97B Yonge

I would often miss the last subway home and end up waiting for the bus they run until dawn, up and down Yonge Street, to gather the shift workers, the cleaning ladies, and the under-aged drinkers.

It was a lonely stop on a fifteen-minute schedule, one long block south of the main intersection at Eglinton, where at long last I could see the bus—my bus—pull up to the curb, empty itself of passengers, and drive away to the yards . . . another long wait, for the bus they call the Vomit Comet had once again lived up to its name.

Photo by Eyeline-Imagery.