No Fire Escape in Hell

by Kim Cayer

  Tonight I was willing to shake off my misgivings. To satisfy my conscience, I drove to the back of a Walmart store. There was just enough room between two large garbage bins, almost the exact height of my car, for me to drive into. I squeezed in and willed my car to become one with the garbage cans.

  I had my usual secretive pee between my open driver’s door and open rear door. How I hated to do that – take a furtive pee while keeping an eye out for any vehicles or worse, people silently walking by. Yet, it had to be done, over and over and over and…

  Back in the driver’s seat, I reclined as best as I could. Something in back was blocking the chair but I was too lazy to fix it. Tomorrow I would clean out my car and reorganize everything. Maybe even get an oil change.

  As I nestled into my pillow, another whiff of chlorine enveloped me, bringing a wistful smile to my face. I fell asleep, only to dream of the Windsor Hotel’s bathtub.

  A soft tapping at my window startled me. Though I didn’t rise, my eyes flew open. “It’s only the seagulls,” I said. Earlier I’d seen a couple flocks of the birds in the lot by the fast-food outlets. They were eating any leftovers found on the road. “Nothing to be afraid of…” My head left my lovely smelling (now like chlorine!) pillow and I slowly sat up and looked out my windshield. Over the mound of leftover food on my dash, I saw nothing but the hood of my car.

  I swivelled my head to the left and saw a policeman looking down at me. I unrolled my window. With one hand, I moved my hair out of my eyes and again, aahhhh, a whiff of chlorine. You know how they say smells can trigger memories? That malingering odour of chlorine only brought back comforting thoughts of the Windsor Hotel. “Yes, sir?” I asked.

  A flashlight shone in my face and I instinctively shielded my eyes. When I looked again, a second officer had joined the first guy. Officer B was female, barely. Taller, broader, heavier than her counterpart, she shone her own flashlight over the stuff in my back seat.

  “Did you want me to move?” I asked.

  “Well, you can’t park here,” Officer A said. I could hear Officer B at the rear of my car, speaking into a radio. My license-plate number was mentioned.

  “OK, I can leave,” I acquiesced. I looked into my rearview mirror. “You’ll just have to move your police car.”

  “In due time,” he said as his light played over my blanket and pillow. Once again the beam was aimed into my eyes. I averted the light for a brief moment and then realized he may be checking to see if I was impaired. I looked back into the light, blinking hard. “Would you step out of the car, please?” the officer ordered.

  I unlocked the door and opened it. There was very little room so the officer stepped back so I could exit. Once the door opens, the interior light comes on. Clearly illuminated was the puddle of pee I was about to step into. Giving the policeman an apologetic look (words need not be said; we both knew where he’d just been standing), I stretched my leg over the parking-lot stain and got out of my car.

  The lady officer was now on the other side of my vehicle, still talking on her radio. “Light blue, Suzuki Swift,” I heard. “So it’s all a match then. Thanks. Say hi to Doris for me.” She walked to the police car, threw the radio on the seat and turned back to us. “Car checks out clean,” she reported.

  Both turned to me. I leaned against the car, giving Suzi a pat. We’re going to get through this, gal. The guy began to interrogate me. “Let’s start with your name,” he said.

  “Madeline Magee,” I replied. The officer looked at his partner and she nodded. Yup, that was the owner of the car on record.

  “Your address?” he continued.

  Remembering the Windsor Hotel check-in, the last time I had to state my address, I smirked and said, “2004 Suzuki Swift.”

  Neither cop cracked a smile. They were all business. I wiped the smirk off my face and looked at them levelly. I wasn’t going to lie; Mississauga was monitored by the Peel Police Department and they had a rep as being the best in the country.

  “Okay, obviously that’s my car,” I said. “My real address is on Montevideo Road, but…I don’t live there right now. Hopefully I will be there again but for now…” and I looked them straight on, “I’m living in my car.”

  The feeling that washed over me was cleansing. Go ahead and book me, but the truth was on the table. I wasn’t on the street, but I didn’t live anywhere anymore. My car was my rolling address.

  The woman played her light over the mess on the dashboard. “Looks like she’s been going through the garbage, looking for food,” she said. I wanted to deny it, give myself a little dignity, but she took me by surprise when she shone the light back on me. “You okay, honey?” she asked, not sounding as brutish as she appeared. I just nodded. “You need a couple bucks for food?”

  “No…no, I’m okay,” I stammered. “This is just a temporary situation.”

  The male officer walked back to the passenger door. “You take care of this, Frida,” he suggested. “Be quick, it’s quiet, we can take our coffee break.” He got into the squad car and waited for his driver.

  Frida looked into my car. “You been sleeping in here long?” she asked softly.

  “Few months,” I admitted.

  “I can give you some addresses, if you like,” Frida said, taking out her pad and a pen. “There’s a place on Matheson…doesn’t look like a shelter so it’s kind of hard to find but….”

  “That’s okay, Officer,” I stopped her. “I’ve…uh…already checked out all those places. To be honest, this is the way I want to do it.”

  “You sure now?” I nodded. Officer Frida shrugged. “Well, we’re done here then.” She snapped off her light and headed back to the police car. She began to lower herself into the driver’s seat but then stepped out again. “Look, if you want, you can spend the rest of the night here,” she offered. A wry grin spread across her face. “It’s a pretty good spot. We almost didn’t see you there.”

  “I’ll do that,” I replied. “Thanks…for everything.”

  She got back into the car and they drove off. Giving me a goodbye wave, I sketched one back at her and made sure they were totally gone before I took another leak. I got back into my own driver’s seat and got ready for bed again. My confession to the cops had lifted a burden off my shoulders. The emotional weight of this secret had left me a mental wreck, but I no longer felt like I was the scum of the earth.

  So I lived in my car. Big deal.

  Chapter Ten

  After months of living in my car, I came to the realization I had a love/hate relationship going on with two different establishments – Tim Horton’s and McDonald’s. I loved them because whenever I had to use the washroom, whether to pee or brush my teeth or wash my body, there was no second glance if I left without buying something. And they were open 24/7, and there was a McDonald’s or Tim Horton’s every 40 feet, it seemed.

  The hate part came in because I was so sick and tired of their food. I’d completely gone throughout the menu, tried every muffin, donut and sandwich going, and just felt annoyed when I found myself hungry at three a.m. I’d pull up to the drive-thru and just stare at the order board, while “Can I take your order?” would be repeated a time or three.

  And then I had a total love and a total hate for something else. The love? My Clorox Wipes. One day, I walked into a Canadian Tire store, looking for Windex to wash my inside windows. I saw Clorox Wipes on sale and bought a large package. The whole inside of my car needed a clean and those things were just amazing. I used maybe 35 of them, but my entire car was scrubbed until it looked new. That night, trying to sleep was difficult as I was nauseous from leftover fumes but since then, I used at least one Clorox Wipe a day.

  The total hate probably overwhelmed all else. It affected something very important to me, and that was what little sleep I could get, between worrying about being busted or towed away. And that thing was my seatbelt. Actually, just the hard plastic part where you plug the strap into. It did not lie flat in any way. No mat
ter how many layers of padding I put on top of it, I could always feel it in my sleep. I’d be comfortable, sleeping flat out, and then I’d try to turn onto my side, and that seatbelt connector would press itself hard into my ribs or my knee. I absolutely loathed that thing with every ounce of spit I could muster.

  Even though I was on a roll professionally, I felt at an all-time emotional low. Lately I had to keep rationalizing to myself the reason why I was living in my car. Why couldn’t I spend $100 to get a hotel room, just for one night? To sleep one solid eight-hour shift without swearing at that seatbelt contraption?

  The better part of me explained the reasons why – it would be a waste of money, it would set me back, it wasn’t part of the game plan. As it was, I was clipping two-for-one coupons out of newspapers. That sure was fun – trying to quietly rip out the coupons as I sat in the library, hoping nobody was watching or listening. Or wanted to read that particular page.

  To be fair to Suzi, the $100 I’d blow on a room could probably be better spent on my current accommodations. My car needed an oil change badly and I got honked at hard three times that day while making a left turn, leading me to believe I had a wonky turning signal. The windshield had a small crack in it which was recent, and I prayed it wouldn’t get any bigger. ‘SEEK’ was still painted on the side, though hidden under dirt. Most of all, she needed a car wash. Maybe I could splurge on that for her.

  May and June were great for business. Tons of weddings, anniversaries, graduations… My schedule was packed, my top hat and tails at the ready. Though I was getting older, my reputation was still gold, and I got the lion’s share of the singing-telegram work. Maybe the French maids were slowing down, but if they wanted comedy and a dynamite show, I was your performer. If you want a so-so act from a beautiful young thing, I was never that girl.

  So even though I was doing well, I wasn’t doing well. My joie de vivre was MIA. Today was Monday. I’d just come off a splendid round of shows and I knew my agents would be in for a few happy emails about my performances. If only the customer saw what went on between shows.

  I was booked solid all weekend, and no two shows were the same character. Friday night I started as a clown at a high-school prom. Worried that the poor kid (whose grandparents had sent it) would be embarrassed, I went in big and paid more attention to his classmates than I did to him. I was a hit, allowing them to lift me high in the air for a group photo.

  After that I had to rush to do a gorilla-gram. I didn’t bother removing the clown make-up; who would be able to tell? And of course, having made it to the gig with a minute to spare, they kept me waiting. Apparently the guest of honour had yet to arrive at his party. Thirty minutes later, I was just about to leave my car again and tell the customer sorry, I had to go to another show (knowing I’d still get paid 50% from the agent who’d booked this one), when I saw a car take a wide swing onto the street. Twenty cars lined the street and the little red SmartCar almost sideswiped the entire row on the driver’s side. I hid low in my seat as he turned into his empty driveway and parked at an odd angle.

  A man slowly emerged from the tiny vehicle. He quietly shut the door and then tended to his appearance, running his hands through his hair, pulling up his pants. He took a couple wobbly steps forward and then stopped. Once more he fixed himself; again with the hair, this time tucking his shirt into his pants, though he completely missed in the back. He walked on, carefully considering his steps as he approached the front door.

  The bannister lining the steps came in quite useful as he pulled himself up. Ever so slowly, he turned the doorknob, trying to make a silent entry. I would give them five minutes and then make my appearance. I knew he’d still be greeting his guests but they had kept me waiting…the client would understand.

  Even from outside, I could hear three distinct sounds come next. First, the expected loud “Surprise!!!” Secondly came an astonished collective gasp. Third was just a melange of groans and shrieks. I couldn’t wait to see what all this amounted to when I appeared at the party.

  Throwing my mask back on as soon as I left my car, so nobody would see the gorilla was really a clown, I monkey-walked over to the front door, which had been left wide open. With my limited vision, I could see women bustling about. I went straight into my routine as I walked in, only to be stopped in my tracks.

  “Don’t come in!” a lady, wearing all white with a strange spotty design, yelled at me. I had already made my entrance but immediately froze. “Oh, well, now you’ve done it, you’re standing right in it.” I had no idea what she meant, couldn’t see a thing, but to appease her, I moved a couple steps over to a door that was shut. Maybe they could hide me in there?

  “Oh, God! You’re only making it worse! You’re in more of it now,” the lady griped. “Can’t you see where you’re going?”

  “Not really,” I said. “Where’s the birthday boy?”

  “The asshole’s in the washroom,” the lady answered. “Spence!” she said, not very lovingly. “Get out here!”

  Spencer came out of the washroom and even through the mask, I could see sheepishness when I saw it. And then – one of the job perks; their shock when they see the gorilla. He took a wide step away from the door and positioned himself across from me. A teenager showed up with a mop and pail but was told to wait five minutes.

  I took that as my cue and gave a short-but-to-the-point telegram. Funny, in the information I was given to write the song, nothing was mentioned about his love of drink. It seemed the wife knew best when, after five minutes, it appeared old Spence needed to get back into the washroom.

  Once I got back into my car and into my seat, I pulled off the gorilla mask. As I reached for the passenger seat floor, in search of wipes to take off my smeared clown make-up, it didn’t take long for the most wretched smell to greet me.

  “What the fuck?” I said aloud as I scrambled to open my car door again. Now I didn’t give a shit what anybody saw; I just wanted fresh air. I looked down at my gorilla feet and they looked fine. So did my costume. I undressed right out in the open and I could still smell the distinct odour of vomit. Once the suit was off, I looked at the feet again. Sure enough, the bottoms were covered in Spencer’s last meal.

  I had time to kill before my next show, downtown in a nightclub. I quickly drove to a gas station with the gorilla feet wrapped in a Longo’s food bag (best day-old sushi I’ve ever had). With my head low and my shoulders hunched, I made a bee-line for the washroom, only to discover I needed to get a key from the clerk first.

  Once back in the washroom, I immediately took off the clown make-up. When I did my show, freshly made up, I was as cute as a clown doll. Now I was a contender for the sequel to the Stephen King move IT. One scary clown dude. Then I went back to work on the putrid gorilla feet. I would have preferred to have just thrown them out but these were one of a kind. I went back to Walmart once to get a spare pair; they never restocked them after that one time.

  I did the best I could but I knew they needed a laundromat. Thankfully I didn’t have any immediate gorilla shows coming up. I attempted to dry the slippers but at this point I’d been in the PetroCanada can for almost thirty minutes; somebody was banging on the door.

  “Sorry, didn’t hear you over the dryer,” I apologized as I exited. A woman with a crying baby and a crotch-holding three-year-old were waiting. “Here’s the key.”

  I drove right across the street, to an Esso gas station. Most of them carry Tim Horton outlets, some more higher-end than the others. I was delighted to see this was one of them. I ordered a coffee from their little shop within a gas station and sat down at one of their three tiny tables to eat my meal. Something different, still on the cheap, but I’d never had a sun-dried-tomato bagel before. Now I have, and probably won’t again in the future. A medium coffee as well. Lately I’ve been trying to downsize, as I’ve grown tired of drinking cold coffee. In the past, I’d nuke my coffee a couple times in the morning to heat it up again. With the lack of a microwave oven, c
hanges had to be made.

  I decided to do my make-up in the Esso station. That was a luxury I rarely granted myself, but if there was one thing about my Suzuki I could bitch about, it was the lack of interior light it emitted. I just needed more when it came to getting ready to do a professional show-biz job. Not just emerge from my car with overly red cheeks and unmatching eyebrows. In five minutes in the Esso establishment’s ladies’ room, I transformed into an attractive nurse.

  Jobs downtown are a curse, have I mentioned that? And if Friday-night rush hour is bad, there is still nothing worse than a weekend night in the Entertainment District. People walk in the streets, they cross against traffic lights, fights break out of nowhere. Parking is non-existent and tow trucks circle the cash cow like vultures.

  After cruising the area, I could see no street parking available. The four parking lots in the immediate vicinity all had LOTS FULL signs posted. I briefly tried to make Suzi fit into a spot and even though there was only an inch from my back bumper to the other car’s, the front end of my vehicle still extended beyond the ‘Don’t Park Past This Sign’ warning. I almost decided to give it another try when the beaming smile of a passing tow-truck driver made me reconsider.

  Even though I’d gotten to my show location early, the usual parking crisis was about to make me late. I decided it was time to put my usually foolproof plan into action. I drove to the commercial building where the Canoe Nightclub was located. Instead of trying to get into their full lot, I turned into the aisle marked ‘Delivery Vehicles Only’. Was I making a delivery? I definitely was, though my delivery tended to take a little longer than FedEx.

  Tonight worked even better than usual. Arriving to an empty dock, I parked my car as if I’d done this a thousand times. A security guard appeared and I explained why I was there. The guy was young; I was older and wiser and seemed to know what I was doing. I said I’d be “about ten minutes” and if he could point me in the right direction?