Gripping stranger #13: The Yawner

I was standing on the crowded 99 B-Line down Broadway yesterday as it headed west through midday traffic. Everyone was reading the daily commuter papers, listening to their iPods, staring out the window. Silence. Then you yawned so hard and with such catharsis that you sighed a big "oh, yeah" because it felt so good. The "oh yeah" was completely unaware of itself, and for that reason, utterly brilliant.

Gripping stranger #12: Goth girl

Once you appeared to have a leg injury of some kind, but that didn't stop you from donning massive black faux-leather knee-high boots with thick rubber soles fit for the most industrial of fetish nights in the city. I am always in awe of those who invest such effort into their appearance as to favour fashion over function at almost all costs (in your case, you continued to wear the boots despite injury that caused to you to limp painfully down the street, your black trenchcoat gaining momentum in the wind). Sometimes I see you with a partner, pulling an appropriately black rolling cart behind you, ostensibly to carry groceries. The black cart matches the black boots, black pants, black trenchcoat, and shock of short crimson hair. Despite your dedicated preservation of the goth aesthetic well into the 21st century, I do grin at the sensible practicality suggested by the grocery cart. After all, everyone needs some fresh vegetables in their lives. Everyone.

Gripping stranger #11: Indie Rock Makeover

Drastic image changes among men fascinate me. In my experience, I've known more women who like to change how they look from day to day or year to year--several women I've known over the years have experimented with different hair colours, clothing styles, and so on, but overall men tend to seem more consistent with the way they attire themselves. But who am I to judge, really. It's literally a Christmas miracle that I am out of bed and at the appropriate destination in the morning, and therefore I consider myself relatively gross-looking on many weekdays and probably underdressed for most occassions, and I would rate my own style of dress as "compotent," but using the strong crutch of a relatively creative job to excuse me of business casual obligations (I am so happy that I can wear jeans, t-shirts, and colourful sneakers to work every day and am prepared to do so for the rest of my life). Anyway. All of this preamble was leading to something. What I'm talking about is you, who has been a gripping stranger through the duration of my undergraduate career as a sociology major at UBC. I believe we might have had a similar academic specialization because I shared a number of classes with you. I remember the Kappa Sigma t-shirts, the awkward bright-white shoes and straight-legged jeans that resembled the wardrobe of a Vancouver Canuck on the offseason, and your predlicition for hanging around with other dudes who seemed to get all the ladies. The perpetual look of excrutiating tentativeness on your face suggested that you had yet to grow into yourself--I think the tendency for people in that stage of their life to glom onto louder, more outgoing friends is common. I was like that in high school. But then, years after graduation, something changed. I would see you every once in a while around the city, evolving slowly into what seemed to be the person you were hoping for all along. It began with a shaggier haircut and grew into skinny jeans and, upon my most recent sighting, a vintage 1970s road bike upon which you zipped along the Seawall on a Sunday afternoon. You had transformed from fraternity member to Main Street hipster in a matter of three years. I wonder if you now feel more comfortable in your own skin, or if you'll always carry that burden of anxiety that seemed to plague you those years ago. I don't find that the core of most people tends to change drastically over time, but it sharpens. I hope at least now your life consists of a better soundtrack.

Gripping stranger #10: Unabomber

Are you a eunuch? Are you a 24-year-old in a 12-year-old's body? What makes you laugh? These and other questions may remain unanswered forever, but I can't shake the feeling that you could play a heavy hand in the demise of a society. The trenchcoat, the sunglasses, your 5'2 frame with short, soft blonde '80s hair and the flip flops and short-shorts you wear to the laundry room--your very being feels like a spy movie from another era. The woman who lives with you is equally mysterious: a girlfriend? A sister? A madam? She looks at least 10 years older than you and has similar blonde hair, sunglasses, and, when you go out on Sunday afternoons, a matching beige trenchcoat. Sometimes I see you walking home in your trenchcoat and khakis, carrying a plastic bag containing a styrofoam take-out container. I always wonder about its contents and what day job you could possibly be returning from. I have seen your face only a few times after seeing you fairly regularly for almost a year. The face is that of a freckled young boy's, but I know that you are not a child. You have small, piercing bright blue eyes into which I can see no soul, but that only makes me wonder what happened to form so many inpenetrable layers, layers covered in soft cotton, covered in khaki, covered in penny loafers and business wear.

Gripping stranger #9: Mod bus girl

I always feel as though we could be friends if one of us was a little more outgoing. But we are both a bit shy, which is why we would probably get along in the first place. We share the same bus route in the morning if I am running late. You probably start work at about 9 and I am supposed to be there at 8:30, and because of the recent construction on Davie Street, I am often mistimed and delayed. You tend to be quite punctual, I think. I always wonder if you work at a nearby book or record store, because I feel like such an environment could suit you very much. You have lovely sunglasses, wonderful red sneakers, and an overall black and red clothing motif. Sometimes you and your partner ride the bus together in the morning. I am always curious about what people do all day and how they make a living. To me it seems you two share a well-deserved, peaceful existence.

Gripping stranger #7: Unicycle Man

Wearing a thick neon-orange vest, a helmet, hiking socks, hiking boots, and practical outdoor shorts, you ride every weekday morning through downtown traffic across the noisy, congested Burrard Bridge into the calm residential streets of Kitsilano. Sometimes I see you waiting at stop lights, holding onto a tree or a lampost for support before you pedal forward at the green light, boldly unicycling into your day. Where are you going at this hour of the morning? To work? Or do you just use this time to practice unicycling through rush-hour traffic? Seeing as I only started feeling confident enough to bike around as a commuter last year, I am utterly in awe of you. You have, as my friend Trevor would say, "powerful hindquarters" and probably astonishing core strength. As I understand it, unicycling requires the rider to keep pedalling at all times, without the aid of gears or breaks. I've seen you dismount once by kind of jumping off the back, and then you start up again with a lot of forward momentum. Amazing. You look to be about 50 years old but could probably out-run and/or out-bike most of the other, younger cyclists tearing across the bridge. We will pass you en masse on a bus and I want to shout at everyone with their newspapers and Twitterberries, "Look at this guy! He's unicycling!" because I always watch you in awe. But then again, there is something truly great about a dedicated unicycler being an ambient and normative background element of one's morning commute.

Gripping stranger #6: Original Hipster

Britpop helmet hair, massive headphones, leather mod jacket, tight pants, layer of asshole: you really had it all. And the fact that your young life had culminated into that obligatory TA position for none other than a Psychology 100 class at UBC looked like it sat obnoxiously on the face of your very existence every time you entered that lecture hall in the Henry Angus Building Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from 1 p.m. to 2 p.m. You'd sit and glare among the 200 or so of us as we tried to stay awake to listen to the professor talk about her rat experiments and the mysteries of the brain that most of us lacked the sophistication to appreciate. Sometimes I would see you around campus with your headphones on, messenger bag full of psychology textbooks and used CDs, possibly fresh from breaking the hearts of young women who also frequented the Purple Onion on the now-defunct Britpop nights. You always seemed vastly older than everyone but I realize now that was likely more a marker of my own youth than your actual age, because when you are 18 you think anyone over the age of 21 is ancient. In reality you were probably 25 and deeply resentful of the swarms of 18-year-olds your job forced you to deal with on an everyday basis. Now I see you around Main Street sometimes and wonder how you are.

Gripping stranger #5: Underwear Woman

You have the gaunt, weathered face and sinewy arms of hard living, but your bright blue eyes and small smile indicate a kind of spiritual youthfulness that I think is a unifying factor among those who have endured more than they should. You're always very friendly in the elevator and doorways, but seldom recognize us outside the context of the apartment building. The most distinctive thing about you is the large pair of white cotton women's underpants that you layer over your brown nylons and wear often with a cream-coloured cable-knit sweater. At first I thought it was a mistake, and then I thought it was something that maybe you only wore around the apartment to do laundry and stuff, but the more I saw you, the more I realized that this is how you atire yourself always. One Sunday afternoon in July we were coming home with groceries and heard a whirring sound as we neared our building. We looked up to see the wind blowing open the curtains of your balcony door. Inside, you pushed a vacuum across the floor, singing loudly and tunelessly, your blonde hair flying.