A natural history of an absurd man

Riding the bus the other day, I had occasion to share intimate quarters with a rare sort of man. Analogies with the natural world have never seemed more apt. Had I been prepared I would have taken detailed notes, or better yet, cut to the chase and gone straight for the glory by making a documentary. I would be doing my best David Attenborough, whispering interesting facts in the background as the camera focuses on the specimen blithely frolicking, unknowingly playing the star in my groundbreaking work. "Now you see the absurd man in the full splendor of his obliviousness," I might say. Then I would direct the viewer to admire his furrowed brow as he wields his newspaper annoyingly, smoothing it out unnecessarily before reading each article, as if the words on the page somehow depended on his patient folding and refolding, rustling and crinkling.

That's only the beginning though. When he first emerged onto the bus, I was delighted that his instincts would have for some reason caused him to choose a path directly to me. For a moment I thought the absurd man might actually attempt to sit on my head, making a little nest for himself up there where he could look down imperiously at all us other creatures, unfamiliar and uninteresting. This is one of the distinguishing features of the absurd man, his ability to somehow convey the impression that he's not like those around them, that he is of a distinct species. His mental experience is nothing like other people's, his senses are coordinated differently, he may even have the use of a sense unknown to humankind, like bat sonar or raccoon paws. And then, after he judged the top of my melon unsuitable for his nest, he selected a seat directly at my side. In some sort of display of territorial marking, he made sure to cling a buttock as tightly as he could to my own thigh, such that I received third-degree friction burns. I wondered, "what invisible conditions does this absurd man experience?" Of course, do not mistake the rubbing of the buttock with any sexual impropriety common among us lonely humans, as another hallmark of the absurd man was clearly evident: Obliviousness.

You know how one may clench one's jaw in a manner which causes the lower lip to protrude slightly? Then, taking one's index finger (other appendages also work, though not as well) and 'diddling' it up and down on the protruding lip, as it rebounds it will make a most ridiculous popping sound as it banks again and again against the upper lip. Be creative and try such diddling while emitting the slightest moan, which can be tuned as desired. Having affected this gesture, one has captured the essence of obliviousness. Like a cat sitting on a king's throne, the absurd man moves about perpetually diddling his bottom lip, consciously or unconsciously declaring to the world, "Here is I, and I have no self-awareness, diddle, diddle, diddle." Breathtaking to behold.

But on this day on the bus, I was privileged to witness a most sacred display of absurdity, such that if anything in the history of the world has been more absurd I have my doubts. Though, as it turned out, his ride was not long at all (perhaps 10 minutes), this man (perched with one buttock clung to my thigh like a mollusk to a pier) decided to take out his National Post and with cramped agility proceed to unfurl it. "Is he actually going to do this!?" was the question that shot through my mind. What followed was a lesson in awkward diligence and unnecessary competence. I was schooled. If ever I wanted to achieve something ridiculous in public, I would take a class from this absurd man. As I mentioned above, every article which received his inquiring gaze first required that he fold the paper just so, according to specifications known only by him. Amidst all this folding and refolding and folding some more, he also employed varied techniques to "smooth" or "collapse" the paper and he patted at it incessantly, there was never a time when the paper could be patted down enough. "What tiny inconsistencies burn in his mind, that he feels it necessary to constantly swat at his paper that way?"

For 10 minutes I watched this unusual display. A few times I mistook his folding for an experiment in origami, and I thought finally, after all the swatting and smoothing were over, he would have an elaborate paper statue to display, perhaps as a gift to the strange creatures he happened upon in that moving vessel. But no, all that effort was not towards artful paper statuettes, it was to read analysis of Sydney Crosby's backhand and the most suitable cabernet to accompany a pasta in cream sauce. "Egads, he likes his paper!" And then it was over. Like those fabled flowers which bloom once a millennium, the bus stopped and he scampered off, to some vista known only by him and which depends only on the direction and pace of his feet beneath him. I followed him with my eyes as the bus pulled away and through the window I thought I could see him again at work on his paper, slapping it in defiance of the breeze that was slyly attempting to fashion out of it a fool's crown. Adieu, absurd friend. My thigh will be clung to by no buttock such as yours e'er again!