by Kim Cayer
Finally the exit sign appeared for Bay Street. Seeing time slipping away, knowing I still had to get into that freaking costume, I considered my parking options. Should I try to get as close to the job as possible, and search for parking spots there? And negotiate with lousy drivers the next four blocks… OR just park in the underground garage that belonged to the Royal York Hotel? It’s expensive as hell, but it’s almost the first building you see once you get off the highway. I considered my choices as I idled in the line-up of cars trying to exit the freeway.
I’ve logged pretty close to a million kilometres doing singing-telegram jobs. At times I’ve been asked to travel mighty distances, but most of my shows are in the general Toronto area. I can get anywhere faster, more accurately, than any taxi driver with his GPS. I’ve come to know where I can park my car for twenty minutes without fear of being towed or ticketed. Often when I get to a gig where there is nothing but pay parking, I will simply drive down the ramp that says ‘Deliveries Only’. What the hell – I’m making a delivery, so I feel entitled to park there.
But hey, I work a lot in Toronto, which means you run into power trippers or people who don’t understand the concept of a singing-telegram delivery. If I’m not carrying a clipboard or groaning under a heavy box, there’s no admitting the dumb blonde who’s standing there babbling with two balloons. Then I’m forced to enter the carpark. Now, rather than waste expensive minutes cruising through the aisles, looking for a spot, I put into effect my tried-and-true method. Ignore all signs but the ones that point down, down, down. Or up, up, up. You’ll know when you’re in the right place. Barely a car in sight and usually a spot right in front of the brightly lit elevators.
In this particular case, I knew the Royal York Hotel had many points in its favour. It was the closest parking lot in sight, it was heated and it led to an underground maze of shops and pathways. One of those pathways led to the office tower where I had to perform. Since the traffic was still at a standstill, that became my destination.
I tried to put on some of the costume. I quickly pulled my pants off, got one leg of Madonna’s tights on, when traffic started to move. I drove into the carpark with one cold bare leg, did my parking plan and finally stopped the car. A quick glance at the car clock told me there wasn’t a chance of being on time. I desperately just wanted to say “Fuck it,” but there was still a small Ethel Merman inside me, reminding me “The show must go on!”
Throwing dignity to the wind, I grabbed the Madonna garment bag and threw it across the hood of my car. I saw something on the ground and thinking something had fallen out, bent to pick it up and almost tripped myself. It was the other leg of the tights and I realized I’d forgotten to finish putting them on. Well, wall-mounted cameras, since you’ve seen that much, let me entertain you!
I got dressed fast, but there was still guilt. I dispensed with three crosses. No earrings. Didn’t lace the army boots. Those things didn’t bother me so much as the stuff I couldn’t leave out. The conical bra, for instance. Due to my rushed packing, Madonna was buried under and between many other things. No harm done, except to the bra. One boob had a big fold in it, so that it pointed sideways. I could probably fix it, if I had a couple hours. Today, Madonna was going to be a sideshow freak.
And the ponytail, the bane of that costume. If I put it on and did the show two minutes later, and didn’t move too much, then I rocked the Madonna look. However, I’m physical when performing, especially as Madonna, and that ponytail had a mind of its own. The big clip that held the heavy appendage of hair would start to slide down of its own accord. Today, rather than slip to the back of my head, it decided to slide forward, a la unicorn style.
I threw the rest of my stuff in the car, including my coat. I was grateful for the warmth; it was almost cozy hot in the parking garage. Grabbing my chicken-scratched song, I made double sure to lock my car (my whole life was in there!) and hot-footed it to my awaiting audience.
The clock read 4:55 as I hurried into the high-rise offices of Innovative Investments. The walk from my car to the address was a blur. I didn’t even notice if I was being made fun of or gawked at. I race-walked from Point A to Point B. I was out of breath as I tried to put my voice, and personality, into Madonna-mode. “Hey, doll,” I panted. “Sorry, I’m ten minutes late…”
“Actually, it’s more like four hours late,” the receptionist imperiously informed me. “We expected you at one. We close in five minutes.”
I was not in the mood for pleasantries, and besides, isn’t Madge known for being a bit bitchy? “Well, I suggest you get Gary Polson here immediately then.”
Gary was found and showed up in reception at 4:59. By then a crowd had gathered, but mainly they were just hovering by the exit, ready for the 5:00 whistle. I began my show but at five, most of them began to leave. A few more stuck around a couple minutes, hoping I might be a strip-o-gram. When they realized that my clothes would remain on my body, they caught the next elevator heading south. At the end of my act, when I read the line ‘From the whole gang’, there was just me, Gary and the receptionist.
“Are you done?” the receptionist asked, walking around the desk. “Happy Birthday, Gary, but I gotta lockup. It’s past five and I’m going to charge you for overtime.”
Could she make me feel any worse? I just wanted to get back to my car and maybe, after checking my agenda to see if I had any more shows today, schedule another big mope. Couldn’t I catch a break?
Apparently not. I tried to do the quick walk back to my car, but was stopped at the MMMmuffins shop. At MMMmuffins, I knew I would turn right, walk quite a ways to London Cleaners, up a set of stairs and into the carpark. Suddenly though, there were workmen in yellow vests advising one and all to exit up the immediate stairs. Frowning, I ran up the stairs and ran down as quickly when I saw they led directly outside. I approached a fellow who seemed in charge.
“Excuse me, would it be possible for me to just scoot down this hallway?” I asked politely.
“Sure, why not you, and nobody else?” he replied. I didn’t quite know how to take it.
“So…I can go then?” I asked as I tentatively started to lift a yellow caution tape.
He grabbed my arm. “Whaddaya think you’re doing? Nobody goes down this hallway! Can’t you see the water all over the floor?”
“But I don’t have a coat on!” I wailed. He gave me a sneer as he looked me over.
“That’s not my problem,” he dismissed me. “Besides, who goes out in winter just wearing a bra?”
Funny how you wonder if you can catch a break, and then some Comedian Up There decides to toy with you a bit more. So I ascended those stairs, swearing at the repairman, and came out onto some street. I was all turned around. I went one minute in one direction, figured I was going the wrong way, went another way, and then realized I was right the first time. Then I wasted time looking for another entrance into the underground pathway. Finally, seeing the facade of the Royal York Hotel, I just decided to trudge through the snow using the regular streets. Now I really had people looking at me.
The only thing that kept me going was knowing I surely would eventually reach my car. I would not die on the streets of Toronto; somebody would hopefully drag me into the nearest store or restaurant to warm up. I did my best to ignore the cold; the only thing I could do for warmth was take the ponytail off and wrap it around my neck as a scarf.
And of course, because I was not allowed to return to my vehicle the way I remembered, I had to relocate it. I knew I was on the bottom level, but north south east or west? When I finally found my battered blue 2004 Suzuki Swift, I could have kissed its dusty headlights. I was home!!! I opened the door, threw the garment bag, crosses, etc. onto the floor of the parkade, and started my car. Even though the garage was warm, I needed to feel hot air blowing on me for a long time. I looked at the clock. It was little over thirty minutes since I’d left my show, yet it felt like I’d just been through a battle.
Before long, my b
ody was back to 98.6 degrees and I shut the car off. Slowly I took Madonna off and got back into boring Maddy Magee. As I put the costume into its garment bag, I wondered where to pack it. The more I looked at my car, the more I realized how quickly I’d escaped. The way it was packed had no rhyme nor reason! Why not take this golden opportunity, in a fully heated luxurious garage, to repack my car more sensibly? Or I could leave the parkade now and drive back to Mississauga in rush hour during a snowstorm.
An hour later, my car still looked jam-packed, somehow even more so, but there was a method to my madness. Costumes were packed to the ceiling, as well as my own clothes, books, etc. But behind the driver’s seat was a space that was only covered with a sleeping bag and a pillow. That was going to be my sleeping area. There was no way I’d spend another night sitting straight up. I needed to stretch out! Every square inch of that car had a purpose. All the floors had stuff on them, but the passenger seat was left empty. That would be for my purse and whatever project I had going at the time – whether it was getting ready to do a gorilla or eat my lunch or pay my bills.
And speaking of eating, when was the last time I did that? All the re-arranging made me hungry, so I ran into the Royal York and got a $19 hamburger, but at least it came with fries and a soda drink. I don’t know why, but I took it ‘to go’ and went back to my car to eat it. With the last sip of my pop, I felt quite sated, as well as a bit weary. It had been an emotional day. A nap would do me a world of good.
It was time to test-drive this new sleeping arrangement.
I slept the sleep of the dead. All night long, I slept in that box-like space, my hands crossed over my chest. It was like sleeping in a coffin. That wasn’t the usual way I slept; I liked to sleep on my stomach. Maybe I could learn a new position. The 10- or 11-hour sleep, stretched out with the back window at my head and the emergency brake at my feet, was purely restorative.
Chances were great my emotionally spent self could sleep another ten hours, but the call of nature is what woke me up. Though the bed was amazing, getting out of the arrangement was more difficult than I’d anticipated. My front seat was pushed up as close to the steering wheel as possible. Boxes and suitcases and costume bags surrounded all the doors.
Inch by inch, getting my morning exercise, I finally managed to flip the car door lock open. Laying with my head almost in the ashtray, I stretched my arm under the front seat. I managed to find the lever to slide the front seat back. As I tried to get out of the position, I realized my arm was stuck. Somehow my watch had slid onto the lever and I couldn’t slide it off.
I don’t want to be found like this, I thought, wrenching my arm, trying to figure out why it wouldn’t slide off when it obviously slid on. Stopping to catch my breath, I considered that idea. There must be something else at play. This time, I managed to get my other arm under the seat. I felt along the lever and damn if there wasn’t a gizmo attaching the lever to the floor.
My hand felt for the other hand, and crept up to the watch. I could feel some kind of spring attached to it and without further ado, I undid the strap of my watch. My enslaved wrist fell to the dusty floor. The other hand went to gently pull it out. With a final effort, I pulled myself into the driver’s seat.
Okay, now I really gotta go, I thought. My mind raced to the Royal York Hotel just an elevator ride away… Would the food court be open? My eyes glanced at my wrist, but nothing was there but indentations of a watch worn all night. I could leave the parking lot and find a McDonald’s or something but as I squirmed, I knew I wouldn’t make it.
Maybe I can use the washroom in the lobby of the Royal York, I decided. As I searched for my toothbrush and paste and make-up remover (may as well, while I was there), I started jumping in my seat. There was no way I could wait for an elevator, take its five floors, walk past all the shops, through the wondrous chandelier-lit main foyer of the hotel and locate the washroom.
I threw my toiletries onto the passenger seat as I scrambled for the door handle. I opened it and then, quickly peeling my pants down, I took a step outside and went into a squat. I kept myself as hidden as possible behind the open front door.
Aahhh, relief! As I created a big puddle that turned into a river, following some slight incline, I kept my ears and eyes alert. I happened to look skywards when I heard the rumble of a big truck. Uh oh, somebody might be coming, get ready to cut it short…
And that’s when I saw a security camera. Not just that one, but a few mounted here and there in the garage. Fast as a whip, that piss was terminated and without the benefit of a wipe, the pants were quickly hiked back up. I prayed some eagle-eyed guard hadn’t been monitoring his camera and caught me in the act.
Now I just wanted to get out of there, and fast. Starting up the car, I squealed out of my spot and finally managed to find the exit. I was exultant that during my brief stay at the Royal York Hotel (parking garage), I’d managed to keep track of my parking stub. I also made sure I didn’t spend the remaining forty bucks in my wallet, though how much could overnight parking be?
“That will be $48,” the parking attendant told me. I did a double-take.
“I’m not renting a room here,” I said sarcastically. “I just parked overnight.”
The guy just pointed to the rate sheet. I tried to add it up… I could see I was getting a deal on overnight parking, but from the time I’d arrived (about 4:30) to the start of cheaper hours, I was paying prime rate. That was $6.50 per 20 minutes!
A big cargo van had pulled up behind me and was waiting. I jumped when it gave a short honk. “Look,” I told the attendant. “I had no idea it would cost that much. I only have forty on me.”
“You can use your credit card,” he told me.
“I’d rather not,” I said. I was trying to steer clear of going into further debt. “I’m sure I can find the money on me.” I pulled my purse off the passenger floor to start digging through it.
“Please pull your car into that spot,” he pointed. “We can’t have you holding up the line.”
The cargo van wasn’t very pleased about having to back up, but he had no choice if he wanted to get out. I pulled my Swift into the spot and started looking for eight dollars. At first I was making progress…two toonies in the bottom of my purse, three loonies in my change purse, 50 cents in the slot on my car door.
“I almost have it all, I’m up to $47.50!” I called out to the attendant. “Will that do?”
“There are bank machines in the lobby of the hotel,” was his answer.
Three pennies under the floormat, a few more cents under the seat. A good hour had passed; I prayed he wouldn’t charge me for this extra time. Finally, feeling it was dumb but looking in the leather folds of the emergency brake’s housing, I found the last nickel I was looking for.
The attendant was given the money. He didn’t congratulate me; he simply raised the gate to let me out. By this time the urge to urinate had returned since the first attempt had been cut short. No problem, I’d get out of there, get on the road and find myself a coffee shop.
Emerging from the dark garage into the brilliant sunshine, I immediately realized I was in Toronto rush hour, supposedly the worst in the world. In the middle of the night, from the Royal York Hotel, I could reach the highway in one minute. In rush hour, especially in the morning, this turned into thirty minutes. I knew from years of working downtown jobs that there were no places in the vicinity where I could pull up my car, run in and use their facilities.
My damp front seat can tell you the rest of the story.
Chapter Five
For two nights, I slept in that crypt. I was still in the Suzuki but when I went to bed at night, boxes piled high on either side of me, snuggled under my sleeping bag, I was in a blissful metal cocoon.
Though the night I spent in the heated Royal York Hotel parked couldn’t be matched, I still found myself quite relaxed. On the plus side, I found it fairly simple to sit up, lean forward, turn on the key and start the engine to blast some he
at. I had also found a way, by slowly twisting my body, to sleep on my stomach, although the seatbelt connector bruised my ankle. On the negative side, I still couldn’t get out of the car before the urge to pee overtook me. To get out of any door of my car, I had to move all sorts of articles and body-rock my way around the rest.
This morning, I wasn’t too worried. I had parked in the same place the past two nights, and the locale pleased me. I was within a stone’s throw of the big water tower in north Mississauga. In the corner lot of a vast industrial site, in the farthest spot that was half-hidden by trees, I parked my car mere steps from a railroad track. The occasional hypnotic sound of the odd train passing by only served to soothe me.
The sun sets early in February still. Two days ago, I was in my old ‘hood, as I was to meet up with Shannon between school classes the next day. I had just picked up a bag of Wendy’s junk food and was looking for a place to park and eat. I had been in the line-up, ready to take my tray and sit down, when I remembered this was one of Ben’s favourite fast-food outlets. Panicked he may see me, or my car, I ordered the counter-girl to make it to go…fast! Faster!
Driving down a nearby street, I allowed three big tractor-trailers to make their way out of a driveway. I glanced to my right, saw the big water tower and quickly made a right-hand turn into that same lot. I drove as close to the behemoth structure as I could, and ate my fries and half my chicken nuggets in its shadow. A train rumbling by caused me to take note of the tracks.
After my late lunch, I decided to take a walk and check out this part of Meadowvale (a suburb of Mississauga) that I had never seen before. I found myself at a barbed-wire fence that had been completely trampled down for quite a distance. It served no use in keeping me off the tracks. I walked over the wire, down a small incline and stepped onto the rails.