Lest we forget.

If you’ve ever taken a bus PRETTY MUCH ANYWHERE, you know that you have discovered the place where all truly interesting people go.

Not interesting in an art gallery or poetry slam kind of way, mind you, or even an a “we chatted for hours!” kind of way, but rather in a “could I use my keys as a weapon if need be?” kind of way.

I take the bus a lot.

I’m not particularly scary myself, but I do have the magical ability to attract very, very strange people. Strange people who want to talk. Strange people who want to get to know me. Strange people who want to sit in my lap and hold my hand.

But that’s a story for another day.

The experience I am going to share with you occurred on Friday night, on a trip home from the grocery store. I was waiting at the stop with my (cloth, re-usable) bag of pasta, stuff for a marinara sauce, stuff for garlic bread, and stuff for Caesar salad.

YES, I AM COOKING FOR JUST ONE, WHY DO YOU ASK?

As soon as I got on the bus, I felt my Crazy People Radar flare up like poison ivy, and found myself scanning the coach for People Who Might Want to Talk to Me. As usual, there were multiple options available, but the biggest potential lay in a man sitting right near the front in a chair.

Not a wheelchair, mind you, but just… a chair.

I guess he preferred it to the regular seats (which were folded up to make room.) He was settled in for the duration of his ride.

He looked at me with a little too much delight when I got on, so I flipped my sunglasses down off my head (like my fellow Canadian, Corey Hart), and adjusted my earbuds to draw attention to the fact that I was listening to music (actually, it was CHRISTMAS music, which makes me crazy in my own special way.) This is usually enough to dissuade anyone from engaging as soon as I board.

It’s not that I don’t like talking to people.

My father is a minister, which means I’ve been carrying on polite conversations with adults from the time I could say, “And how’s your sciatica?”

Not to mention that, as far back as I can remember, my mom has been eager to engage strangers in meaningful chats pretty much anywhere: store lineups, elevators, walk-in clinics… you name it.  I bet she would have a GRAND time on the bus, but I don’t think she’s taken one since she was a teenager.

Thing is, the people who like to talk to me on buses are usually certifiably insane, and looking for someone… ANYONE… who might want to hear their theories on how the government has implanted chips in all our brains, or how the swine flu is actually a form of genocide designed to eradicate unattractive children.

I kid you not.

This night, Chair Guy left me alone.

I plunked down in a seat near the front, and sighed in relief that this trip would pass without incident.

I should have known better.

I’ll never know what possessed me to look up, especially with the profound awareness that Chair Guy could change his mind about conversing at any time, but it was then that I noticed Chair Guy’s friend, who will forever be known to me as The Jack Hanna of BC Transit.

He had a bird on his head.

A live bird.

And not a little bird, but a BIG BIRD.

Not BIG BIRD, as in the yellow dude with the mythical friend who rocked cool orange legs, but something akin to a hawk. Perched on a hat. A baseball cap, to be exact.

I would learn later that the bus driver “hadn’t noticed” the bird, but to that I say THAT’S A PRETTY BIG BIRD TO IGNORE.

And Tweety would have been weird enough, but the story doesn’t end there.

I turned off my music to eavesdrop on the animated conversation he was having with a woman next to him. I know, I know… I don’t want to talk, but yet I feel I can listen in?

YES. THAT’S ABOUT RIGHT.

It was then that I noticed she was staring at his hands.

So I did, too.

RAT.

RAT.

RAT.

GIANT GREY RAT.

IN HIS HANDS.

RAT.

I immediately thought of two things: my best friend, Catherine, who would have passed out on the spot or screamed so loudly the bus would have ground to a halt.

And number two? THE PLAGUE.

I know that I’m going to get flack from Rat Apologists, but this was no cute pet rat (and I use that term loosely.) This was a GIANT GREY RAT that looked like someone had plucked it from a sewer and decided to take it for a spin.

I stiffened in my seat, noticing immediately that The Rat was really not happy to be there, and trying to escape from his grasp. I was waiting for it to bite the guy, actually, which likely would have resulted in a Rat Drop, which would have further resulted in a Rat Panic.

The girl he was chatting with seemed to think The Rat was cute.

So did the man.

So cute, in fact, that he snuggled the rat close and tucked him into a fanny pack.

Which, of course, made it…

THE RAT PACK.

I know, I know… all that for such a hackneyed punchline?

But it’s true. Terribly, terribly true.

Jack Hanna did get off right before I did, and I have to give the bird kudos for remaining chill when the bus driver finally noticed — with some degree of horror — that the No. 20 had become a temporary aviary.

So how does the story end?

I de-bused without the plague and with my groceries intact, and spent the rest of the night wondering if a bird on the hat… er, rat in the hand is worth… well…

… insert your own joke here.