last week, I was riding the tram home from Gare Midi after a contact improv jam, and the most unusual events unfolded: your average, elderly drunkard stumbled onto the tram, LA Lakers backpack, grocery bag filled with misc possessions, a wet dog following on a dirty scrap piece of rope and a Jupiler dangling dangerously from his hand...
this man approached a good-looking young man (near me, but NOT me) and started up a casual conversation...in what i can only assume is slurred French. The man seemed pretty entertained and even laughed a few times while interacting with the old man. Until the young man exited the tram and door closed, I was quite surprised...but this is not the story. its just the beginning...
then the man turned to a woman, who seemed less interested. But somehow this man could make people smile (although I was making a sour face in response to the aroma coming from his motion about the tram). After the woman exited, another victim was spotted, sitting quietly, dressed in business attire, reading a glossy-print program from some art event in the city. This man did everything in his power to ignore the drunk...but soon enough... they began conversing. By this time, there are only a few seats between me and the action so I try to alternate between bobbing my head to my I-pod, looking out the darkened window and staring blankly at a quite unusual social encounter (this STILL isn't the story). The conversation carries on with this well-dressed man until even after the tram door closes and the old man looks back curiously... at this point, I'm REALLY wishing I knew some french. My I-pod has been paused for awhile now, and I'm just waiting for the man to make his next move...Unfortunately there are only three poor souls left on the tram...why was I one of them...
The man looks at the tram doors and sees two mirrors, one on each window. One mirror reads something in French, the other in Flemish (as many things do in Brussels). I found out later that the message on top of the mirror meant something like 'can you see your hero today?' or something like that. Anyway, this interesting tram man starts laughing and ranting (STILL IN FRENCH) about something I don't know. I can only assume he's looking at himself and losing his mind. I'm thinking about getting off at the next stop, but I still have five more to go. Why aren't there more people on here? The man gets closer to the mirror and tries prying it off. No luck. He tries peeling it really roughly. Doesn't budge. Then... (this is where it gets weird)... the man opens his smelly, yellow coat, reaches deep into a cargo pocket of his worn khakis and pulls out a long object wrapped in plastic saran wrap. He unwraps and peels away layers until it reveals a long, solid metal knife. (WHY AM I STILL ON THE TRAM). The man continues to laugh cynically, scream over his left shoulder to no one behind him, and pause to make sure no one is watching. Several times we almost lock eyes. The tram man starts working his glorified butter knife behind the Flemish version of the hero mirror. This thing is not coming off easily. Minutes of wrenching and prying and screaming and its still on the window. Eventually the other passenger of the tram walks quickly past the old man, pausing to say something in French. My guess is, "What the hell are you doing?" The old tram man paused, but then quickly tried to finish the job as the good Samaritan walked up towards the tram driver. Words were exchanged (in the Early Childhood Center we would say, and the nice man taddled on the crazy man). The tram man finally yanked the mirror off, quickly re-wrapped his weapon of choice, and turned to hid the mirror strategically between some magazines, food, old picture frames and coupons. Then the tram stopped. Oh shit.
The tram driver opened his door and screamed some French in "our" direction. The crazy tram man hollered back. He was obviously refusing to get off the tram even though it was a pretty strict request from the conductor. Tram man slurred something about Boondale Gare (which was the next stop and the one stop before mine). After a long pause, the driver conceded and resumed the operations. This was the slowest 47 seconds of my life...but when we reached the stop, the tram man tripped over his poor dog, grabbed the rope, grabbed the bag, gripped the beer and lerched off the tram. I think I'm safe. The door closes. This must have been a dream. And then the tram jerks ahead. Unusual. I look at the driver, waving his arms at a drunk man in a yellow coat - standing directly IN FRONT OF THE TRAM. The man is screaming and kicking and refusing to move. The driver is making quick, jerking movements ahead and honking the horn with more anger than I've ever heard. It seems I'm on a tram that's about to intentionally flatten a drunk man on the tracks. The man backs up a bit at a time as to not...DIE...but the driver is not playing games. The old man quickly hops off the tracks as we jolt past the man (missing him by at least 4-5 feet). The old man chases his dog and drops his bag of goodies and we ride ahead to the Hippodrome de Boitsfort.
That's where I get off.
