I had been working later one evening at a visual effects studio in downtown Vancouver. My crew and I mostly worked on animation for television shows for streaming and network broadcast. Occasionally a show would need some extra time at the end of the day to make sure the animation was completed to a certain level so that other departments could keep working later into the evening, and this was one of those days.
I take the Skytrain in Vancouver, a 2-car electric train similar to a subway or an elevated train that many urban centres employ for public transit. Usually at quitting time the platform at Waterfront Station is quite full with fellow commuters and it's sometimes difficult to get a seat on the train, but being a little later this evening, there was one seat available, not too far from the train door. I slipped into it and was ready to settle down for a quiet ride home.
The gentleman in the seat beside me was a senior, an indigenous man, probably about five and half feet tall and dressed in blue collar clothing, not dirty or shabby, but seemingly not a man of great means. It wasn't too long until he leaned over to talk to me. He had a twinkle in his eye as he told me he was taking the train down to the River Rock Casino. He had $100 dollars and he was going to see if he could increase his lot. Last time, he had turned the same amount into over $1,000 dollars after a successful outing. I wished him good luck.
A few minutes later, he let me know he wasn't working any more. He used to work on fishing boats, but had been injured and now he was just too old to go back to that life. He missed it, being out on the ocean, working with the other men. Now, occasionally, he would work as a guide for hunters.
He lived downtown in a hotel. He had never learned to read. I wondered how that was even possible to survive in this culture in this day and age - what must he have endured to survive? If I didn't mind, could I tell him which station to get off the Skytrain? He wasn't really sure. "Of course," I told him. "I'll be switching trains one platform before you, so after I get off the train, yours will be the next stop. Then go downstairs one floor, through the turnstiles and turn right."
He smiled at me and nodded and we rode in silence for a few minutes. He sat there, never losing that twinkle. He possessed an apparent sense of humour, and perhaps even a hint of mischief. I could tell he was excited by this adventure and the potential for some big money.
I think he was getting more comfortable with me the longer we traveled. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm really not much of a threat to anybody and I was happy to talk with him. I wondered if others on the train might have intentionally avoided this vacant seat, seeing what could have potentially been a homeless man. Unpredictable? Dangerous? Simply awkward? Who can tell in a tube full of strangers? On a different occasion, my family and I had been traveling home later one evening after watching a movie at a screening room downtown and a few seats over somebody was in a corner seat smoking a crack pipe. We got off the train and waited for the next train. Vancouver has its share of problems like any other major city so sometimes it is easy to fall into a guarded position of being wary.
After a while he spoke to me again. "Do you want to know my name"?
"Sure," I said, "my name is Paul," wanting to make the first move.
He nodded an acknowledgement, then spoke his name in his native language which sounded strange and exotic, so much so, that it must have registered on my face that I was never going to able to say his name back to him, let alone remember it.
"My name means Thunderbird Spirt," he offered.
"That is a really great name!" I was sincere. C'mon, that is a seriously cool handle to have.
"It was given to me by an old man, an elder, when I was a boy."
"Well, I think that's a really interesting name to have."
He seemed pleased by this and turned to face forward again, but only for a minute.
"Would you like me to give you a name?" he asked.
What could I say to this? It's not like you turn down a guy on a train who offers to bestow on you what feels like a rare honour, so I looked at him directly and let him know.
"Yes, I think I'd like that very much."
He turned away from me and starting speaking quietly in his native tongue again. He closed his eyes. Was he praying? I do believe he was praying and this went on for several minutes. He was putting some real thought into finding the right name and this was a serious spiritual quest. Finally he stopped, and turned back to me.
"I have a name for you."
He uttered a few syllables saying them also in the language he'd learned from childhood. It sounded slightly familiar, but again, something I'd never be able to remember or pronounce. And again, he was gracious to quickly translate for me again.
"Your name means... Thunderbird Rock."
"Thank you," I said. "That is also a really great name!"
It was a moment that brought a smile to my face and he reciprocated. In that moment we were the Thunderbird brothers: Spirit and Rock.
My platform was coming up. It was time for me to get off the train. I reminded him that his was going to be the next stop for the casino and he thanked me.
As I watched the Skytrain pull away from the station with Thunderbird Spirit on board, I really hoped his evening would be as successful as it had been the previous time. I felt I was richer for having met him and for the honour he had sent my way.
