by Kim Cayer
“Burt, did you get my answer?” Tom played cute. “At the Peel Metal Shredding Station.”
“What does that mean?” I wailed. Visions of my car being shredded played like a bad movie scene before my eyes.
“What does that mean?” Burt radioed back.
“It means they’re gonna put it in a big container, squish it ‘til it’s the size of a beer cooler, and then who knows? Who cares?”
“I care! It’s my car! I live in it!” I cried out. Burt almost drove into the line of vehicles to his left. He turned to stare at me. The look he gave me was unreadable – was it disgust? Concern? Shock? I nodded. “It’s true. And I need it back! How can I stop this?”
Burt snapped up the radio. “Tom, give me that address, and be quick about it!” Gone was the buddy-buddy talk. He whipped the Maserati into a space as I heard the address given. “Shit, that’s halfway across the city, get me their phone number too,” he ordered. Burt gave me a pad of paper and pencil, as he jumped out to unhook the car.
Tom came on, sounding a bit petulant. “Jeez, you don’t have to sound so bossy.”
I pressed the button attached to the radio. “Tom! Just do it!”
“Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a knot already, Burt,” the other tow truck retorted. He came back with the number, but his comment about the panties oddly made me think about my own set of underwear…what was it about them? I knew I was wearing a pair, but what made them so special today? Oh yeah! I always had to remember to stuff my wedding gown into them, to get that initial big laugh. Then, as the tacky bride, I’d act embarrassed and pull them out.
I reached behind me and felt my butt. Sure enough, the dress was still bunched up in them. Burt had obviously noticed as well, but being the courtly Canadian that he was, decided to keep quiet. I had to give him credit for that. This time, with actual embarrassment, I pulled the dress out of the granny panties.
The door opened and Burt jumped back in. “Didja get the number?” was his first line. I nodded and presented him with the pad of paper. He reached for the glove box and tried to open it but there was too much dress in the way. I gathered as much of it towards myself as I could, and I heard the glove box open and shut as Burt retrieved his cellphone.
“Now this time, really hang on,” he warned me.
The impound-lot gates had barely opened before Burt barrelled through. As he drove, he called the shredding lot. An automated voice came on, giving all sorts of instructions. “If you have paint cans, press 1. If you have a metal ladder, press 2. For wooden ladders, please call the Recycling Line at blahblah or consider visiting their website at blahblahblah. If you have patio furniture, press 3.”
Sheesh! When would junky car come up? Press 226? Burt pressed 0. Through the loudspeaker on his phone, which he’d set on the dashboard, we heard a different voice come on. This one, though she sounded ethnic, was as automated as the first voice. “You’ve reached reception; the operator is currently unavailable. Please hold and somebody will be with you momentarily.”
I groaned as Burt swung onto the highway at a speed much over the posted limit. “Momentarily!” I sputtered, grabbing onto a handle I found above my door. The radio crackled.
“Burt? You on your lunch yet? Got a tow if you want it, Royal Oak Retirement Centre. Right near that souvlaki place you like,” the dispatcher said.
My tow-truck driver picked up the radio and stared into it. In a curt voice, he snapped, “I’m on lunch. Then maybe a bit of personal time. We’ll work it out later.” He shut the radio off and placed it between the seats. With ease, he whipped around an 18-wheeler and then glided around a school bus that had braked.
For a change, I was getting a point of view that came from NOT being a driver, seeing those mad tow trucks racing up behind you, blaring past you, trying to be the first on scene at the accident up ahead. The only difference this time was that it was a sole tow truck being King of the Road.
Burt was silent all the way. I fretted. As the shredding station came into sight, Burt mumbled something. “What was that?” I asked, as we waited for the gate security guard to approach us.
“I said…I said I’m sorry,” he again muttered, more distinctly this time.
“What for? You didn’t tow my car,” I replied.
“I’m sorry that you have to live in your car,” he clarified.
What was the use of explaining? Besides, the guard was almost at the door. “Me too,” I simply said.
Burt got instructions on the fastest way to get to where my car could be found. He didn’t bother with visitors’ parking; he just flat-out drove to the front of the building. I guess he wasn’t too afraid of being towed. He leapt out of the truck and rushed to my side. I was already halfway out, trying to disengage my dress from the stickshift.
Like my knight in shining armour, Burt extended his hand. I took it and stumbled out on my high heels. A gust of wind seemed to find its way right through the back of my open dress and I shivered violently. Burt noticed and before he shut the passenger door, he reached behind the seat and withdrew an oily plaid jacket. “I do apologize, it’s all I’ve got,” he looked forlorn. I let him drape it around my shoulders as he quipped, “But hey, everything goes with white! Now let’s go find your car.”
We raced up to a clerk who was just putting up her ‘Closed’ sign. “The other clerk will be able to help you when she’s through,” we were told.
We glanced at the other clerk, who was in a hot debate with a man holding a large tub of disposable name-tags. Clerk #2 was explaining that he had to separate the plastic from the metal. The irate man claimed she was being discriminating. Burt shook his head. “We don’t have time for this,” he told our clerk, who was already pulling up her purse from its hiding place. “Listen, believe me when I tell you this is urgent. You have a car here. I think it’s about to become impacted. We need to stop it.”
My eyes widened at Burt. An hour ago, he was just a cliché tow truck driver; now he was turning into a superhero. The clerk turned to a computer and brought up a screen with a bunch of numbers. The clerk looked at me, then at Burt. “Would you have the VIN number?” she asked him.
In turn, he looked at me. “I don’t have anything except the keys to my car!” I cried, stepping back, holding out my keys to prove it. “Everything you might need of me, my driver’s license, my proof of ownership, my…my expensive Estee Lauder lipstick! It’s all in my car!”
The clerk twisted her mouth to one side. She said, “Well, when cars are about to get impacted, that’s about the only information we take off of them.”
“I know the license-plate number,” I feebly offered.
“That won’t help, even if it’s still out there,” she said as I cringed. “Let me try something else. I’m going to pull up the site where…” she clicked a few buttons… “I can pull up an aerial view…” as a screen full of cars appeared… “and maybe you can spot your vehicle.” The clerk looked at the screen. “Whoa, busy day for those guys today. Lucky you, we have a hundred or so of these cars to impact.”
“Lucky me?” I almost wanted to slap her.
“Lucky ‘cuz maybe there’s so many, they haven’t had a chance to get to yours…yet,” she corrected me. Our eyes studied the screen, Burt’s head peering over mine.
“How can you tell what car is what?” I said. “They all seem to look alike. You know, my car can look like a Ford Focus, or a Yaris Toyota… Sometimes my car can look like an SUV if it wants…” I stopped my blathering and concentrated on the monitor. Suzi, you impersonator of all cars, where are you?
“I know what a Suzuki Swift looks like,” Burt said. “This is kind of a long shot of the lot,” he told the clerk. “Is there any way you can get a better look at what’s down there?”
“I believe this button…” the clerk did a manoeuvre on her computer “…allows me to zoom…” as a battered old K-Car came into view “…and track as well,” she finished as the shot moved next onto a motorcyc
le, almost bent into a 90-degree angle before it had even met Mr. Shredder. “Does your car have any distinguishing features?” she asked, as the cursor moved onto the next beaten-up mode of transportation – an ice-cream cart with no wheels.
“Yeah, for one thing, it’s not a wreck,” I exclaimed. “Move that cursor faster.” The clerk breezed through all the vehicles, one trashy eyesore after another.
“On the other hand,” she shrugged, “looks like we might have ate it already.”
Her cursor slid past an image that showed a car at its pure length, proudly standing bumper to bumper between a burned-out Cadillac and a muscle car that resembled a squeeze box. “Wait!” I yelled. “That’s it!”
“Wow,” Burt mumbled over my shoulder. “Looks like a Dodge Neon.”
The clerk scrolled just a bit more, showing my car was third in line to become compacted. “Oh my, you may be too late to stop it,” the clerk declared.
“What?! But it’s not even through yet! Stop them! Make a call, do something!” I begged, yelling through the hole in the glass partition.
“I’m going to try, I’m going to call them right now, and their supervisor will radio them up in the compactor,” the clerk said, scurrying to make the call. “But those guys…it’s so loud up there…they never hear the radio…”
SuperBurt sprang into action. “You stay here,” he told me. “I’m gonna run out there, try to get their attention.” With that, he took off out the door.
The clerk I was dealing with made her call to the supervisor, told him it was urgent, and the supervisor immediately radioed the compact guy. And that’s where my hope ended. The guy wasn’t answering. By this time, Clerk #2 became interested and had wandered over. She watched the drama being played out on the computer screen with me. We saw the tiny figure of Burt race to the foot of the compacting machine. He waved his arms, ran in circles, he performed jumping jacks…all as my car inched forward.
Suddenly, all the jolting on the screen seemed to stop as the compactor was shut off. A guy leaned out of the machine. We couldn’t hear what was being said between Burt and him, but the guy reached back into his cabin and pulled out his radio. We could see him speaking into it and then waving at Burt. Burt turned around and we saw him walk away.
In a moment, my tow-truck driver walked back through the door. “Wow, that was close, but we saved your little car.”
I ran up to him and gave him a big hug.
“Oh, is he your groom?” Clerk #2 asked.
“Don’t I wish!” I said. He sure did about 900 percent more than old Ben would have ever done.
Soon the good feelings kind of dissipated. I thought that’d be it; I’d retrieve my car and get out of there. Mosey on to my next show with a few hours to spare to come down from this horrible experience. But no, first they had to remove all the cars that blocked my vehicle. I refused the kind offer of them using the gigantic claw machine to lift it above and over the mess of cars. Instead, the claw was used to clear a path for my car.
The shredding company used their own tow truck to move Suzi to the front of the building. I rushed out and hugged my car as best I could. I was about to unlock it when Clerk #2 came out of the building. “Hang on, you can’t just drive off,” she said. “There’s papers to sign, and then you gotta get it towed to the Peel Region Towing Services lot.”
“You mean…I can’t just go?”
“Sorry, that’s not how it works,” she replied. “I know you’ve been through a rough time, but rules are rules. You still gotta pay for your tow, and the fine, and the storage…all the stuff that comes with being towed.”
“Just go sign the papers,” Burt told me. “I’ll give you a tow back to the lot. We’ll make it quick.”
Burt hoisted up my baby with obvious care. He drove the speed limit back to the impound lot. With a delicate touch, my Suzuki was unloaded, the tires hitting the ground with a soft kiss.
Inside their messy compound sat a bunch of loud, complaining customers. Some were crying, some yelled into cellphones, some sat morosely. All held numbered tickets in their hands. I went to grab one but Burt said, “You don’t need it. Follow me.”
Leading me to a door marked Office Manager, he told me to wait outside. Fifteen minutes later, after I’d used the filthy tow-truck drivers’ private washroom to freshen up, I was still waiting when Burt reappeared.
“OK, I’m going to show you what happened,” he explained, displaying an invoice. “You still have to pay for the towing charge, that’s on Tom’s bill and I can’t do anything about it…but I got them to remove the storage and I’m not charging you for the tow back from the shredders. You may still get a fine for parking illegally, but that will come in the mail.”
“Oh, man, Burt, I don’t know what to say,” I began.
The dispatcher popped his head out of a door. “Burt, there you are! Still got that car waiting to be towed at the retirement home. Can you do it?”
“Yeah, sure, why not?” Burt replied. “I’ll go be the bad guy as usual. Radio me the details. I’ll be in my truck in two minutes.” I was about to continue my thanks when Burt pointed me in the direction of a long line-up of people. “If I were you, I’d join that line. It moves at the rate of about two people an hour.”
Burt gave me a clumsy salute and then an even clumsier hug. Maybe he instinctively didn’t want to get too close to a woman who lived in her car. I again wanted to explain my situation but he turned and hustled off to his job.
By the time I finally reached my car, I knew it was going to be iffy if I would make it to my next gig in time. I had barely made contact with Suzi earlier, having just quickly opened the car door to retrieve my wallet. I still had no time to check if everything was okay with her as I raced downtown.
Doing the usual ‘drive and get ready at the same time’, I transformed myself from leftover tacky bride (oh, where did this plaid jacket come from?) and into a clown. The clown suit still lay where I’d draped it earlier, over the front seat. The orange wig was still on the dashboard. It was almost showtime as I debated where to park. Try one of my tricks to get free parking? Oh God, not today. I couldn’t handle getting towed again. Instead, I drove into the parking lot attached to the stockbrokerage.
The clown act went fine, other than the victim’s co-workers asking why his wife would send a clown. Why not a stripper? Why not a Marilyn Monroe? One of his buddies, a guy I thought I recognized from somewhere, mentioned he’d had a Madonna for his 30th birthday. I left the stockbroker’s office and returned to my car.
Only to find it missing again. I almost became physically sick. I staggered to the garbage can I remembered seeing next to my stall – I saw the red lettering on the wall that said “Small Car Parking Only.” A SmartCar was in residence instead of my Suzuki. Oh, no, no, no! My car is small! That’s why I parked there. Unless it thought it was being a big car again…but that was only my imagination getting the better of me.
I’m going nuts, I figured. But if my car has really been towed again, I think I will go off the deep end. With despair, I looked along the garage and my eyes lit on the columns spraypainted ‘5B’.
Wait a minute…FIVE B??? 5??? No, no, no…even in my haste, when I parked, I saw a column that read ‘4B’. I recalled a fleeting thought, me saying, 4B. For Burt, and blowing it a kiss as I ran for the gig.
On foot, I ran down to the next level and found the column that read 4B. There was my Suzuki Swift, right where I had left it. From afar, I beeped it open, then started running towards it. It was corny and romantic, and if the car had run toward me as well, it would have been clichéd, as well as paranormal.
I reached my car and my hand caressed the door handle. I slowly pulled it open and slid behind the wheel. The seat was in the exact position I’d left it. The mirrors were still set at the perfect angle. And all of my stuff was there, from my fancy lipstick to my dirty laundry.
I was never so glad to be home.
Chapter Seven
What
other country gets a snowstorm in May? Maybe the Antarctic, but by now, Canadians should have been planting their gardens. Trees had already sprouted buds, lakes and rivers had melted and my winter-wear was stuffed in the bottom of my trunk. Yet here we were, first week of May and snowflakes the size of dinner plates were dropping heavily from the sky. Five of those snowflakes landing on my windshield was enough to impair my vision.
I drove to my Bag Lady job in Minden, wondering if that town had even seen a bag lady before. Poor choice, but it wasn’t my call. Thank goodness I’d driven two thirds of the way the night before, finding a truck stop off the 401 highway and bedding down there for the night. It was only another hour to my show, but with the bad weather it took three. I was pleased with myself for allowing plenty of time. I was almost there when the phone call came. Due to the forecasted blizzard, all the employees were being sent home. Even though I whined that I was ten minutes away, according to my GPS, my agent still cancelled the show.
I pulled into the nearest – you guessed it – Tim Horton’s and grabbed some breakfast. I also washed up and brushed my teeth, seeing as how I no longer needed to work the Bag Lady look. The place was packed; the weather the hot topic. I debated my options and looked outside. Though it was snowing hard, I considered myself a good, careful driver. I decided to make some headway back to Toronto. Besides, there wasn’t a seat to be had in the coffee shop.
I rushed to my car, determined to get a headstart on this impending storm. It was now a traffic jam of cars trying to get into the parking lot; I was the sole driver making an exit. I knew it was going to be a long drive so I had my usual XL two-cream, two-sugars coffee as well as a box of Timbits. I’m not a big donut fan but I bought them for a change of pace. I popped a Sour Cream Glazed into my mouth and glanced at the GPS.
In one moment I saw the GPS read 8 kilometres to the highway. That highway would take me to the big highway 401, which would pretty much take me home. In the next instant, the screen changed and simply read ‘Lost Signal’.