Friday Mourning...

Genuine thanks to Freddie Beach of Fredericton and Adrian in Sydney for linking me...and thanks to NYC Sol for the promise thereof...;-)

Friday nights in Carleton Place are a hit and miss affair for cabbies. In a town with fewer people than most large cities have taxis, a busy Friday can mean as many as eight cabs competing for a scant number of fares. Given the laws of supply and demand, the competition is predictably fierce and unfailingly farcical. It's not uncommon for several cabs to stake out the Tim Hortons parking lot, a prime location across from Pizza Pizza, kitty corner to Sud's Bar, and a half block down from The Thirsty Moose, incidentally one of the most popular Bar/Restaurants in town. If you are blessed with the gift of anticipation, you can respond to prospective fares before they've brandished the "come hither" wave, and thus get the jump on your competition.

As one of the lucky few, on this crazy, pretty, blue orb, to call Carleton Place home, I sometimes need reminding of the greater world beyond the "Welcome to Carleton Place" sign. Cabbies here have no need for meters to determine fares. Everything within the city limits is a flat rate: $7 will get you from one end of town to the other. Breach the town limits, and you immediately incur an extra dollar charge. For the more adventurous, setting out for Almonte, the next town up-the-line, requires reaching deeper to cover the $18 fare. For the truly cosmopolitan, or those ready for the rite-of-passage journey to downtown Ottawa, where strip clubs welcome fresh-faced youths not yet jaded by big-city bustle, expect to part with $85 for the trip. For the well-heeled, or those simply desperate to get as far away as possible, a trip to the Ottawa International Airport, about 40 minutes distant, will set you back $130.

I sit idle now, alternately reading and watching the light fade, as people stroll the downtown street. The bustle of earlier has settled to a steady crawl. Downtown was crammed this morning. Two hundred firefighters gathered to pay tribute to a local man. He was a twenty year veteran of the Ottawa Fire Dept, and died tragically in a car fire last Saturday morn. He was the close friend of a close friend, and as such I had occasion to meet him a few times. Stories of his character and ready wit are making the rounds now, as bewildered friends remember why they loved him.

An anecdote I particularly liked: He and a friend were in a small store in a neighbouring town. A pretty young lady wearing tight, tight shorts, cameltoe snug, cheerfully rang up their purchases. Their business completed, they returned to the pickup truck, still much affected by the spectacle of the young lady inside.

"Did she catch you staring" asked the friend, quite sure that he had been caught himself.

"I don't know..." responded the fireman, his sudden grin full of mischief. "I never looked up..."

He leaves two youngsters, a wife, and a town in mourning.

Fare Maiden

As an underemployed writer moonlighting as a cab-driver in a small Ontario town, I have way more time to experience and reflect upon issues that, to my frequent consternation and unfailing amusement, continue to crop up in the daily course of business. Today was no exception: a red-letter day of the kind that my life all too frequently holds in these days of declining employment.

I received a call to pick up a lady and her son, some 20 minutes further into the country than the burgeoning rural town I call home. As I parked in her driveway, mildly warmed by the redneck charm that growing heaps of discarded appliances and furniture impart, I radioed the dispatcher to give him my twenty, which is cab-gab for whereabouts. I was half an hour early. A hint of recrimination in the dispatcher's voice inclined me to understand that he felt I had more than just flirted with the speed limit in getting there. He was partially right. I had in fact had my way with the recommended speed, but modestly, enough only to color its cheeks, as I steadfastly believe speed limits are simply helpful suggestions tempered by the ability of the driver and the capabilities of the vehicle.

My upcoming passenger poked her head out the door of her home, called out to let me know how early I was, and promised that she'd make an effort to be ready in five minutes. I smiled and waved, and picked up the biography of Ben Hogan I'd been wading through, thankful for a moment for the opportunity to get lost in someone else's world. Before I could lose myself, there was a bustling at the cab's back door, and a pre-school lad landed on the rear seat, while his mother fussed about strapping him into place.

"Locked and loaded?" I offered, in what I thought was good humor, as she poured herself into the front passenger seat. She appeared confused by my question, looking at me quizzically, so I moved ahead to the business at hand.

"Where are you go..."

And that's when she hit me. As the door slammed closed, I was enveloped by her aura, albeit nothing remotely new-agey. It was rather more like a pestilent cloud: a gut-kicking, stomach-turning, gagging stench of body odor that she seemed not the least to notice she was clobbering me with. As my eyes teared, I started again...

"Where would you like to go?" My voice had changed, as the level of available oxygen in the car was diluted by her all-encompassing presence, and it occurred to me as at once profound and funny, in my desperation to breathe, that this woman's odor was so powerful it flirted with the boundaries of time, by both preceding her arrival, and remaining long after she'd passed by.

She smiled, and gave me instructions as my olfactory glands red-lined. I headed down the road, cognizant that I had at least 15 minutes to share this confined space, and thankful that I'd partially rolled down her window earlier to let the air circulate on an otherwise pleasant Spring morning. I cranked my window down further, just as she found the handle to roll hers up. This was clearly not going to get any easier. I thrust my hand against my nose, seeking desperately to smell anything else, and found momentary relief. But it was short-lived. I drove faster, determined to get this fare done with as quickly as possible.

My guileless passenger was in a cheerful mood. She tapped my arm to get my attention, and commented on the lovely weather. She tapped again to ask about my job. Did I like it? Had I been doing it long? I refrained from commenting on how some fares seemed eternal, whilst others seemed too short. She tapped me again, and I began to wonder if my ongoing struggle for fresh air made me appear insensate, in need of her constant prodding to get my attention. I was beginning to feel thankful she didn't have a stick when she said something about a skunk. I glanced across, curious to see if she was lifting her tail, when a small voice in the back piped up about the now obvious skunk-odor invading the cab. I breathed it in, relieved at the fresh new scent, and almost laughed at my preference.

As the drive took us into town, I found myself getting used to her. I wondered at my ability to adapt, to become quickly desensitized to unpleasant sensations. Not quickly enough, however. I was seeing the home stretch, and breathing shallowly, hoping to limit my absorption of her, when a train whistle jolted me from my focus on the finish. Sure enough, the gates at the train crossing dropped in our path, and I sat dumbly, disbelief settling in, as the train approached the intersection, then rumbled loudly through. I can't fairly say if it was the longest train I have ever seen, or if I was simply experiencing relativity. But the train just kept rolling by, slowing as it passed through the town, and creaking almost to a stop before mercifully clearing the intersection. The gates remained in place until the train had cleared an unspecified, interminable distance, maybe 20 yards, before rising, and allowing us to proceed. I began to smile as she described in detail exactly where we were headed, and I wondered if my stupid grin was evidence of oxygen deprivation, or simple relief at the impending end to our journey.

We pulled into the school where the young lad was to attend playgroup. The fare was $22, charged to a social program that I wasn't aware existed. Nonetheless I smiled as she opened her door, then reached across to tap my arm one more time.

"See ya at 11:30, Taximan..."