by A. Q. Moser
It was still night time and I had abandoned trying to return to sleep. There was no use. In the living room, I did what helped me pass time, watch television. No shows in particular just to pass the time till the morning light. I lay still on the comfy couch, mindless and restless. It was always the same thing; awaken in the middle of the night and forced into an ever-present and controlling insomnia.
Distracted by a blinking red light, I peered over the sofa to the telephone. Four messages awaited; there was an extra message from last night. Someone must have called while I slept. I played the first message.
“Hello Mister Taw. This is Jerry Donal from Entertainment Weekly—” I deleted the obnoxious message.
The next two messages clicked out immediately implying someone hung up. Marie was the likely person to do such a thing considering the abrupt conversation from last night.
“Hey Joel, whassup?” The message was from someone with a coarse voice sounding like he partied too hard. “Can we meet today? Maybe this mornink? I’m stayink at Residence Royal Park in Upper Toronto house number twenty. The front guards will let you in. Come by anytime. We need to talk more.”
Billy Coax? The rock star? He wants to meet up? I did not know what to do. My effort to see him about a childhood nightmare at the concert paid off. My prayer was answered.
I ditched the remaining two messages and sat up on the edge of the couch. I was confronted with a chance to uncover the reality behind the demonic nightmares. Maybe Billy could explain what was truly going on? Maybe free me from its pain?
Could this be a joke? Would a rich rock star with nothing better else to do than pick on a fan? Doubt set in and I was nervous on how to proceed. I wiped my forehead feeling for perspiration. I lowered my head resting on my open palms. What should I do?
The sun peeked through the shades a dawning of a new day. A bright day awaiting a resolution, hopefully it would be my day. Inspired, I took courage for I was tired of dealing with what was. I looked to the future and reached for the telephone to dial—*TAXI for a taxi. Answers were available but I had to go through Billy, if I were to get anywhere in my life.
“The taxi will be there within five minutes,” a robotic female voice confirmed, acquiring my home address through the telephone number.
Satisfied by the authorization, I hung up and scribbled words Residence Royal Park and the number twenty on a piece of paper. I shoved the paper in my wallet and retrieved my apartment keys. If Billy knew something, I had to know.
I headed out, down the elevator to the first floor and directly out to the front steps. The air was fresh and peaceful. Nobody was out so early on a Friday morning. A canary yellow taxicab pulled over to the front steps and I embarked on my journey.
“Residence Royal Park in Upper Toronto,” I directed in a decisive tone, as if I were attending an important meeting.
“Upper Toronto? Is that that rich area, boss?” the taxi driver asked, perplexed by my instructions.
“Yup, house number twenty, please,” I confirmed my original statement, confident in my whereabouts.
The taxi driver spun back to face me. “Are you sure you got the right place, boss?”
I nodded yes. Enough of the pestering and do your job, but I would not dare respond this way. I needed to get where I was going and not sacrifice the ride with a brash comment. It was moments like this that I would drive if I had a vehicle of my own. But beggars could not be choosers.
“Sure thing, boss.” The driver twisted to face the front and accelerated to where I needed to go, forward.
From the backseat, I retrieved Billy’s address from my wallet and held in hand for the duration of the ride. Billy mentioned he was staying in the Upper Toronto area. It was not much of an area rather a secluded neighbourhood. It was known as the place to be, the rich of riches, where the number of habitants was a far cry from the abundant number of guestrooms per mansion.
The ride was a representation of various economic statuses. It started at my neighbourhood with shabby, painted-cracked apartment buildings accompanied by various pawnshops and convenient stores. As we darted east across the highway, we entered suburbia that expanded to modest brick homes with surrounding grocery stores and supermarkets. Finally, we reached the extravagant exaggerations of mansions and pools bigger than my apartment.
Upper Toronto was more than lavish mansions and pools; it was the place to be. It housed famous rock stars, celebrities, high-class socialites and multimillionaire athletes. And to further segregate the privileged was an intimidating brick wall spanning higher than ten feet that surrounded the entire neighbourhood. The intentions of the upper class that obviously wanted to keep poor out.
“I think your address is in this neighbourhood, boss,” the taxi driver advised, not impressed by the upscale location.
We approached a short road entrance leading into the secluded fortress. The checkpoint was nothing more than a security booth dividing the entrance and exit roadway, housed by three armed guards.
The driver cautiously approached the security booth with the ease of an old woman staggering onto a public transit bus. An oversized stop sign attached to the security booth told drivers what to do. He stopped a cautious three feet from the metal spikes jarring out from the road. Two gate guards dressed in a chic dark grey suit complete with a baton and pistol on either side of his vestment—a high fashion police outfit—stepped towards the taxi.
The taxi driver lowered his window. “Hello,” he greeted the gate guard with the friendliness of a convict to a judge.
“Your name and the name of the host, please,” the gate guard muttered in a single breath—not rushed, just more on the offensive side.
“I’m just the driver,” the taxi driver pleaded.
“Then where’s your passenger going?” The gate guard requested, seemingly to be losing whatever little patience he had.
I struggled to lower the passenger window. “Aah, Joel Taw to see Billy Dangal.”
“T-A-W?” the gate guard spelled out still facing the taxi driver.
I stretched out my left arm across the window resting my armpit over the windowsill. “Yes, sir.”
“He’s clear,” the second gate guard asserted. He displayed a thumbs-up at a third guard by the security booth.
The curved spikes used for tearing tires receded from the roadway and the path was clear.
“The Residence Royal Park is the fifth street on the right.” The first gate guard staring down at the taxi driver swept the air with his right hand indicating to proceed on through.
Billy had me on his list of privileged visitors. More peculiar was having my name checked out, yet oddly enjoyable. Someone important had me as his special guest. How incredible was that? How many people were turned down when they approached that security booth? I was pretty sure that there were a lot.
“Where to, Mister Special?” the taxi driver said mockingly.
“It’s house number twenty.” I repeated, excited by the experience.
Driving down the main stretch of Upper Toronto, uniquely designed mansions lined both sides of the street. The more elaborate the mansions got, the more space needed away from neighbouring mansions. Some mansions bordered a similarity to medieval castles. The manicured lawns glowed with the utopian greenest of emerald greens with a twinkle of turquoise. Not a single leaf rested on any lawn. The trees were surrounded by elaborate designs of flowers varying in a rainbow of colours.
“Boss, these people are crazy,” the taxi driver commented.
I nodded noticing that the vehicle’s cruising speed dropped while the taxi driver watched in wonderment the homes of the excessive.
“I bet these people will never be happy, boss,” the taxi driver concluded.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“The richest people aren’t the people who chase money but those who chase freedom from it,” the taxi driver philosophized.
Freedom from money? I was not sure how to respond. “Yeah, I nev
er thought of that.”
“People with money do nothing but chase more money. My father always told me that when you have some money, all you want is more money.” The taxi driver bestowed his words of wisdom, just as his father did to him.
Were the taxi driver’s words of wisdom creditable? “How do you survive without money?”
“Look at me, I have a Master’s degree in architecture, boss,” the taxi driver proudly announced.
“From where?” I wanted to know more about my taxi driver.
“From Warsaw University in Poland, boss,” the taxi driver added.
“Very nice. Why the taxi drivers gig then?” I dimmed down my investigation and hoped more for a friendlier interaction.
“It was tough getting a job being an immigrant from a different country. The taxi money is very good with little effort. Because of this I do not pursue money; I pursue my passion. I’m trying to run a small contracting company for landscaping.” The taxi driver reached into his back pocket and shuffled out a white business card. He promptly slid it through a slit in the glass barrier. “For you. If you ever need someone, give me a shout. I’ll even throw in a discount, boss.”
The card and its digital insignia—a revolving hammer swung counter clockwise—impressed me for his effort and his dedication. “Very nice. If I ever need someone, I’ll definitely give you a shout.” I pocketed the business card and wondered if I would ever hold true to my word.
Turning right on the Residence Royal Park, the taxi moved slowly checking for mansion numbers.
“Here’s your stop. Enjoy your stay, boss.” The taxi driver turned around to face me. “That’ll be forty-seven please.”
I glanced out the window to view another brick wall located about twenty-feet from the edge of the road. Across the top of the wall barbwire curled out alternating in a double helix formation. Every ten foot span, a twenty-foot black pole with a revolving camera encased in clear plastic—most likely a bulletproof cover. Beyond the wall, enormous trees were neatly trimmed so that not even a single branch drifted over the brick barrier.
I crumpled the paper with Billy’s address into my front pocket and then scanned my Debit card across the electronic reader and the charge was accepted. I added a six dollar tip for the driver and pressed the accept button again. Stepping out of the car, I entered into the realm of absurd spending. The taxi driver signalled with a gentle wave and drove away.
The entrance inside was an extravagant gateway detailed with a large twenty insignia. The size of the gate covered more space than my apartment floor if it were laid out flat. A second smaller gate was used for pedestrians while the larger was for vehicles. The top of both gates was encroached with sharp prongs that would certainly slice a person in half if anyone tried hopping over. Two large spotlights lit the entranceway. I had the impression the place was more a prison than a home. Beyond the gate, rose a driveway that ever so twisted upward for about half a kilometre toward the front stairs of a three-story Georgian mansion. A mansion I would equate to the White House in Washington D.C. A magnificent garden full of exotic flowers stretched out on either side of the driveway.
I was both in awe and frightful of meeting the person who lived behind such a security system. I reached out to touch the cruel gate, an entry cold to the touch. Traveling to get here was one thing, entering a world beyond my financial reach was a completely different matter.
A video camera pivoted towards me. “Please do not move while you are being scanned,” a robotic voice announced from the videocom.
I instinctively raised my arms over my head.
“Please lower your arms,” the robotic voice announced, sounding more human with underlying annoyed tone.
I did as I was told never taking my eyes off the video camera.
“Name please,” the annoyed voice continued.
“Joel Daniel Taw.” I gladly volunteered my full name knowing full well that I was invited.
The walkway gate unlocked and swung invitingly open. The locking mechanism of the walkway gate deadbolt reached out two inches long. How sad, mine at home was barely an inch. How much protection was enough?
The driveway was constructed with interlocked stone. Almost every ten paces laid a design of brilliantly planned interlock. The first design was a blob with a darkened ellipse in the middle, next to it were multiple blobs enclosed into a pseudo-sphere, then a jellyfish followed, an ugly looking fish of some sort, leading into a fish with floppy fins, an alligator-type reptile followed, the typical monkey, and finally a man, Billy. This was the evolutionary path as described by Billy. The man design looked more superior to any human I have seen, as it contained more interlock and covered more space than necessary—an obvious design flaw. The driveway curved to the front porch and continued around the mansion.
Approaching the front stairs, a moat of lavishly trimmed trees trimmed to no higher than two metres; a bed of multi-coloured flowers surrounded each mini tree. The brilliance of the three-story Georgian mansion with its white wash paint, illuminated straight through the wall of trees visibly shining almost as bright as the lights that hung skilfully from the roof’s edges. The paint on the mansion was an expensive paint notoriously cherished by the wealthy for its reflective coat and lustre. The mansion shone like it was made to.
Realizing the distraction of the mansion, I hopped sideways to avoid stepping on Billy’s interlock face—although it was almost impossible not to considering its size. I ascended the stairs with the calmness of a famous dignitary desiring to make the big entrance at a ball and not requiring an invitation in hand.
The grandeur of the hardwood double-door reached out with craftsmanship of extraordinary skill. Hand-carved mini statues protruded from the door, each with a distinct lifelike pose. The bronze gothic goat ram doorknocker was massive; it occupied more space than my head. I extended my left hand admiring the intricate detail of the doorknocker that the front door pushed in. I leaned forward tempting to sneak a peek inside. A foot stepped out and the door swung inward leaving me caught in mid-motion reaching for the doorknocker and peeking inside the mansion.
15
Billy stood with his arms crossed agitated by my intrusion. “Found the place alright?” Wearing Bermuda shorts, t-shirt cut-off at the sleeves and flip-flops, he touted a laid-back attitude. His polished gold watch sparkling from the dozen of diamonds stood out in stark contrast to casual wear.
I straightened up and stuffed both my hands in my pockets feeling awkward for intruding. “You have a very nice house,” I commented.
“Did you have any problems findink the place?” Billy repeated, his trademark ink sound replaced words with ing endings.
I finally understood the question. “No problems.”
“Come in, I’ll show you around,” Billy instructed, somehow knowing my eagerness to see the place.
We stood in the foyer, the doors were painted black on the inside matching the black trim separating each marble tile. The shiny floor, a white marble-tiled floor, reflected my entire facial details. The walls of the foyer were adorned on all sides with a white marble layer and mirrors of various sizes. From there, we moved a single step up to a full-sized room where a clear marble flowed to the deepest ends of the four dark corridors and a vast curving stairwell that led upstairs.
“Would you like a drink?” Billy offered a generous offer.
“Uh … no thanks.” I motioned with my hands. “Maybe a Turtle Flight.” Although it was still the morning, I changed my mind as I craved for that drink I had back stage at the rock concert.
Billy raised one index finger. “One Turtle Flight.” He retrieved two bottles and simultaneously poured them into a mixer, doubled the mixture with ice followed by a third bottle. He shook the contents and poured it into a clean crystal glass. He added a lime to the drink and placed it in my hand.
Upon holding the drink up to the light I carefully examined it—something was amiss. “Isn’t this supposed to be red or pink?”
&n
bsp; “Yeah but this one’s better,” Billy concurred with a serious nod.
With an adventurous sip of the drink I tasted a mild bitterness accompanied by an overpoweringly after taste. “Not bad,” I lied.
“Don’t like it,” Billy observed, annoyed by my lie.
A second sip of the cocktail believing a second taste had to be better—wrong. But out of respect I managed to swallow and rid myself of the vile drink.
Billy shrugged his shoulder ungracious by my act of sacrifice. “I think I’m missink a bottle. Maybe the cherry liquor,” he admitted finally.
I returned the empty glass to the bar. “Nice place.” The subject needed to be switched so not to offend Billy right from the start.
“This is my quiet place,” Billy commented. “It’s good after a concert … you know … to relax. How about you? Any side effects from yesterday?”
“Side effects?” My brain was working slowly. “Oh, alcohol hangover. No.” My eyes fixed on the clear marble as it reflected light of various colours. One translucent layer after another produced the impression of a floor depth of more than ten feet. Mesmerizing.
“You like the marble?” Billy inquired, bordering on pretentious.
“Very nice. I also like the designs on your driveway,” I replied, trying to please through a compliment, “with the theme and all.” I nodded showing my satisfaction. There was no room to disappoint and so all stops were needed—lie or truth.
“If you like that then you’ll like a few other thinks I have here.” Billy swung around and proceeded to his immediate left.
The shiny corridor opened into a vast ballroom with auburn wooden tiles. An automatic flick from motion detectors lit up the space, drew open the window curtains revealing high ceilings and life-sized portrait paintings on top of velvet wallpaper. Each oil painting had its own illumination mechanism giving each portrait a three-dimensional radiance. Each step echoed in the vastness of the room.