.”

“I know this is a bus. A bus is a public place. Out of consideration for the other people in a public place, some people try to keep their children quiet.”

“Nobody else is complaining. Just you.”

Neither of them seem to want to give it up. The mother has a bee in her bonnet and the man can’t stop responding. You don’t want to be too obvious so you look straight ahead. Across the aisle you see a young woman in dark green tights and a dark skirt. She has her earbuds in and is staring into the distance. She probably can’t even hear. The bus stops and the people at the door leave.

“No one else is saying anything but I’m sure some of them are thinking it,” the man says.

“How do you know what people are thinking? You reading their minds or something?”

The man takes a moment before answering. “No. People just want a quiet ride home. If you’re not going to be considerate so they can have that, then they’re going to be irritated too.”

The woman sitting in front of the man says something, but you can’t quite make it out. You think that she might be his wife. She looks to be of a similar age and socio-economic background. Other than the man and the two women with the child, she’s the only other person remaining in the front part of the bus.

“There’s nothing to drop,” the man says. She must have been trying to get him to stop.

“You don’t stop harassing us I’m going to call my husband,” says the mother.

“‘I’m not harassing you. I just asked you to try to keep your child quiet.”

The mother calls over her shoulder, “Robert, this guy is harassing us. Robert!” You get a brief profile of her when she turns her head. She has a round face and thick neck and you guess that she may be Aboriginal.

A man walks up from the middle of the bus. He is a little under six feet tall and, like the mother, looks to be Aboriginal. He has dark straight hair swept to one side and earthy brown skin. You estimate that he weighs twice the man in the wheelchair.

“Robert, this guy is giving us a bad time, just because the baby was crying.”

“You giving my family a bad time?” Robert asks the man in the wheelchair.

“No, I was asking her to keep the baby from crying.” The man is looking down the aisle, not at any of the group.

“You mess with my family, you’re messing with me.”

“I’m not messing with anybody.” He glances at Robert, then looks away again. “I just asked her to try to keep the baby quiet.”

You are starting to find the interaction embarrassing. It was a small incident that’s being blown into a multi-participant argument. They’re gathering allies, claiming points, choosing which points to defend and feeling out which points are the most valid. As a witness you think about preparing to make your own stand if things get out of control. At the same time you think they’re all being overly sensitive. It’s entertaining, but painful. Why do we let ourselves get into these kinds of situations? You look away again. The woman across from you is still in her music world. There are more people further back in the bus but you don’t want to look that far away from the action.

“She’s just a baby,” the wife says.

“She’s just a baby,” repeats Robert.

“I know she’s just a baby. I was just asking her to try to keep her quiet.” You can’t resist looking back again. Robert is still standing, the man in the wheelchair is not meeting his opponent’s eyes. You can see the top of the child’s head above the mother’s shoulder. The child is quiet now.

“No. You’re giving me a bad time because you want her to be quiet,” says the wife.

“I’m not giving anyone a bad time. I just asked you to try to keep her quiet.”

“We’ll settle this outside,” says Robert. “Next stop, you and me, outside.”

The man glances into Robert’s face. “You’re going to beat up someone in a wheelchair?”

“You mess with my family, you mess with me, wheelchair or not.”

The man moves his eyes to the aisleway again. “I’m not trying to mess with anybody.”

“You and me, outside.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the man says. “I’m just riding the bus.”

The bus has stopped. The driver opens the door and says “Hey, take it outside, off the bus. All of you.” He doesn’t sound forceful. He doesn’t sound like you do when you tell your son to shut the door behind him or to please take out the garbage like you asked him to do an hour ago. You wonder if the driver really means to send an elderly man in a wheelchair off with a big able bodied man angry at him. Doesn’t he have some responsibility for the safety of his riders? It seems more likely that he just wants the trouble off his bus so that his responsibility in the matter would be over. And the lack of forcefulness in his voice could be designed to cover his responsibility to the bus company, while avoiding getting directly involved himself and having someone get angry with him as well.

Now everyone remaining on the bus must be aware of what’s going on. The bus sits at the stop, doors open, but no one is moving. Even the woman with the music must be wondering, but now that there’s full acknowledgment of an issue you think that it’s no longer impolite to stare. The rest of the bus behind is probably doing the same. You are aware of your own unwillingness to get involved and your belief that is all overblown and absurd. You notice that you are sitting relaxed but attentive because if someone else does get involved or things start to go further you may have to become a part of it too. They wait. You all wait. No one seems to want to press the issue or ramp things up. The bus driver closes the door and pulls back into the road.

The bus rides in silence, the front section frozen in their positions. The bell rings and a woman in a fuzzy long coat passes in front of you. This is your stop as well so you fall in behind her. The bus pulls into the stop and the woman presses to open the doors. As she does so she says to Robert, “Good on you. Standing up for your family. I saw it from back there.”

“Thank you,” Robert says.

“Good on you,” the woman says again. Now the doors are open and you wait for the woman and her fuzzy coat to move so that you can get off.

“No one messes with my family.” The woman steps off and you follow her to the sidewalk.

Much later you wonder if the bus driver expected anything to happen after his statement. Or was the statement was supposed to do what it did, freeze the participants? You remember when your children were small you would say to them “if you don’t play nice I’m going to take the toys away,” and they would sullenly stop arguing.

The November meeting was done by 6:30 and I’m on the last leg of the bus trip home. It’s already dark and I’m watching the wipers on the front window. Asymmetrical rhythms to me are like light to a moth. Bus wipers must operate by separate motors because they never stay in synch. Bomp, be-domp. Bomp, bomp-de, bomp, b-domp. Each one has its own tempo and sometimes they hit together and then drift apart, further and further, then closer, and closer, until they meet again.

It’s an articulated bus and I’m sitting just behind the front area and before the hinge. When I got on there were only a few seats available but now there are lots because more people are getting off than are getting on. Most of us are heading home and as we get further from downtown the bus becomes emptier.

I didn’t pay attention to the child making sounds. It’s a common enough sound on public transit and maybe I’m far enough back that I don’t hear it clearly. Some sounds you don’t listen to until someone draws your attention to it and then you grab it from your short term memory. But I do notice when her mother says something to the man in the wheelchair across the aisle from her.

“Don’t be telling my child to be quiet,” she says.

The man is seated in the courtesy area behind the driver. His wheelchair is parked facing toward the back so I can see that he is older, grey haired, with dark plastic frame glasses. I can only see the back of the head of the woman who spoke. She has medium length straight dark hair and is wearing a dark blue ski jacket. The woman sitting next to her has similar hair but with some grey in it. The man had been looking straight ahead. Now turns his head toward the woman. “Well, someone’s gotta say something if you’re not going to.”

“She’s just a baby. You don’t tell someone else’s baby to shut up.”

“I didn’t say ‘shut up’. I said ‘be quiet’.” He’s not angry, but apparently he feels a need to be clear.

“She’s my baby. Don’t go telling her to be quiet. She’s just a baby.” Two people walk past me to the doors and stand there, waiting to get off at the next stop and blocking my view of the women and child. I can still see the man though. He is not looking at her anymore. He’s looking down the aisle and talking without meeting her eyes.

“She’s a baby, but there are other people on the bus and they don’t want to hear a crying baby.”

“Who are you, old man, to be telling me to shut my baby up? This is a bus. It’s not your house.”

“I know this is a bus. A bus is a public place. Out of consideration for the other people in a public place, some people try to keep their children quiet.”

“Nobody else is complaining. Just you.” Neither of them seem to want to give it up. The mother has a bee in her bonnet, and the man can’t stop responding. I’m trying not to be obvious and stare so I sweep my vision to the person across the aisle from me. A young woman in dark green tights and a dark skirt with earbuds stares into the distance. She probably can’t even hear. The bus stops and the people at the door leave.

“No one else is saying anything but I’m sure some of them are thinking it,” the man says.

“How do you know what people are thinking? You reading their minds or something?”

The man takes a moment before answering. “No. People just want a quiet ride home. If you’re not going to be considerate so they can have that, then they’re going to be irritated too.” The woman sitting in front of the man says something that I can’t make out. She might be his wife. She looks to be of a similar age and social economic background. Other than the man, the two women with the child and the child, she’s the only other person remaining in the front part of the bus. “There’s nothing to drop,” the man says. She must have been trying make him stop.

“You don’t stop harassing us I’m going to call my husband,” says the mother.

“‘I’m not harassing you. I just asked you to try to keep your child quiet.”

The mother calls over her shoulder, “Robert, this guy is harassing us. Robert!” In the brief profile when she turns her head I guess that she is Aboriginal, with a round face and thick neck. Robert comes from the middle of the bus and stands in the aisle behind the grandmother. He looks Aboriginal as well which gives credence to my guess as to the mother’s ethnicity. He is a little under six feet tall, with a heavy body shape. He probably weighs twice the man in the wheelchair. “Robert, this guy is giving us a bad time, just because the baby was crying.”

“You giving my family a bad time?” he asks the man in the wheelchair.

“No, I was asking her to keep the baby from crying.” The man is looking down the aisle, not at any of the group.

“You mess with my family, you’re messing with me.”

“I’m not messing with anybody.” He glances at Robert, then looks away again. “I just asked her to try to keep the baby quiet.”

I’m starting to find this interaction embarrassing. It was a small incident that’s being blown into a multi-participant argument. They’re gathering allies, claiming points, choosing which points to stand and defend and feeling out which points are the most valid. As a witness I should be prepared to make my own stand if things get out of control. On the other hand I think they’re all being overly sensitive. It’s entertaining, but painful. Why do we let ourselves get into these kinds of situations? I look away again. The woman across from me is still in her music world. I know that there are more people further back in the bus but I don’t want to look that far away from the action.

“She’s just a baby,” the wife says.

“She’s just a baby,” repeats Robert.

“I know she’s just a baby. I was just asking her to try to keep her quiet.”

“No. You’re giving me a bad time because you want her to be quiet,” says the wife.

“I’m not giving anyone a bad time. I just asked you to try to keep her quiet.” I look back and see the man glances from the mother to Robert, and then to the floor of the bus beside Robert’s shoe.

“We’ll settle this outside,” says Robert. “Next stop, you and me, outside.”

“You’re going to beat up someone in a wheelchair?”

“You mess with my family, you mess with me, wheelchair or not.”

“I’m not trying to mess with anybody.”

“You and me, outside.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the man replies. The bus has stopped.

The driver opens the door and says “Hey, take it outside, off the bus. All of you.” He doesn’t sound forceful. He doesn’t sound like a parent or teacher who makes a command expecting it to be carried out. I wonder if he really means to send an elderly man in a wheelchair off with a big able bodied man angry at him. Doesn’t he have some responsibility for the safety of his riders? It seems more likely to me that he just wants the trouble off his bus so his responsibility in the matter would be over. And the lack of forcefulness in his voice could be designed to cover his own responsibility to the bus company without annoying anyone and getting anyone angry with him.

Now everyone remaining on the bus must be aware of what’s going on. The bus sits at the stop, doors open, but no one is moving. Even the woman with the music must be wondering, but now that there’s full acknowledgment of an issue it’s not impolite to stare and so I don’t take my eyes off the participants. I assume that the rest of the bus behind me is doing the same. I’m aware of my own unwillingness to get involved and my perspective that is all overblown and absurd. I’m sitting relaxed but attentive, and if someone else does get involved or things start to go further I may have to be a part of it too. We wait. We all wait. No one seems to want to press the issue or ramp things up.

The bus driver closes the door and pulls back into the road. The bus rides in silence, the front section frozen in their positions. The bell rings and a woman in a fuzzy long coat passes in front of me. This is my stop as well so I fall in behind her. The bus pulls into the stop and the woman presses to open the doors. As she does so she says to Robert, “Good on you. Standing up for your family. I saw it from back there.”

“Thank you,” Robert says.

“Good on you,” the woman says again. Now the doors are open and I’m waiting for her to move so that we can get off.

“No one messes with my family.” The woman steps off and I follow her onto the sidewalk.

Much later I wondered if the bus driver expected anything to happen after his statement. Or was the statement supposed to do what it did, freeze the participants? My mother used to say “if you don’t play nice I’m going to take the toys away,” and we’d sullenly stop arguing.

The November meeting was done by 6:30 and Hugo is on the last leg of the bus trip home. It’s already dark and he is watching the wipers on the front window. Bus wipers must operate by separate motors because they never stay in synch. Bomp, be-domp. Bomp, bomp-de, bomp, b-domp. Each one has its own tempo and sometimes they hit together and then drift apart, further and further, then closer, and closer, until they meet again. It’s an result of his musical background that these asymmetrical patterns draw him like moths to a light, rather than any disorder. Or at least, so he hopes.

It’s an articulated bus and Hugo sits just behind the front area and before the hinge. When he got on there were only a few seats available but now there are lots because more people are getting off than are getting on. Most are heading home and as the bus gets further from downtown it becomes emptier.

He doesn’t pay attention to the child making sounds. It’s common enough on public transit and maybe he is far enough back that he doesn’t hear it clearly. Some sounds you don’t listen to until someone draws your attention to it and then you grab it from your short term memory. But he does notice when her mother says something to the man in the wheelchair across the aisle from her.

“Don’t be telling my child to be quiet,” she says.

The man is seated in the courtesy area behind the driver. His wheelchair is parked facing toward the back so Hugo can see that he is older, grey haired, with dark plastic frame glasses. He can only see the back of the head of the woman who spoke. She has medium length straight dark hair and is wearing a dark blue ski jacket. The woman sitting next to her has similar hair but with some grey in it. The man had been looking straight ahead. Now turns his head toward the woman. “Well, someone’s gotta say something if you’re not going to.”

“She’s just a baby. You don’t tell someone else’s baby to shut up.”

“I didn’t say ‘shut up’. I said ‘be quiet’.” He’s not angry, but apparently the man feels a need to be clear.

“She’s my baby. Don’t go telling her to be quiet. She’s just a baby.” Two people walk past Hugo to the doors and stand there, waiting to get off at the next stop and blocking his view of the women and child. He can still see the man though. The man is not looking at the mother anymore. He’s looking down the aisle and talking without meeting her eyes.

“She’s a baby, but there are other people on the bus and they don’t want to hear a crying baby.”

“Who are you, old man, to be telling me to shut my baby up? This is a bus. It’s not your house.”

“I know this is a bus. A bus is a public place. Out of consideration for the other people in a public place, some people try to keep their children quiet.”

“Nobody else is complaining. Just you.” Neither of them seem to want to give it up. The mother has a bee in her bonnet, and the man can’t stop responding. Hugo tries not to be obvious and stare so he glances to the person across the aisle from him. A young woman in dark green tights and a dark skirt with earbuds stares into the distance. She probably can’t even hear. The bus stops and the people at the door leave.

“No one else is saying anything but I’m sure some of them are thinking it,” the man says.

“How do you know what people are thinking? You reading their minds or something?”

The man takes a moment before answering. “No. People just want a quiet ride home. If you’re not going to be considerate so they can have that, then they’re going to be irritated too.” The woman sitting in front of the man says something that Hugo can’t make out. She might be his wife. She looks to be of a similar age and social economic background. Other than the man, the two women with the child and the child, she’s the only other person remaining in the front part of the bus. “There’s nothing to drop,” the man says. She must have been trying make him stop.

“You don’t stop harassing us I’m going to call my husband,” says the mother.

“‘I’m not harassing you. I just asked you to try to keep your child quiet.”

The mother calls over her shoulder, “Robert, this guy is harassing us. Robert!” In the brief profile when she turns her head Hugo guesses that she is Aboriginal, with a round face and thick neck. Robert comes from the middle of the bus and stands in the aisle behind the grandmother. He looks Aboriginal as well which gives credence to Hugo’s guess as to the mother’s ethnicity. He is a little under six feet tall, with a heavy body shape. He probably weighs twice the man in the wheelchair. “Robert, this guy is giving us a bad time, just because the baby was crying.”

“You giving my family a bad time?” he asks the man in the wheelchair.

“No, I was asking her to keep the baby from crying.” The man is looking down the aisle, not at any of the group.

“You mess with my family, you’re messing with me.”

“I’m not messing with anybody.” He glances at Robert, then looks away again. “I just asked her to try to keep the baby quiet.”

Hugo starts to find this interaction embarrassing. It was a small incident that’s being blown into a multi-participant argument. They’re gathering allies, claiming points, choosing which points to stand and defend and feeling out which points are the most valid. As a witness Hugo thinks that he should be prepared to make his own stand if things get out of control. On the other hand he thinks that they are all being overly sensitive. It’s entertaining, but painful. Why do we let ourselves get into these kinds of situations? He looks away again. The woman across from Hugo is still in her music world. He know that there are more people further back in the bus, but he doesn’t want to look that far away from the action.

“She’s just a baby,” the wife says.

“She’s just a baby,” repeats Robert.

“I know she’s just a baby. I was just asking her to try to keep her quiet.”

“No. You’re giving me a bad time because you want her to be quiet,” says the wife.

“I’m not giving anyone a bad time. I just asked you to try to keep her quiet.” Hugo looks back and sees the man glances from the mother to Robert, and then to the floor of the bus beside Robert’s shoe.

“We’ll settle this outside,” says Robert. “Next stop, you and me, outside.”

“You’re going to beat up someone in a wheelchair?”

“You mess with my family, you mess with me, wheelchair or not.”

“I’m not trying to mess with anybody.”

“You and me, outside.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the man replies. The bus has stopped.

The driver opens the door and says “Hey, take it outside, off the bus. All of you.” He doesn’t sound forceful. He doesn’t sound like a parent or teacher who makes a command expecting it to be carried out. Hugo wonders if he really means to send an elderly man in a wheelchair off with a big able bodied man angry at him. Doesn’t he have some responsibility for the safety of his riders? It seems more likely to Hugo that the drive just wants the trouble off his bus so his responsibility in the matter would be over. And the lack of forcefulness in his voice could be designed to cover his own responsibility to the bus company without annoying anyone and getting anyone angry with him.

Now everyone remaining on the bus must be aware of what’s going on. The bus sits at the stop, doors open, but no one is moving. Even the woman with the music must be wondering, but now that there’s full acknowledgment of an issue it’s not impolite to stare and so Hugo’s eyes are glued on the participants. He thinks that the rest of the bus behind him is doing the same. He’s aware of his own unwillingness to get involved and his perspective that is all overblown and absurd. Hugo sits relaxed but attentive, and if someone else does get involved or things start to go further he may have to be a part of it too. They wait. They all wait. No one seems to want to press the issue or ramp things up.

The bus driver closes the door and pulls back into the road. The bus rides in silence, the front section frozen in their positions. The bell rings and a woman in a fuzzy long coat passes in front of Hugo. This is his stop as well so he falls in behind her. The bus pulls into the stop and the woman presses to open the doors. As she does so she says to Robert, “Good on you. Standing up for your family. I saw it from back there.”

“Thank you,” Robert says.

“Good on you,” the woman says again. Now the doors are open and Hugo has to wait for her to move so that he can get off.

“No one messes with my family.” The woman steps off and I follow her onto the sidewalk.

Much later Hugo wonders if the bus driver expected anything to happen after his statement. Or was the statement supposed to do what it did, freeze the participants? He remembers how his mother used to say “if you don’t play nice I’m going to take the toys away,” and he and his brother would sullenly stop arguing.