I leaned back, relaxing, although a headache crept around the side of my head, spreading like damp across a basement wall. Lincoln noticed me rubbing my temple and offered me another drag. I replied no with a wan smile and cracked the window.
“Man, I told you,” Josh barked over his shoulder. “Not in the car!”
* * *
Once we passed through Mt. Pleasant, the area turned from suburban detached homes to apartment buildings and offices, and Josh resumed driving like he was in a demilitarized zone with an enemy flag waving.
I leaned forward. “Hey, Laurel?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think your aunt would let me use the phone?”
“Oh, for sure. She’s, like, really nice. I’m sure that’s fine.”
“You’re not going to be long, right?” Josh asked, but whether to me or his seatmate was unclear, so we both answered in the negative.
“I’m just picking up house stuff, I told you,” Laurel added, peeved.
“It’s just that it’s, like, after six and we’re still not there,” Josh continued, hunched over the steering wheel, eyeing the road with suspicion. “I don’t want to be driving in the city. In the, you know.”
“The dark?” Laurel supplied, snidely. “Don’t be such a baby. If you’re scared to drive, I can drive.”
“No you can’t, your license got revoked, remember?”
“Oh yeah.”
Lincoln nudged me. “Do you drive?”
I do, but I wasn’t about to commit to driving a brace of students to an unfamiliar neighbourhood during a blackout in the dark.
“She’s not on my insurance, man.” Josh’s teeth enjoyed audible grinding. “Shut up and let me drive!”
I rested my arm on the open window and enjoyed the breeze, which, while smelling of traffic and hot asphalt, was still better than the inside of the car. I wondered how Dylan was doing. Probably out on the patio. Probably had his feet up and a beer, the lucky bastard. Mind you, it was his day off. Still. All I wanted myself was to be on a patio with a beer, but first I had to get to St Clair and Avenue.
* * *
In front of a row of townhouses Laurel burst into action, shouting “here!!” almost at random, punctuated by waving arms and slaps on his shoulder, causing Josh to slam on the brakes, in turn shuddering the packed Hyundai to a halt and slamming us all forward—well, if we had space to slam, anyway. The back seat was so packed that all the momentum did was wake up Juliette, who murmured, “We here yet?” blearily to Lincoln.
Josh parked, and we all tumbled out of the car. I stretched, putting my shoes back on. Even with the detour it shouldn’t haven’t been that long, but with the cautious driving and constant 4-way stops it became long enough and felt longer. Lincoln stretched too and I caught him eyeing where the back of my shirt had ridden up. I pulled it down and frowned at him but he didn’t seem to notice, losing focus and yawning until he remembered something in his backpack and started ferreting around, pulling out a half-eaten granola bar with triumph.
Ugh. I wasn’t even hungry anymore. The heat and the stress and the lurchy driving had driven all thoughts of food from me.
Laurel, meanwhile, was on the stoop of one of the plaster gingerbreaded townhouses ringing the doorbell, waiting, and growing ever more confused. “No power!” Josh shouted to her and she startled, before commencing pounding on the door instead.
The tastefully painted front door opened swiftly and a thin, sour-faced woman opened the door. You know the type: overly bleached blonde to cover the greys, matching twinset, heels on even in the house. Face like she’d bitten a Tylenol. I couldn’t see her neckline but I imagined she was wearing pearls.
Laurel disappeared into the house, pushing her way past her aunt who regarded us and the overpacked Hyundai with a scowl bordering on disgust. If I hadn’t seen what she was looking at I would assume a smear of roadkill or a backed-up toilet.
I smoothed down my skirt and tucked in my white blouse. I probably looked like death, but at least I didn’t look like a student. I knew the type of people who owned houses like these; supplication must be made. I started to walk up to the door, fixing a friendly-but-woe-betrodden smile on my face, when Laurel bustled out, carrying a cardboard box with an ancient slow-cooker poking out the top, bedecked in orange and brown—no doubt a wedding present her aunt had never used because cooking was for poor people.
And right behind Laurel was her uncle.
A weird sense of déjà vu trickled along my arms and down my legs.
He could have been anyone, should have been anyone. But he was an older white guy, balding with a shaved head and a dark, expensive, blue-green pin-stripe suit. Those guys are everywhere. Right?
His eyes narrowed.
The guy at Kennedy hadn’t looked at me, but this guy did. “Laurel Elizabeth,” he said slowly, without shifting his gaze. His niece stopped, rolling her eyes and sighing dramatically.
“What?” she demanded. “What did I do now?”
He stepped out onto the stoop, pulling the door shut behind him, and I knew I wasn’t going to be allowed to use the phone. “What did your father tell you about picking up hitchhikers?”
Josh looked at me askance. I shrugged, just as surprised.
Laurel tensed. “This isn’t the same.”
“Do you even know these people?” He crossed his arms.
“I know Josh and Lincoln, obviously!”
“And the other two?”
I blinked. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask about the other passenger, assuming she was another housemate. Juliette remained in the car; once she’d ascertained that we were not at Humber she’d gone right back to sleep. Champion.
“God!” Laurel stamped her foot. “You’re just as bad as Dad! I know what I’m doing, okay?” Shoving the box of ancient cookware into Josh’s arms, she conveyed her displeasure to her aunt and uncle via crossed arms and glaring and other teenage huffery. “There’s a blackout, okay? People are stranded, you get that? I’m being, like, a good person, I’m helping people out.”
This didn’t seem like a family that helped people out on the regular, unless Aunt had a charity she donated to for tax-sheltering purposes. Both of them stared at me like I was coated in the blood of stupid frosh and still holding the knife.
I held my hands out. “I’m sorry if I got—”
“You stop.” Laurel spun on her heel to command me. “This isn’t about you. This is about them—” thrust finger behind her, “and my dad trying to control my every move, okay?”
Hands still out, I took a step backwards, bumping into Josh while he tried to cram the cardboard box into the space where I’d been sitting. “I’m really sorry about this,” he said, without looking at me. “I had a feeling this might happen.”
“It’s not your fault,” I replied. “At least you got me this far.”
He straightened up, resting on the door frame. “Humber’s still pretty far.”
“Yeah.”
Laurel and her uncle were now toe-to-toe yelling about ‘responsibility’ and ‘recklessness’ and other r-words while the aunt made shushing motions, her eyes darting around to take in the windows where neighbours theoretically watched via binoculars.
“If I leave peacefully, you think they’ll shut up and let you guys go?”
He shrugged.
“You know,” Lincoln interjected, “this is exactly the sort of reason I don’t talk to my family anymore.” He dug the joint out of his pocket and the aunt let out a shriek, her hands flying to her mouth, which he ignored, concentrating instead on retrieving a lighter from his cargo-pants pocket. “You know?”
“Man, I told you—”
“Hey, man, I’m not in the car, okay? I’m outside, or whatever.”
Aunt pantomimed an aneurysm with theatrical gasps, hands fluttering, skin a whiter shade of pale. Laurel remained defiant, and Uncle still stared at me like I’d been responsible for 9/11.
“Thanks for the ride,” I told Josh, wearil
y.
“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Lincoln replied, magnanimously, offering me one last puff. And you know what? I took it. Just a small hit, but I made sure to blow the smoke out towards Aunt and Uncle, making sure they saw me. Uncle reddened to coronary shades.
“Well, that’s it for me; fellas, Laurel, sleeping person who can’t hear me.” I tossed off a salute at the loaded car. “Have fun at college, study hard, remember not to talk to strangers, blah blah blah, and good luck in traffic.” I slung my jacket over my shoulder and started walking.
7.
Give Peas a Chance
I limped south down Spadina after cutting diagonally along side streets from St. Clair and Avenue. There had been a nice park full of people, kids, dogs. People playing Frisbee like they were at the beach. Along Spadina itself there were lots of young people hanging about—students, probably; I am pretty sure UoT has housing around here—relaxing on front steps, some with fans, some with portable radios.
It had a gentle, almost retro vibe, like watching TVO footage from the 60s or 70s, except they had power in the 60s and 70s, I guess. Just not cable or internet. Some industrious soul had set up an honest-to-god lemonade stand out of some cardboard boxes. A (sealed) bag of peas floated in the jug, but condensation ran down the sides of the glass and my throat scratched just looking at it.
“A toonie?! For lemonade?!” Someone wasn’t having it. “It’s not even real lemonade, it’s from a can! And there’s peas in it!”
I closed my eyes and kept walking until out of earshot (and smell) of the arguing lemonade entrepreneur and customer. I wasn’t in a hurry. Maybe by the time I got to Spadina Station the power would be back and the subway running, but it was a small hope.
I had long grown convinced I would have to walk all the way back to Etobicoke. But how long had the power outage lasted already? A couple of hours? It wouldn’t be that much longer, surely—
—almost like a mirage, I saw a knot of people drinking at the corner. Drinking bottled water, the plastic bottles sparkling in the light.
My pace and pulse quickened a little. Even without my presentation case, I remained slow in my heels, but I was adept at the precarious tip-toed running that such shoes demanded. On the corner there was indeed a guy giving away bottled water. Giving it away. “Oh thank you thank you thank you—!”
But then, as if in slow-motion, someone stepped in front of the generous soul, blocking my view. A tall man, shaved-but-balding head almost glinting in the golden early-evening light. Dark blue pinstripe suit. I stopped, uneasy. He slowly turned and willfully made prolonged eye-contact while he drank the last bottle of water, crumpling up the plastic bottle one-handed before pointing at me and tossing it over his shoulder. A heavy-breathed “what the fuuuuck—” wrenched out of my parched lips. He hopped, a little incongruously, onto a push-scooter and slid away into traffic while giving me the finger.
“FUCK YOU, YOU ASSHOLE!” I yelled after him from the middle of the lane before scrambling out of the way of traffic.
The guy with the now-empty cardboard box of water stared at me. “You know him?”
“No,” I retorted, smoothing my skirt down, noticing a long ladder in my tights. “Fuck me.” I noticed he was staring at me in that wary ‘is she dangerous’ sort of way, and I tried to smile and look friendly. “Sorry. It’s been a rough day.”
“Yeah, I’ve been hearing that.” His look turned to concern and a touch of pity. “You… been out in the sun a while?”
Oh shit. I touched my face gingerly and stinging pain blossomed in return. Sunburn. “I didn’t think I’d be walking for this long,” I explained. Near us was the verge of a house, a strip of grass no more than a couple of feet wide before bushes and a tall, imposing Victorian apartment building. But it was shade. I sat down and took off my shoes. I had long ladders on both legs and blisters on my baby toes. “My purse got stolen. No metropass, no money.” I declined to mention the Nokia in my pocket. It was my secret and I wanted to keep it safe.
“Shit,” the man agreed, still holding the cardboard box by a handle. “Where you trying to get home to?”
“Etobicoke. Islington Village.” I perked up, hoping, for just a moment, that he was offering a ride. But he wasn’t, just sympathy.
“Jeez, that’s far. I live just around the corner. The refrigerators in my shop have been off for too long, so I’m emptying them out.”
That made me laugh.
“What?” he asked, curious.
“I didn’t know bottled water went off,” I explained, feeling like an asshole. Here he was being a nice person and I laughed at him.
But he took it in good humour and joined me in the shade. “Nah. I gave away the ice cream and Popsicles first, mostly to regulars coming in, but then I noticed how many people were just walking. Trying to get home. So anything that I’d have to throw out anyway I gave away.”
“Still doesn’t explain the water.”
He shrugged, studying his feet but he was blushing just a smidge.
I grinned and lay back on my hands, enjoying resting and stretching my toes. All around were the sounds of a normal summer day, except perhaps the buzz of air-conditioners. Cicadas whined, friends joked, asphalt crunched under wheels and sneaker leather. Down the street two drivers honked at each other, unaware of the ‘treat it like a 4-way stop’ guideline. Overhead, wispy white clouds pulled apart like cotton candy, the sky a deep and shimmering blue. “It’s actually a gorgeous day.”
“It is, yeah.” He cocked his head at me, wanting to ask something. Instead he shook his head and got to his feet. “I should go back, keep my dad company. Sorry about the water.”
“Not your fault I was too slow,” I agreed. Then: “Any Popsicles left?”
“No, sorry.”
“Damn.”
He waved at me as he headed on towards his store and I waved back. My toes hurt and I had no wallet or purse and my tights were ruined and I was arguably a tomato-head but at least there were some nice people still in the world.
Which only made me think of that asshole business man. Which in turn made me recall the water being given away. Which then made my throat ache from thirst and my skin itch. Lousy nervous system. I stretched. The nice shopkeeper had wandered west; he probably had a corner store somewhere between here and Bathurst. Maybe if I find it he’ll take pity on me and give me a free can of pop. Required extra walking and no guarantee of anything, but at least the neighbourhood north of Bloor was full of leafy trees to walk under and little parks to rest in—
I sat back up. Parks. The park at Christie Pits! Christie Pits has a pool! It’ll have working water fountains—
Still a good twenty minute walk away. Maybe more like half an hour, considering my blisters. But closer than Etobicoke. And it might be a good place to wait until the power comes on. There might be pay phones! And water fountains! My throat ached. Every time I thought about water, I felt worse. I should get going.
But it was comfortable in the shade. I peered up at the big ivy-coated pile of bricks behind me, bedecked in the gingerbread that characterized a Victorian-built residence, when an idea tapped me on the shoulder. There wasn’t a proper yard out front because the house sat so close to the road, but there’d be a back yard. Maybe with a garden. And they didn’t have garages, they had little laneways between them. And often in little laneways…
I crawled across the grassy verge on my knees, since my tights were ruined away, and peered around the corner of the house. A coiled hose sat mounted on the wall about two meters from the tall wooden fencing.
I checked the darkened windows to see if anyone was watching; I mean, it’s technically private property. Not everyone was suddenly going to grow generous during a time of hardship.
Feeling odd and much more circumspect than I had been when I was cutting the line at the TTC or directing traffic on the Danforth, I tiptoed up the laneway and crouched by the garden hose. I wasn’t sure if there would be enough pressure to spray but there
should be at least some in the tubing.
When I turned the little tap in the brick wall, nothing came out; I was puzzled for a moment before discovering a secondary tap in the brass nozzle. When I turned it, water spurted freely. Delighted, I stuck my face in the stream. Hot at first, vaguely rubbery, but water. And there was pressure. I drank greedily until my stomach cramped in protest, and then dunked my head under the now cold, blissful torrent, soaking my head and shoulders.
Sated, for the moment, I turned off the hose and rested, enjoying the freedom from thirst. The water soaked through my shirt and blazer and trickled down my back into my skirt. But it was far-and-away better than being itchy with sweat.
Twisting my shoulders to try and distribute the drips better, I happened to see movement out of the corner of my eye and found a tiny, round face peering over the wooden fencing. A little blonde girl, with a smudge of freckles across her nose. I gave her a smile and carefully wound the hose back on its holster.
She continued to stare at me with wide eyes. I gave her a wink and put my finger to my lips. Just our little secret, eh, kid? You sure are cute—
The little girl smiled back, then turned and in a volume loud enough to be heard in Scarborough yelled: “MOOOOOM! THERE’S SOMEONE DRINKING OUT OF THE HOSE IN THE DRIVEWAY AGAIN!”
Didn’t have to tell me twice. That wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have, given how the day had gone so far. On my feet in an instant, I skittered down the laneway, crossing the street and hurrying on my way, blisters throbbing but throat mercifully soothed.
* * *
I decided to skip Bloor. It was obvious enough that power wasn’t back on, at least not yet around here; I didn’t need to peer into Spadina Station to verify it. And the side-streets of the Annex were so leafy and shady.
My face itched and I resisted the urge to scratch at it, knowing how much it would hurt. Wet rat tails of hair bounced into my face and I stopped to squeeze some of the water out with my fingers. I may have overdone it with the hose but it had been so refreshing. Nearby, someone had set a sprinkler on a lawn, one of those mechanical ones that used water-pressure to sweep the frame back and forth in slow arcs. Children of a variety of ages played together under the water, while the adults hung out on a front porch chatting.
Blackout Odyssey Page 5