The driver deliberated, but then flicked the ‘occupied’ sign onto his meter, and held his hand behind the seat. I gave him both the found twenty and the watch and settled in as he turned south on Midland.
* * *
The taxi stank of hot leatherette and old cigarettes, even with the windows open. But it was a seat, a moving seat, heading west along Danforth. The traffic was stop-and-go, clogged with more than the usual rush-hour traffic since the subway was down, and with the traffic lights out, there were more than a few accidents amid the confusion.
But none of that was my problem any more.
“Do you think it’s as far as Mississauga?” the driver asked. “The power out?”
“No idea. Someone at the station said Markham. And Newmarket.”
He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “That’s pretty far.”
“If it’s that far north, then maybe… the whole grid’s down.”
“What? Everywhere?” He panicked for a second and then relaxed into a plainer, simpler bewilderment. “That can’t be true.”
I tried to remember what I’d gleaned from our team research into the Darlington power plant. “Probably all of southern Ontario. I think eastern Ontario is on a different grid. I’m not sure.”
He grumbled to himself. “At least it’s summer time and not winter. People would die in the winter.”
“True.” It made me recall the big ice storm when I was a kid. We’d had three days without power but my aunt and uncle had a wood-burning stove in their rec room so we’d bundled into the car and stayed with them and we all played board games while wrapped up in blankets. It had been kinda fun, in a break-from-routine sort of way. Like a second Christmas in January. But I’d been a kid, so I hadn’t had to worry about food spoiling or carbon monoxide poisoning or anything like that, just whether or not my brothers or boy cousins were cheating at Monopoly (which they were. A fight broke out and we’d all been sentenced to put on snowsuits and play in the backyard as punishment).
I realized the driver was asking me something. “Sorry?”
He wasn’t speaking to me but to the dispatcher. Either the dispatcher had power in their neighbourhood, or a generator or batteries or something like that. I wondered which and tried not to look like I was eavesdropping.
But the driver was watching me in the rear-view mirror, and switched from English to a different language. His voice dropped into a low whisper and his body language grew tight and withdrawn.
My neck hairs prickled again.
He pulled over by the side of the street. “What’s up?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
“You need to get out here,” he said, very tense and no longer making eye contact. “I can’t get caught up in that kind of trouble. I’m very sorry.”
“Trouble? What trouble? Look, I know this isn’t a usual kind of payment, but—”
He’d got out, the engine still running, the door wide. He flung open the back door and gestured for me to get out. “What’s the matter? I thought—hey!” When I hadn’t moved, he’d reached in to grab me.
“We can’t be caught up in that,” he kept repeating. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“I don’t want any trouble either! Let go of me!” But I didn’t brace myself in time and between his yank on my arm and the slitheriness of the leatherette, I slid half out and had to catch myself. “Okay! Okay, jeez. Careful. Let me go. Let’s figure this out.”
“Nothing to figure out,” he said, quickly and firmly. “I don’t want to be caught up in any Head Office trouble. I’m very sorry.”
“You said that,” I muttered, climbing to my feet, brushing myself off. “But we can—” With rising horror I realized he was already back in his seat. I grabbed the door handle, but he’d locked them from the inside. “Hey! Stop! Hey!” He pulled into traffic. “Hey! You took my money! And my watch!” and then the full realization smacked me and I ran after him, waving both arms like a lunatic. “You’ve got my case! You still have my case in your trunk!”
Another car honked behind me and I scrambled back onto the sidewalk.
Fuck.
5.
Dylan
It’s after six. Where the hell is Mallory? She said she was going to call from the station; that was two hours ago!
The heat in the apartment is stifling, so you grab a beer from the fridge and head out onto the deck. The outside air isn’t much better, it’s like a wet towel, but perhaps not a hot wet towel and you’ll take what you can get. Someone told you that Toronto was built on swampland, and every July and August, you believe it.
The beer’s still cold, that’s a good sign, and plenty refreshing. The patio is small, just enough for a little picnic table that’s probably older than you are, carved with the initials of so many previous tenants and guests that it’s more carving than wood, but still holds together. Well, that one leg is flaking but it’s cosmetic. You rest the beer against the wooden railing, looking at what’s visible in the slivers between the surrounding buildings. At the right angle and on a super clear day you can see Lake Ontario. Mallory thinks it’s not the lake but the top of the parking garage; it’s too faint to tell. It’s silvery grey and flat and south, so it could well be the lake.
Smells waft up from one of the apartments. Or, no, someone is in the parking lot behind the health-food store, they’ve wheeled out an ancient barbeque from somewhere and they’re grilling. Smells like beef with a miso-marinade. Mouth-watering.
The power’s been out long enough on the block that people are getting inventive for dinner; maybe it’s time you did the same. You could get some miso yourself and make a dressing. Cold sliced roast, potato salad, the chives are growing nicely, they’ll be a good addition, sprinkle them over everything. The mayo should still be good, after all, the beer was cold, it takes a while for a fridge to change temperature if you keep the door closed; like the oven, but, you know, cold.
There’s a knock at the door. Startled, you straighten, hopeful that it’s Mallory. Maybe she forgot her keys again. She was in a rush this morning what with that presentation case and having to be downtown early to catch a ride with her boss. She refused to be sensible and take a larger purse. Something about the line of her outfit.
The knock comes again, but it sounds familiar, and not like Mallory’s.
You pad across the apartment, still holding the beer, and open it. It’s Camila from across the hall. “Hi.”
She smiles at you. “Your power out too?” You can see her gaze drift over your shoulder into the apartment, searching for signs of electricity.
“I think it’s the whole block,” you answer in English, taking a sip of beer.
“I heard on my little radio,” she continues in Spanish, “that it’s the whole city. Maybe even further. Maybe down into New York.”
“The state or the city?”
She cocks her head, confused, and then laughs. “Oh. I don’t know, they didn’t say.”
You wonder how a whole city would cope without power. Especially a giant city like New York.
She’s leaning against the door jamb, watching you under her eyelashes. On the one hand, you have a patio and she does not and her ancient living-room window-rattler won’t be working. On the other hand, you can imagine Mallory won’t be pleased to come home after a long day and find you entertaining your neighbour—whom she distrusts for some reason—on the patio, just the two of you.
Camila’s still waiting. From outside you can smell the steaks cooking. It’s well after when Mallory should be home. She might be stuck on a shuttle bus somewhere, inching across town.
Fuck it.
“Come on and sit outside where it’s cool,” you say, pushing the door open. “Bring your radio and tell the neighbours. We’ll turn this into a party.”
6.
Doin’ It Old School
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been walking. I mean, I could probably count in blocks (if I really wanted to, which I did not), but now that the taxi gu
y had my watch, I couldn’t check the time. I suppose I could have turned on my phone, which was all that I had left, but didn’t want to accidentally drain its perplexing battery. Better to save it for an emergency.
Trudging along this stretch of Danforth was depressing. It was like a never-ending strip mall, all small bargain stores with names like ‘Best Prices!’ and a stack of brooms outside. All of them seemed to have brooms stacked outside. Either Scarberians went through a lot of brooms or there was a factory near by. Discount brooms. Outlet brooms.
God, my feet hurt.
But at this point I was resigned to walking and I wasn’t the only one. Mostly people flowed in the opposite direction than me, and then up side streets. Everyone wore the same staggered ‘I can’t believe it’s this hot and I’m walking home’ face, many in outfits chosen for an air-conditioned office, blazers slung over their arms. Apart from my westbound direction, I fit in.
I’d taken off my jacket around Victoria Park. That was a while ago, so I guess it wasn’t fair to make fun of Scarborough for its broom obsession when the mockery should be squarely directed at East York. Yorkians? Yorkies, I decided, like the small dogs. East Yorkies and North Yorkies.
Food smells were torments wafting from open doorways. A lot of restaurants had set up tables outside to sell at a discount; either that or throw the food away, I supposed. Didn’t matter to me, since all I had to my name was a company phone and two dimes I’d found in a filthy parking lot. All the same, I kept glancing at the ground for that last, elusive nickel.
Dylan probably knew by now that I wasn’t going to be home for dinner. Our little stretch of Islington Village is pretty neighbourly; news of the extent of the blackout had no doubt been passed around, patio to patio. Knowing I had a meeting out at Darlington today, he’d put two and two together and eat dinner on his own.
My nose wrinkled. No doubt Camila was knocking on his door, fluttering her very long eyelashes and seeing if she could borrow a cup of electricity.
Or maybe they were all having a patio party, eating my special dinner. My special dinner, made with love, for me.
I was, by this point, starting to feel a little sorry for myself. The food smells weren’t helping.
Ahead of me on the Danforth, two cars smashed into each other with a squeal of brakes and crash-tinkle of broken glass. Someone shrieked from the surprise. Both drivers leapt out of their respective vehicles, examining damage and yelling at each other; neither had stopped at the intersection.
Gradually, once people on the sidewalks realized no one was hurt, they stopped rubbernecking and resumed trudging. I imagine the same scene was being repeated all over the city.
A small restaurant owner came out, reporting to 911 on a handset tucked between his chin and shoulder while wiping his hands on his apron. Shouting out questions to the two drivers, who abandoned their cars there on the Danforth, continuing to berate each other while the cook acted as a go-between. And yet, within moments, he offered to give them each something to eat and to let them sit while they waited. The two shook hands, and disappeared into the restaurant.
That made me feel a little better.
Traffic jammed up against the accident. I kept walking, trying not to peer at the scene; it was just a simple fender-bender, no one was hurt, police would be along eventually. Maybe the cook/owner would call a tow-truck. Nothing to see here, move along, move along…
But then something else caught my eye, and I stopped.
A small beige Hyundai was stalled directly behind the accident, too close to the broken cars to go around without scraping them and no one behind them was willing to give them space to back up or turn into the other lane. But that’s not what caught my eye; it was the piece of paper in the back seat window that said ‘Humber’ in ballpoint pen.
I strolled up. “Hi,” I said, through the open passenger window. “You kids Humber students?”
Four young, fresh, possibly stoned faces peered back up at me. The driver was the least bleary-eyed, looking instead startled and alarmed, no doubt from seeing the accident happen in front of them.
“Yeah,” said the front-seat passenger, who looked me up and down, and then squinted. “We’re giving lifts to other students? The subway’s down, you know. There’s, like, a big power out.”
You don’t say. “I’m going in that direction,” I told them. “But I don’t have any money for gas. Wallet was stolen.”
“That’s terrible,” said someone from the back seat. He prodded the driver. “We totally have a seat here in the middle, right Josh?”
The girl in the front seat seemed unconvinced. I held my arms out, in submission. “I’m not an axe murderer.”
“That’s what an axe murderer would say,” the driver, Josh, muttered, but he was distracted, trying to figure out what to do. I held out a finger, the international signal for uno momento, s’il vous plait, and walked carefully in front of them, dodging the broken glass and noting the hissing sound from one of the cars. Cars don’t explode like they do in the movies, right? I slipped my jacket back on to keep my hands free.
Traffic was slow enough from rubber-necking that even if something did hit me it would barely leave a bruise. So it was easy to march out into traffic like I owned it, and hold up my hands in either direction for the east-bound lane to stop. Which they did. Possibly out of surprise, but I like to think it was my air of confidence.
Directing Josh into the newly calmed east-bound lane, he managed to creep around the accident, before immediately pulling over. I directed traffic to continue, and now with enough space and warning to dodge the accident, the drivers understood the need to take turns and divert into the other lane. I scurried to the safety of the curb and the open door.
“Thanks, lady,” Josh said. “You’re… a student?”
“No,” I admitted, squeezing into an incredibly crowded back seat. There were two college kids there already, each with backpacks on their laps. The footwells had stuff in them, the rear windshield was almost entirely blocked, and the smell of skunk, cheap patchouli, and compressed humanity made my eyes water a bit. “But I live near there.” That was not true and I amended it. “I live in that direction, anyway.”
“That’s cool,” Josh confirmed, watching the traffic like a kingfisher. “We’re all starting there next week.”
“Moving in,” my fellow backseater said, brightly, blond dreads shaking with the froshiest of excitement. “We’re going to be roommates. Except Laurel.”
“I have a different house,” Laurel in the front seat explained.
“That’s great,” I replied when it became clear that they were waiting for my blessing. “Sounds like you’ll all have a great time, college is so much fun!” Those were magic words and the car’s occupants accepted me as one of their own, Blond Dreads even pulling out a joint and offering me first drag.
“Lincoln! I told you, not in the car, man!” Josh hesitantly rejoined traffic.
“Josh’s first time driving in the city,” Laurel told me, girl-to-girl.
I was so squeezed I could barely breathe. “What a day for it.”
“I know, right?”
“C’mon,” Josh chided.
There was silence for a couple of blocks, punctuated by soft snoring: the girl on the other side of Lincoln fell asleep, her face pressed against the sheet of paper that said HUMBER on it.
“So where are you kids from then?” I asked super brightly, feeling approximately 150 years old, but glad to be sitting down and moving not under my own power.
“Oshawa,” Lincoln answered. “Except Laurel.”
“Whitby,” Laurel supplied.
“Oh. That’s nice.” I had no opinions on anything east of Morningside. Morningside was only included in my opinions because I had fond memories of the Metro Zoo. “Nice area.” I mean, I assumed.
“So boring,” Laurel replied. “But we’re in the big city now! It’s going to be great!” Much whooping at this, waking up the snorer, who blearily pee
red around, decided we weren’t there yet, and went back to sleep, this time against the backpack on her lap. Laurel had the tone of someone who was desperately trying to convince herself that she was having a great time. I could sympathize.
Josh, meanwhile, was indeed nervous driving along the Danforth, especially since there seemed to be a great many people who weren’t being as cautious. He turned to Laurel, whispering: “How much further?”
“To Humber? Quite a while I’m afraid,” I replied, leaning forward.
He looked startled. “No, to her uncle’s?”
I blinked. “…uncle’s?”
“We’re stopping at my aunt and uncle’s,” Laurel explained. “They have, like, a box of dishware or something for the house? Like, a housewarming present?”
I took a deep breath. It was probably fine. I was sitting and we were moving. “…and where are they?”
Laurel consulted a piece of paper. “Uh. St. Clair and Avenue.”
Heavenly ones, save me from the stupid, ignorant, and stoned. “Oh.” Carefully, I paused, as if considering, and then asked: “And what route are you taking?”
“Uh, Danforth to Bloor,” Josh began, with the tone of someone reciting. “Then right on Avenue—”
“I’m going to stop you right there.” I took a deep breath for patience. “How about we figure out a faster route with less traffic than the busiest non-highway in the city?”
We turned north on Coxwell, then left on O’Connor, which flowed significantly faster. The traffic lights were still out, but away from the Danforth it seemed like more people were driving carefully, treating all intersections as four-way-stops and so on. There were bits of glass on the road here too, but much less commotion in general, and Josh grew confident, especially since the area around O’Connor looked more, well, suburban, and I imagine that brought comforting memories of Oshawa. I gave them directions through Donlands and over the valley towards Mount Pleasant; a longer trip maybe in kilometers but smoother and easier for all concerned.
Blackout Odyssey Page 4