Literary Voyeurs Unite Against the Tyranny of Winnipeg Transit!

The term "literary voyeurism," the inspiration for Julie Wilson's blog Seen Reading, makes snooping on the bus sound so intellectual.  Julie explained the cultural significance of literary voyeurism so eloquently during the seminar at Red River College today.  I tried to explain its cultural value to a middle aged woman on the bus ride home today, but she would hear none of it.  She had some choice words for me when she caught me pretending to drop my glove at her feet so I could kneel down and get a glimpse of the cover of her book. Her verbal assault is too rude to be repeated in this G-rated blog.  My well articulated side of the exchange, however went something like this: 

"Pardon me for staring...there's no need to bring my mother into this...  I'm doing a school assignment.  I'm a literary voyeur....No there' s no medication I take for it.  It's NOT a condition.  It's an intellectual pursuit....well I never!... Fine complain to the bus driver!  I stand by my creative calling.  Oh and before you get up.  Could you just tell me what page you're on."

Luckily I was removed from the bus without too much of a scene.  In fact, I would say overall it was a successful venture.  I got the author and name of the book, and before the bus driver and some "do-gooder" tossed me out into a rather unforgiving snow bank, I managed to tear a few pages from the woman's book.  And so here is my first Seen Reading entry.  (Any future entries will be dependent on whether the bus driver has the authority or the wherewithal to carry out his claim of seeing to it that  I  never ride another bus in Winnipeg again.  To him I say: "More senior members of the Winnipeg Transit Authority have tried and failed to get my bus riding privileges revoked!)  Enjoy.

Number 11 WB Portage Avenue

Caucasian woman, mid to late fifties, over weight, blue jacket with a hood with a furry trim, black pants, purple rubber boots, large glasses that were probably not even fashionable in 1982 when they were purchased or possibly stolen.  She carries a worn denim purse possibly containing a few rolls of quarters or some other hefty item that left a significant goose egg over my eye.

The Narrows, Michael Connelly (Warner Books)

Page 222:

My blood started to jump in my veins.  Clear, Nevada.  I had never been there but I knew it was a town of brothels and whatever community and outside services are spawned by such businesses.  I knew of it because on more than one occasion in my career as a cop I had traced suspects through Clear, Nevada.  On more than one occasion a suspect who voluntarily surrendered to me in Los Angeles reported that he had spent his last few nights of freedom with the ladies of Clear, Nevada.

Sometimes she thought about Fred.  He had sworn that he would be back.  She still remembers him promising.  He was cowered on the kitchen floor by the cabinets, blubbering.  She held the rolling pin high over her head.  She normally drove cross country with him, to keep an eye on him, but he was going south that time.  And since her run in with that US marshal in St. Cloud she could not cross the border.  So she let him go.  They needed the money.  But the son of a bitch never came back.  It had been almost twenty years and she still thought about him.  Hopefully he died in a fiery wreck, caught Chlamydia, or both.   

Soupy out