“Yeah, but it’s three.” Aggie paused to let the bus driver make an announcement, something about possible disruptions at the station. “Three-year anniversaries. You know what that means.”
“Uh. Paper? I think? I don’t know. Copper?”
“No, I mean—!” She rolled her eyes again, while starting to pack up. “C’mon, Mal, isn’t it obvious? It’s a ‘special occasion’ dinner.”
“Yeah, our anniversary.”
She sighed, snapping her binder shut. “I can’t believe it’s me spelling this out for you: he’s going to propose. That’s what he means by ‘special occasion’.”
I stared at her for a long moment as pieces flew together. Having a special dinner two weeks before our anniversary; that weird shopping trip that his brother came into town for last month that I was told was too boring for me to accompany them; phone calls that stopped when I walked into the room. All the extra groceries he’s been laying in. Him booking two days off work as a ‘staycation’. “Oh my god.”
Aggie grinned. “Try to look surprised when you walk in the door.” She squinted.
“Did you just wink at me?”
“Yes.” She squinted again.
“You wink with one eye, you know that, right?”
She smacked me with her binder, and we both laughed.
* * *
I felt a little giddy, like I could open the window and fly away, as the bus pulled into the loop at Scarborough Town Centre Station. I’d been looking forward to dinner anyway—Dylan is a great cook, he learned from both his Peruvian abuela and his Irish mother; he really doesn’t appreciate potato jokes—but now I was especially excited and did a little stamp of my feet while I waited my turn in line to disembark. Aggie was probably right. I mean, three years in is usually ‘shit or get off the pot’ time, isn’t it? And our anniversary was coming up.
I tried to manoeuvre the large presentation case off the bus without hitting anyone. Outside, the heat was even worse, even in the shaded terminal; sunlight reflecting off the acres of asphalt surroundings caused the air to ripple and the humidity made me gasp. The inside of the station might be cooler, or it might be like inside an oven; although at least ovens generally had fans. The Scarborough Rapid Transit cars were often packed enough that the gasping air-conditioning did nothing. Probably no relief until Kennedy.
There were a lot of people gathered on the lower level by the bus stops. No one flowed away from the parked vehicles and up the escalators to the overhead light rail. Some people got on the bus I’d just left behind, but most milled around by the station entrance.
“What’s all this?” Aggie asked, by my shoulder, carrying her own armload of presentation binders and other materials. Since she’s quite a bit shorter than I am—and I’m not very tall—the jostling of the crowd meant she was being shoved a lot. I wiggled us to the periphery. “Didn’t the driver say something about a power outage?”
“Maybe?” I hadn’t been listening. Even in my heels I couldn’t see past the heads of the crowds. Standing on my tiptoes didn’t improve things. “Fuck. If there’s a power outage here, do you think the whole SRT’s down?”
“Probably not,” Aggie replied. “Probably just the station.” She gave me her armload of stuff—I had to juggle but managed—and disappeared through the crowd to where a TTC employee was trying to issue directions. After a few sweaty minutes she reappeared dodging someone’s elbow to take back her materials. “It’s not just the tracks. The whole station doesn’t have power. Neither does McCowan Station next door.”
“What about the rest of the TTC?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Fuck.”
Aggie gave a heavy sigh while adjusting her armful. “They’re organizing shuttle buses.”
I groaned. Shuttle buses, in August heat, crammed full of people, on routes that were already full of cars—always a nightmare. “I hate the east end.”
“It’s not the east end’s fault.” She shifted again. “It’s probably only to Kennedy anyway. How long could that take?”
I groaned again. Visions of being home early and enjoying a cold drink disappeared. Miles to go before I slept, and all that. “Easy for you to say, you’re only going to Don Mills. I’m going all the way to Etobicoke.” Clear across the city, in rush hour.
Aggie lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “You either get on a shuttle now or wait to see if they get the power back on.”
I sighed. “Where did he say the shuttle buses would be?”
She pointed to the far end of the station. Of course.
I went first, Aggie close behind; the large presentation case served as a make-shift icebreaker, urging people out of our way. Any dodging I did saved her the effort. When I stopped, she bumped into my shoulders. “Sorry.” The crowd had grown thicker, more agitated; someone shoved into my side, accidentally, and my purse strained at its skinny strap. I hefted it closer to me, but I needed my hands for the presentation case.
Voices in a melange of languages and accents flowed around us, most sounding as tired and sweaty as I was. My feet were already sore after a day in heels and now I’d probably be standing at least to Kennedy, if not the entire way to Islington. Suck it up, buttercup. I squared my shoulders and pressed on, but the crowd had the same problems I did. “Excuse me,” I said, over and over, politely, but there wasn’t space to give.
“Someone just said the whole TTC’s down,” someone remarked to their neighbour, loud enough to overhear.
“I just heard that the whole city’s down,” someone else replied, and with that, the crowd broke out into a babble of questions.
“Did you hear that?”
“Maybe the fare guy knows what’s going on.”
“Why would they know?”
“They’ve got phones, don’t they?”
Phones. Shit. I’d told Dylan I’d phone him back, and given that I was now going to be late—I twisted around to find Aggie. “I need to find a phone.”
2.
Reverse Charges
“What? Now?” Aggie stared up at me and then back towards the crowd. Another bus pulled up and people surged towards it. “Call him from Kennedy.”
It’s hindsight that makes me wish I’d agreed with her. “I might as well call him now… Who knows, maybe by the time I’m done, the SRT will be back up and running? These brown-outs usually don’t last that long.”
Aggie answered with a frown of doubt, but then shrugged; my choice to make, after all. She waved goodbye, and I waved good luck back to her as she disappeared onto a sardine-can-turned Don Mills bus. But at least she was on a regular service vehicle and she’d be dropped off near her home.
Adjusting the straps on my presentation case, I turned back towards the entrance, against the crowd. Around me, people grew more convinced of bigger problems than a station power outage.
“Look at the lights in the mall sign—the sign’s off.”
“Look at the traffic lights!”
“The whole fucking neighbourhood must be down.”
Surprise surged and receded like waves on a beach. It was Scarborough, after all. Brownouts happened in the summer, especially in a heat wave, when everyone turned on their air-conditioners at once. And the SRT—the SRT was always failing for one reason or another.
Someone caught my shoulder in their rush to make one of the shuttle buses, and the momentum and the presentation case spun me around, twisting one of my ankles too far. Down I went with a shriek of surprise, my purse and case slipping off my shoulder, scattering make-up and give-away pens everywhere. To the guy’s credit, he swooped back to apologize instantly and to help me up—but I was fine, just caught off guard. I waved him away to catch the bus and he thanked me and dashed back into the throng.
I stayed on the floor gathering up the spill and stuffing it all back wherever it would fit—I’d sort it out at home. My ankle didn’t even hurt much, just a throb, already disappearing. “No harm, no foul,” I muttered, wiggling my
toes before replacing my black pump.
The phones were inside the glass enclosure, next to the escalators. One bank had a hastily-scrawled “out of order” sign taped to them, and yellow caution tape wound around. The other bank of three was in service, but appeared to have line-ups five people deep for each.
I brushed sweating bangs out of my face and craned around, taking stock of the surroundings. The lower concourse was a crush of people. But there were phones outside the station too, and might be easier to reach, so hefting my case, I worked against the crowd to the turnstiles, then through a little corridor to arrive at the entrance to the GO bus terminal.
The out-of-town buses were steadily arriving, disgorging people into the already crammed TTC station. There was a queue to use the phones here as well, but not as bad, and I leaned against the beige-painted cinderblocks to wait.
My cell phone was still snug in my pocket, and I took it out. One bar of battery left. It would be better to call Dylan from a pay phone. Five minutes wasn’t too long to wait, and I’d still have the cell in an emergency, in case I got delayed again somewhere without a pay phone. I stashed the Nokia back in my pocket since my purse was now full of eSaleEase-branded pens.
Putting the spare pens there turned out to be a mistake.
When my turn came for the pay phones, I had to dig through my purse for my wallet, spilling items in the process. Muttering a profusion of ‘shits’ and ‘craps’ under my breath, I gathered up the pens and makeup while simultaneously trying to search through the outer pocket of my presentation case, aware of the people waiting behind me, the impatience blasting off them in waves comparable to the reflected sunshine off a nearby GO bus windshield.
Finally recognizing the dire depths of the situation, I scrambled to push everything out of the way so that the person tapping their foot behind me could use the phone instead. Crouching in a corner, I dumped everything out of my purse.
My heart thumped against the inside of my ribs, like someone knocking on a door with bad news.
I pulled out everything from the presentation case’s pocket. More pens, mints—why did I have a half packet of old man mints? Those couldn’t be mine, they must be Steve’s from accounting—some pennies, a folded-up brochure. Serviettes.
No wallet.
I patted my jacket down but the only useful pocket had my cell phone. My skirt had no pockets at all but I patted my thighs anyway, because that’s what you do when you have lost your wallet outside the farthest station from home when there’s a power outage and confused crowds and August heat: you pat down everywhere.
I even opened up the presentation case to search through it, despite knowing I’d had my wallet in my purse since I left Darlington because I’d needed—
Shit.
Shit shit shit, my metropass!
This was way worse than not having a quarter for a pay phone. Now I had no credit card, no debit or cash, and no way to get back into the TTC station.
I’d fallen down in the bus loop; my wallet must have slipped out of my purse; someone must have accidentally kicked it away from me; I didn’t notice I didn’t have it because I was in such a rush to get out of the way.
“Fucking fucketty fuck fuck.” Taking a deep breath, I smoothed my hair back and wiped my face. That trickle of sweat running down between my shoulder blades had become a torrent and it itched. No one paid me any attention; they had their own problems as the GO buses continued to arrive, and the feet flowed around me like a river around a stone.
My wallet might still be there.
A rough chance but I had to try. I scooped everything into the presentation case—including my useless purse—and straightened up, tugging down my skirt and taking another couple of deep breaths for courage before rejoining the current.
I didn’t have a metropass, and I didn’t have any money. But I’d already paid the fare boarding the bus, right? Didn’t that count for something? I didn’t have a transfer, hadn’t needed one, I had had my metropass. Smoothing down my blouse and jacket, I decided to just wing it. There was enough commotion near the fare gates that I could probably just slip by, fetch my wallet, and continue home.
They’d closed the fare collectors’ booth and opened the wheelchair accessible gates. A large, heavy-set man in maroon TTC livery sat in a chair in the middle of the open gate, checking people’s passes with greater speed than the turnstile would have allowed. Good for the station; bad for me. I swallowed and set my shoulders straight and dovetailed into the line, trying to look confident, like I had everything under control.
One of the employees out in the loop produced a megaphone from somewhere, trying to direct people to shuttle buses; his megaphone died in a series of squeals and he gave it a smack, as though corporal punishment improved battery life.
Four ahead of me was an older woman frantically going through her oversized purse, pulling out Kleenexes, knitting, endless receipts and papers. The heavy-set fare collector—who had a severe squint and looked more cross than Catholic school, red-faced in the heat—sighed very heavily and waved her through, barking at her to keep the line moving.
I swung around my presentation case so that it would be between me and the fare collector, and once I was in his view started pawing through the outer pocket I knew to be full of pens and mints. It worked; the fare collector grunted with impatience, already primed.
“Sorry, I know it’s in here,” I said with face-scrunching apology, scattering pens like bird seed, crouching down to pick them up, being as fumble-fingered as possible—which wasn’t that much of an act. “Sorry! Sorry, everything’s a mess—”
He cleared his throat in disgust. “Can’t you women ever get these things in your hand before I need to see them? Every goddamn day. You’re holding up the line, just—” He made a vague gesture.
I twitched a little bit, but then, playing up annoying female stereotypes was my plan in the first place. “Thank you! I’m so sorry, really, thank you—” I swept everything up into my arms and made an exaggerated high-heel scurry through the fare area.
Once I was in the concourse proper I gave a sigh while stuffing everything into my presentation case again, including my purse, before scanning the ground near where I’d fallen.
Clenching and unclenching my fists, presentation case slung around my back like an oversized hippie’s guitar, I circled outward, my head down, searching. The sun had shifted, glinting off all the glass and chrome, blindingly bright when least expected. Twice I thought I saw my wallet and hurried over only to discover a candy bar wrapper or a bit of paper bag.
A dull throb pressed behind my eyes. My wallet was gone; someone had probably seen it, picked it up, and—I dashed over to the trio of garbage cans near the escalators. Newspapers, more food wrappers, drinks—there. Red-brown leather: my wallet.
After fishing it out, my triumph morphed to ashes. The wallet was empty. Hollowed out. Whatever cash I’d had left over from lunch; spare change; credit and bank cards.
My metropass.
All gone.
I wiped my hands clean on my jacket and rubbed the bridge of my nose, deliberating. So much for that. Still, I was inside the fare zone, I could just grab a shuttle bus and deal with replacing everything tomorrow—
Someone grabbed my right arm above the elbow. I jumped about a foot and tried to twist away. It was the squinting fare collector.
“Excuse me, miss.” His tone was a growl, the miss heavily sarcastic; he was close enough to my face that spit hit my cheeks and I recoiled again. “Can I see your pass, please?”
I froze. Clearing my throat—my lips suddenly dry—I began: “My wallet was stolen—look—”
“I knew it,” Squints snarled, his meaty hand still around my arm. “You thought you could get by without paying your fare!”
“My wallet was stolen,” I repeated. Out of my peripheral vision, one of the shuttle buses pulled up only a few paces away. “Please. I will fix it tomorrow—”
“Yeah, yeah. I hea
r everything you downtown bitches try on me.”
I blinked. “…Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I might not catch everyone who gets by me, but I caught you, and I’m going to make sure you stay caught.” Yanking on my arm, he tried to force me back in the direction of the fare office.
“Let go of me!” I struggled and slapped at his hand, but the presentation case was heavy on my shoulders and in the way. I’d never known one of the fare collectors to get up close and personal like this. “I’ll walk there myself.”
“Too late for that, lady. You think you’re the only one having a rough day? Huh? Always excuses with you people—” He was strong, and he was dragging me. “Head Office says I gotta start making examples, and believe me, lady, you are it. You wait until I call them—”
“Yeah?” The throb of my headache was replaced by an angry pulse. Yes, okay, I had jumped the turnstile, but I had technically already paid the fare once, and anyway, I didn’t need to be manhandled like this. He was hurting me over a $2 fare. “How are you going to call anyone, huh? Power’s out, remember?”
Squints gave me a grimace, like I was some sort of contagious moron, and dug his fingernails in. He put his disgusting jowls too close to mine and I fought an irrational urge to bite his nose. “I got a direct line to Head Office.”
“Yeah? Direct line, huh? Good, because I want to talk to them myself.” I couldn’t pry his fingers off me without getting free of the presentation case, which, as of this moment, held all of my belongings. “I’m going to tell them how I already paid a fare, and you’re hurting me.”
“Head Office isn’t gonna talk to you.”
I pulled back, yanking my arm away and nearly dislocating my shoulder in the process. Squints didn’t like that, his face flushing a deeper red. I was making it harder for him to maintain his grip, and we were attracting attention from other people in the concourse.
Gathered by the stairs was a knot of confused tourists with dangling cameras on straps and oversized backpacks, gesturing among themselves. They obviously hadn’t heard or understood the instructions about the shuttle buses, and it gave me an idea. “Here!” I shouted at them, pointing with my free hand at Squints. “He can help you! Ask him! He knows where to go! Come here! He has free maps!”
Blackout Odyssey Page 2