No Fire Escape in Hell

by Kim Cayer

  “Excuse me,” I said as I bent to retrieve them. The tiny woman kindly helped me. As I stood up, I caught a whiff of a bad odour. Was it the man’s parmesan pretzel?

  Walking away, heading back to my car, the nasty smell stayed with me. I did one of those cliche moves, pretending to stretch but then sniffing my underarms. Yikes! I reeked of BO. I couldn’t have an agent see me like this. Next time somebody wanted to book a beautiful French maid, Dawson would probably think of me and say, “Beautiful? Hell no, not the last time I saw her!”

  I headed off to the Erin Mills Town Centre washroom to take a sponge bath.

  Thursday was supposed to be better…I was to come into money. The night before, I decided to drive into Etobicoke to avoid the morning rush hour. As one a.m. rolled along and I still couldn’t sleep, I thought it an even better idea to drive right to Dawson’s house. I was sure he was asleep; he’d never know I was parked on his street.

  What I wasn’t prepared for was that there was no parking allowed on his street. Since there was space in the driveway next to Dawson’s Land Rover, I pulled up alongside it and bedded down for the night. For sure I’d be on time for this 8:30 meeting.

  At seven a.m., I was rousted by a shrieking teenage boy carrying a large guitar case. “Dad! Dad!” he was screaming. “Somebody’s sleeping in our driveway! Call the cops”

  I tried to wake up quickly and dampen the situation. I rolled down my window. “Hey, buddy! Calm down! I’m just here to see…”

  “Dad! Quick, before she tries to get away!” the boy ran back to his front door. I realized I’d be seeing Dawson sooner than I’d planned, so I quickly grabbed my make-up bag. I barely had lipstick on when Dawson came to the front door.

  “Where is this person?” I heard Dawson ask his son, and realized he couldn’t see my car very well beside his Land Rover. I didn’t want him to see the mess in my house, ha ha, so I jumped out of the car and up to the front walk.

  “Dad, that’s her!” Dawson’s dramatic son pointed at me. “Probably a crazy lady! Let’s get in the house!” At this point, a lady in a business suit and runner, walking two poodles, hurried past us. Neighbours on one side took their time getting into their Saab, curious as to how this would play out.

  “Maggie?” Dawson questioned. “You’re awfully early!”

  “Well, I wanted to beat rush hour, got here too soon, and thought I’d just grab a nap in your driveway until 8:30 came around.” I basically didn’t lie. I wanted to add that his son was a crybaby and deserved a kick in the pants. However, Dawson owed me over three grand and no way was I going to kibosh that cheque’s delivery.

  He had all the information at his disposal as we sat ensconced in his home office. Computers, filing cabinets, a calendar on the wall. I had my measly Blackberry. Yet Dawson would inquire as to the veracity of certain larger-paying shows and I’d have to search and scroll my messages until I’d find the corresponding booking. Then Dawson would miraculously find his own record of the gig. When 8:30 rolled around, we were ending our meeting. I was happy to leave with my $3,400; Dawson looked like he was going to have to cut his Vegas vacation short.

  Where to go now? I had a couple gigs the next day, a Friday, the first in Mississauga and the second in downtown Toronto. A vision of a CIBC bank branch floated into my mind; it was back in Mississauga, at the Erin Mills Town Centre. That was my reasoning for driving back to the mall.

  After depositing my cheque into my new account, my mind wandered to the lower-level seating arrangement, the couch and chairs. My ‘home away from home’, I laughed to myself. Well, I’d rather be comfortably sitting there than in my cramped car. I grabbed a pen and some paper to write tomorrow’s songs, locked the car and headed for my sanctuary.

  The chairs were full; so was my couch. Undeterred, I made a mother, cooing away to her nursing baby, slide over. Setting my Orange Julius hot dog and juice down, I went to work composing tunes for 50-year-old John and bride-to-be Deidre.

  An hour later, two perfectly written ditties. A few weeks ago, they would have been even more impressive, typed with a cool font on crisp themed stationery. These days, I practiced my best printing skills as I handwrote the songs on stock white paper. Writing them left me in a state of fatigue. I looked at the math-studying Asian student to my right and then glanced at the chow mein-eating Indian to my left. The three chairs were occupied; one had a senior citizen fast asleep, another held a couple in the mating stage and their friend sat in the third chair. He was leaning forward, describing a hockey game to his uncaring pals. They acted like he wasn’t there but the hockey player didn’t seem to notice as he pulled his chair closer to the lovebirds.

  The mall was busy as well. I was thinking I needed a coffee to perk me up, but would an empty seat be awaiting me on my return? Would I be reduced to sitting in a hard chair in the food court? A litany softly drummed through my head…should I stay or should I go? Should I stay or should I go? Should…

  It was like counting sheep. I could feel myself drifting off and just went with the flow.

  A couple hours later, I woke up to a voice saying, “Some people!” I wondered if she could mean me, though I didn’t know why. As I fluttered my eyelids open, I became aware that I was no longer vertical. I was now totally horizontal; comfortably stretched out, taking up all the room as I slept on the couch.

  In embarrassment, I quickly sat up. In less than ten seconds, both seats next to me became occupied. You must have looked like a bum, I thought. I wanted to move but felt disoriented from my deep sleep. Now I really needed a coffee and went back to that fancy coffee place.

  I decided to return to my comfort zone, drink my coffee and then work out the rest of my busy weekend schedule. I was able to reclaim my seat on the couch, empty possibly because of the man who now occupied the corner seat. He had a shopping cart that didn’t come from any of Erin Mill’s stores. In it were empty pop cans. The man wore shapeless clothes and scuffed shoes. He was drinking a can of Pepsi but I could detect a strong odour of alcohol on him.

  I took a sip of my coffee and frowned. Something tasted distasteful and I sensed I had been served the bottom of a long-brewing urn of coffee. It almost tasted burnt. Thing is, it cost me three dollars so I was going to have to drink it anyway.

  I watched two security guards making their way through the mall. One was the guard from a couple days ago; I hoped he wouldn’t recognize me as I tried to turtle my head into my shirt. They almost marched in unison towards my haven. I stole a look at the vagrant next to me and thought, “Uh oh, it’s him they’re after!”

  “You might want to beat it,” I whispered to the guy, giving him the red alert. He looked at the approaching mall cops and on his third try, managed to stand up. He was old and weary and not making a very quick getaway. I sat back to watch the drama unfold.

  The guards didn’t even spare the man a glance. They strode right in front of me, managing to squeeze in between the couch and the coffee table. “Hey, watch my coffee,” I said as I tried to reach around them to grab it.

  “Will you come with us, ma’am?” they asked politely.

  I looked behind me, sure they were talking to somebody else. What possible reason would I have to go with them? Shoplifting? All I had on me were car keys, a pen and the change from a ten-dollar bill. Oh yeah, and a couple songs.

  “Me?” I asked. “Whatever for?”

  Seems I was being charged with loitering. Trying not to cause attention to myself, I explained I’d just got there, with a hot, not-so-fresh coffee to prove it. But one of the smarty-pants guards pulled out his iPhone and showed me a couple photos he’d snapped. He missed my snooze on one day, but had pix of the first nap and the last. Today’s stupor showed me with an arm hanging off the couch, mouth open, people staring.

  I’d never been in trouble with the law. Suddenly I had committed a crime, and it sounded so lurid, so lower-class. I’d have felt the same way if I’d been wrongly accused of being a prostitute. That’s how I felt;
falsely accused. Maybe I’d look up the definition of loitering later, but I vowed to fight that charge.

  So much for killing the day at the mall. I went back to my beloved seat in the Suzuki. At least I could recline it.

  Friday morning, I was up with the newspaper delivery boys. I drove over to a McDonald’s in the same plaza that I’d slept in and went inside to take care of business. I grabbed a coffee and a Sausage McMuffin. I probably ate four of those sandwiches a week, and they were really hit and miss. Somedays the sausage was hot and greasy, yum yum, the bun nicely toasted, the cheese still visible. Other days the bun was too soft and chewy, or the cold cheese was added at the last second or else microwaved into an orangey glaze or the sausage was dry as a hockey puck. Today they managed to prepare a sorry sandwich that encompassed all the bad points available. I ate about a third.

  The good thing about living in my car was that I rarely had anywhere to be, or anything to do. No housework, no trips to the grocery store, no more visiting my friends. Just the pursuit of work. Thus, I was able to arrive super early at most of my shows. Hell, I’d often arrive two days early.

  I’ve been to many places in my long career, logged many miles on my vehicles. I always claimed I could just as easily become a cab driver. Today was a different story. I found myself in a part of Mississauga that seemed like it was erected just yesterday. The building where I was going, a pharmaceutical company, was gigantic. The parking lot, rather, lots, had acres and acres of cars parked at eight a.m. in the mooring.

  My show, a ‘tacky bride’, didn’t start until ten a.m., likely their coffee break. That’s how my shows usually booked when I went into an office – first coffee break, just before lunch, last coffee break, just before work lets out. I didn’t want to park in the visitors lot just yet; getting ready in front of the building’s windows could give away the shock value for when I arrived. I drove around, looking for a place to park, but it seemed like I just kept getting too far away.

  Turning back towards the building, circling it, I came across a dumpster full of garbage. Next to it was a small open space. I don’t know if it was an actual parking space but I knew I could make my little baby fit. Sometimes my 2004 Suzuki Swift amazed me. It would hold so much stuff, I swear it thought it was a cargo van. And at other times, when space was tight, my ride imagined itself to be a tiny circus clown car.

  The tacky-bride costume was one that I’d debated leaving behind. It seemed I wouldn’t get a show for six months and next thing you know, I was doing three in a week. This was the first one I’d gotten since I’d left my house. It was packed at the very bottom of all my possessions, and it took me some time to get to it.

  I had taken out boxes and bags in order to get to the costume and just put it back willy-nilly for now. After this show, my next gig wasn’t until 4:30 p.m., so I would have plenty of time to rearrange my car before that.

  The yellowed wedding dress was totally wrinkled, the bouquet of flowers were bent and the 70s permed wig a disaster. This was all good when it came to the tacky bride. I enjoyed this costume; it usually got such belly laughs. The coffee-stained dress was beyond ugly and when I walked in, I liked to have the back of it all bunched up in my bloomers (as if I’d just taken a leak prior and my dress got stuck in my panties). My knee-high beige hose were visible and the garter rested around my ankle. My make-up and hair were overdone, my white gloves with the ripped seams were too tight, my plastic flowers still carried the Goodwill price-tag…so many components to get a laugh. My dress’s zipper had broken, wouldn’t do up past the waist, so I wore a zebra-print bra under it. A veil, attached to a large comb, fit over my head like a bubble.

  I got into my get-up and then started the car to go find a visitors’ parking space. As I cruised the lot, remembering to smear my teeth with lipstick, I saw that every space was full. That included the handicapped parking…not that I’d use it.

  Twice more I circled the lot. Time was ticking, my show had to start in under ten minutes. “Screw this,” I thought. “I was better off parked where I was.” With that, I returned to my tight spot beside the jumbo garage cans. I could see I was on some yellow-painted diagonal lines but I’d only be here, hopefully, fifteen minutes or so.

  Gathering my balloons, fake rose and song, I locked up my car. It was a chilly wind as I ran around the large building, looking for the entrance. My wedding dress billowed around me, my veil threatening to fly away. As I watched a couple also walking towards the building from the direction of the Excess Parking Lot about a half-mile away, I slowed down. Surely they knew where the entrance was.

  The lady’s scarf flew off and the two went running after it. I felt only a twinge of pity for her; more so I felt Come on, come on, forget the scarf, get to the building already. However, the guy, with a dramatic flair, managed to plant his big shoe on it. He stayed frozen, holding the scarf in place, until the woman retrieved it. They again began walking to the building and I resumed my steps, hoping to time our ‘accidental’ meeting at the entrance together.

  Finally the conservative, unembellished entrance to this medical building appeared! No longer needing the couple’s help, I surged ahead of them. The wind gave one more blast and my hands flew to cover the front of my dress. I didn’t mind my back end being purposely exposed but not my front.

  Somehow my balloons escaped. I tried to dash after them, the couple also trying. We spent maybe a minute doing this but then the lady’s scarf flew off again. Her date, or maybe co-worker but he should be a date because he was going the distance here, once again ran after it. Just as it threatened to take to the skies, the guy jumped two feet in the air and brought it down.

  He looked at his watch as he gave the scarf to the woman. He said something to her in a foreign language, which she was kind enough to relay to me. “We have to go now,” she said in a precise-yet-artificial manner. “We have a meeting. We are so sorry about your balloons.”

  Not a word was mentioned about my get-up, which I thought considerate. And speaking of meetings, I was also supposed to be at one. I entered the building with them and reported to the security desk. The guard was busy on the phones, so I waited impatiently while he dealt with three different issues.

  It was getting late; they probably had a secret room ready for the show, or a cake with candles lit, or fifty gals hiding behind a door somewhere. I wished I’d brought my cellphone with me so I could call the contact, let her know I was in the building. Yet I held my annoyance in check, just discreetly letting the guard know I was in a rush.

  Let me tell you right now, when it came to security guards in office buildings or fancy condos…wherever I found one behind a desk…I had the utmost respect for these people. They have a phone and contact numbers at their fingertips, as well as access keys and codes for elevators. Since I can sometimes get confused with too many details (I’m always just trying to remember the telegram recipient’s name!), they’ve often left their command posts to escort me to a party room or through maze-like corridors. Six times they’ve helped me find my car in their underground parking lots.

  He finally had a moment to spare for me. “Sorry,” he said as he hung up the phone. “It’s really crazy here today. Got a big conference and the plane with the main speakers on it just got in. Guess the wind held them up.”

  “I’m not here for that,” I said. Obviously. I explained my mission and he checked a sheet. He was about to speak when the phone rang. He held up a hand while he answered it.

  “Yeah, the speeches are delayed, but not by much,” he informed someone. I heard him add, “A cab would be easier,” before he turned his attention back to me. “OK, before the phone rings again, here’s what you do. You take the elevator to the third floor, you turn right, you punch in 1234, and the door will open. Got that so far?”

  I nodded. 3rd floor, turn right, 1234. “So far, easy enough,” I said.

  He nodded back. “The rest is easy too. You go through the door, turn right again, take the hallway to t
he end, where you make another right. Go to the end of that hallway and you’ll see an office door. There’s a sign on it, says Monica Schwinn. That’s who you want to see.”

  “Yup, that’s her!” I said, whirling to leave, rushing to the elevator, slapping the ‘up’ button. As the doors opened, I heard the guard call out to me.

  “Ma’am, you might want to fix your dress in the back,” he suggested. I just jumped into the open elevator and jabbed at the ‘3’ button then start poking repeatedly at the ‘Close Door’ button. As soon as I arrived on the third floor, I turned right and there was a locked door in front of me. No problem, I thought, as I keyed in ‘1234’. The door clicked open and I entered.

  Here is where the fun would begin, as people would notice me and trail me to my final destination. From there, the festivities would start, laughs would ensue, the victim would be sufficiently embarrassed and honoured, and I’d leave amid applause and kudos.

  Today, not so much. As I opened the door upon the hallway, I saw an ocean of desks, cubicles, work stations…all filled with busy personnel. Some glanced up as I entered through the door, most just kept their noses buried in a computer screen. I put on a big smile but only one person nodded in response. A couple gave me a quizzical look, a couple looked at me in distaste. Hey, I know I’m not perfect, but I’m supposed to look tacky!

  I approached my final right turn. I started singing out, “I’m looking for Monica! Monica Schwinn!” This would surely entice my longed-for Pied Piper line. Instead, a couple people just pointed me in the direction I was already headed. I finally reached the bride-to-be’s closed door. With one last effort, I loudly called out, “Singing telegram for Monica Schwinn!” A girl, with her chair pulled up to another work-mate’s desk, glanced up but quickly went back to the instructions she was receiving.