​There it is. After driving around these past few months, inside a subtle growing dread. A dreadful nagging worry carried more heavily, along for the ride over these past few glorious surprisingly warmer December weeks. It fell, or rather, was plopped down on top of us one evening. Not the virtuous softly swirling in the crisp clear vividly blue early morning daylight kind I’ve been extolling over with my passengers… Not the kind I’ve grown to enjoy these past two years simply by having purchased, finally, A pair of Sorels, a proper pair of boots and some long-john underpants for the first time in 35 years… These past few years, I’ve actually found myself going out in it, on purpose.

It drippled down for almost an entire day from low hung thick, dark and dreary clouds. Wet, as it immediately rained upon itself… It came looking almost pre-stained with the salt and sand we throw at it. So quickly becoming the “city snow” I’ve so despised all these years. A mucky annoyance, a bother, a bloody waste of windshield washer. 

The first thing I did, the first day I drove a taxi in the snow here in Kingston? I headed to the boatyard. The wide open pre-dawn empty parking lot what better place to test the brakes on CAR 29. Getting the feel of her as we stopped short, engaged the anti-lock system. A bit of a boy came out in me as I spun a few doughnuts, accelerated a decelerated getting a feel for how the old girl might fishtail if I were to accidentally overly high tailed it to pick up the next fair. She felt good in the snow. Afterwards, standing at Amen Corner, the clouds began to softly illuminate the now surprisingly frozen Cataraqui, I began to feel less dreadful, even a little calmer.

Enough of the stuff fell, plopped to get a feel for how tight the city will become. If my experience here over these last two years holds true, there’ll be seemingly never ending growing piles of it over the next three month, plus whatever remaining agony the bitch and her buddy, old man winter decides to tack on after the end of March. Piles that’ll cut the lanes by a quarter; piles I’ll not be able to see up n' over or around as I pull around certain corners or back out of tight driveways… how much will I have to rely on the other drivers, will they look out for me, coming out?

Today, the sun broke through the still drizzling clouds for about a moment. That moment, I sped down Bath towards the prison. There was a myst over the iced over wetlands, the gap in the city at the foot of Armstrong. There’s a wide open field dotted with trees that separates the inmates from the rest of the citizens. Far enough in from the roadway was a fresher looking blanket, still white, untrampled and coated with a sheen of ice from the rain that's been off n on falling. I pointed and said to my fare “hey, that’s kind of pretty, isn’t it?”

​As the roads began to dry out, I took CAR 29 in for a wash at the very end of my shift. I stood beside her in the again darkening grey clouded sunset, thinking how tomorrow will be another day in the snow. Another day in a string that will most likely stretch for a while, the first day of the next year. CAR 29 and I will greet this day fresh, clean and gleaming… I’ll make sure to get the opportunity to drive by the patch out by by the prisoners… Driving a taxi cab in the snow? I won’t be as easy, but I'm pretty certain, at any given moment, it will be very very pretty.

Outside of myself, there’s very little to be afraid of here in this little city of Kingston… Ontario. I’m sorry, but at the risk of sounding, maybe a bit slighting, maybe even all high n’ mighty, the very worst neighbourhoods in this limestone wonderland remind me of the better neighbourhoods I used to trudge through to get to far worse places. Those nastily useful places I once felt the burning desire to get to in those a little bigger and then gigantic cities… some time ago. This being said, Kingston’s not without it’s own wretched teams of absolutely creepy n' crazed people. Sadly, crystal has taken her hold over far many more of the denizens here than one would ever want to admit possible in a wee garden-like place such as this.

I got the first sort of frightening dose of good old fashioned fear on Christmas Day morning. Excited as any little boy would be on this glorious of all mornings, I jumped into CAR 29 and bolted straight down to the boatyard. Happily wondering what presents might await me there this morning. Maybe a goose or a low flying duck, maybe one magic little star peaking out from behind this myst. There'd be no stars out on this morning as I stood in the cloud covered darkness, I heard something, what was it? People talking loudly over by the Place Des Armes Condos? A Christmas morning domestic? A little too much eggnog… again, sadly I couldn't get that lucky… The sound was a deranged Bumblebee man coming quite quickly towards me. Strolling alone from the far shore. He was muttering to himself, breathing heavily, sniffling and grunt punching the air as if faced with some imaginary boxing match foe. I kept CAR 29 between myself and this Bumblebee man as he walked by, while I still tugging away on the morning’s wake me up smoke. Bumblebee man caused an uneasy feeling, but mostly I felt unfairly interrupted in this special place I've grown to call, my very own. This special place now being invaded, on this most glorious of all mornings, by some muttering idiot raising inside my still somewhat unawakened mind, just a little twinge of fear.

This particular Bumblebee man was wearing a wholly soaking wet ratty old yellow and black striped parka, unzipped and open. He was wearing no hat against the windy wet weather that had mangled his hair… He could just as easily sweated it wet as by simply being out far too long on a long damp night. Who knows, and who know why I would have to face this F’n mess of a fella on this, my special Christmas morning in CAR 29. Why’d I have to put up with this shit, on this day of all days? All of suddenly like he broke from stride, his mutterings stopping, his air punching trance ending as if he'd just boxed his way out of a corner. He took notice of me and moved towards the CAR... I jumped into it and with an “…I don’t need this shit” momentum and sped out of my boatyard quick, like a jumpy little bunny… thinking well, damn this really dampened what should have been a very jolly good start to my day. As I spun onto Wellington, I got my first call... over to one of the patient visitors “stay over” places, those boarding house like guest homes over behind the Hotel Dieu Hospital on Johnson… I sat out in front, in what was a now dreary rainfall and dreamed of a trip out of town… turned out to be a NOW SHOW… oh, what a glorious way to start this day… this day of all days.

After about a half hour of mindlessly cruising around the pretty old part of this little city; looking at the few pretty twinkling lights folks had left on overnight. I figured Bumblebee man would have wandered off by now. I swung back into the boatyard, straight to what I’ll now call Amen Corner, over by the little tree next to the little bench where, a few nights back, a good pal and I had watch a full moon’s halo make an eyeball of itself in the more brightly lit up early night's sky. I didn’t get the chance to even get out of the CAR, taking the time to do a little reading. I flicked on the overhead lights on, blinding me to the outside; didn’t hear even the slightest of rustling when all of a sudden there was Bumblebee man blurred through the rain smudges of the window, pulling at the passenger side door handle. A click of the locks as I popped CAR 29 into drive, hit the gas and got the hell outta there… just as mad as I was startled... fast as I can. 

It wouldn’t be until the sun was quite a bit further up n’ behind the thick cloud bank that greeted Kingston on this Christmas Day morning that I’d bother heading back to my boatyard. A smeared yellowish dot softly lighting up the grey drizzly day as tried once again to stand there, as I do every morning, alone in my thoughts at Amen Corner while having the morning’s most relaxing of smokes. I did notice that Bumblebee Man was still there. He'd made his way all the way out to the end of the jetty, the breakwater. No worries, I figured it would have taken him at least ten minutes to walk in from out there. Then as if properly wound up, like clockwork, damn if he didn’t start coming back towards me… like an overly n' poorly programmed wind-up toy zombie-like android, he had noticed CAR 29 and… he just kept right on coming.

I watched him stutter stumble on back; far too far out there to hear him, I just assumed he was still sniffling and grunting as he air-punched and ducked in and around the boats all nestled on shore, up on their cradles and wrapped up in tarps for winter. I figured I had time enough to finish my smoke; when Bumblebee man went out of sight behind some old work sheds, I stepped back into the CAR and finally headed off for good into what turned out to be a pretty marvellous day shuffling folks from Mom’s Christmas to Dad’s… by the end, I’d pretty much forgotten about Bumblebee man. Was he was having his own special Crystalline Christmas? My guess, who knows, perhaps he'd slipped into the Cataraqui and floated off to greet his own special Jesus on that glorious morning. Nothing about it in the papers but, who reads the papers anymore and with so few of them writing up stories about fucked up stoned losers who fall into rivers.... who'd really care.

The very next morning, Boxing Day as it's known here, before I was even able to get to my boatyard, I got my first call. An up late gang of just past being cute kids, still up and at it this early in the morning on something. A friendly bunch who decided to school me on Ecstasy …apparently they preferred pure MDMA, Molly as they now called it. I don’t know, I guess I must have missed something over the years. Good thing I’ve not been on the market for ages, who knows what I’d have got myself into asking for something not knowing of it’s name change. Bloody marketing guys, they’ll rebrand everything eventually if we don’t watch ‘em too closely. 

As I listened to them ramble on about next to nothing, I overheard one of them mention a place called The Trap. Some rotten old flea bitten room in back of the vacant place beside the Tattoo Parlour in that slightly dilapidated row of old converted into retail row of houses just up from Division on Princess. Just as I dropped off the kids, a bit further up Princess, near Alfred, I got my next call for… the vacant place beside the Tattoo Parlour just up from Division on Princess… My guess at what the place called “The Trap” might have, that place they had mentioned, appeared to be bang on the money. As stepping into my CAR, early Boxing Day morning was none other than a trapped fella I could only describe a way to old to be this so stoned and sketchy, this early in the morning. Quite honestly the scariest, well to be totally honest, the only scary fare I’ve had in my CAR, so far.

Immediately inside Mr. Too Old n’ Sketchy started in with the standard fare nonsensical disjointed babble. I paused the CAR when he told me we’d have to stop at a convenience store as he had no money “…can I put this on my ODSP account?” I radioed his account number in knowing full well I wouldn’t get a confirmation from the confounded dispatcher. I just wanted the way too old, self inflicted scatter brained asshole in my back seat to be reminded that indeed I did have this radio contact. I politely told him we couldn’t use his disability account on account this wasn’t a trip to or from a methadone clinic, “…you know (saying under my breath, you fucking asshole) what this account of yours is assigned to you for.” After a bit of whining he shuffled through a wad of bills he had all along in his pocket and handed me two twenties to hold on to as I drove him all the way out to Collin’s Bay. A twenty or so minute drive I did all I could to cut to 15... or so. There but for the grace… I thought as I raced through the first of a few “...but officer It was yellow” lights…

A few days earlier, I’d picked up a couple of young fellas out there in Old Collin’s Bay. It was nearing the end of a shift when they asked me to whisk them, as fast as I could, all way through to the other end of the city so they could drop off an “expense report” to a welfare worker. One of them had just been paroled, the other, his older brother seemed to be coaching him on the finer points of making sure the money kept rolling in as he rolled out of Quinte, the smaller, local Pen where they park misdemeanor offenders; drunkards, the lit up n' high guys and semi-violent idiots who'd maybe taken a swing at the arresting officers when caught being too drunkenly stupid in public places on those special occasions of their own making. I was obligingly racing along Bath Road, near Queen Mary, towards the welfare office when they had me stop… they’d noticed something and decided they needed to pull into a friend's place… for something… you know, something or another.

I told ‘em they’d need to leave me something of value if they wanted to hold onto the car, have me wait as they visited this friend. I chuckled as the recently released jailbird, the boneheaded younger of brothers handed me his Tim Horton’s stuffed cookie, “…you’ll have to do better than this?” The older brother handed me two twenties as they got out and went on up inside one of Kingston’s joyless looking row-house low income apartments. I waited until it was really too late to make it to the welfare office before wandering up and knocking on the door. I asked the nice young lady who answered if these two young fellas would be re-joining me on this ride? The fare was getting bigger and we really had to go now if they wanted to get to the office to take care of the business of making sure they’d get more money. She went in then came right back to tell me to wait just a few minutes more.

The brothers stumbled back into the CAR well after we’d run out of time to make it to the welfare office. They asked me to take them back home to Collin’s Bay, stopping first to pick up a phone card and to see if a pair of opening night Star Wars tickets might still be handy... and, didn’t that get them excited when they scored themselves seats for tomorrow night’s 4:30 opening day show. In our good mood the three of us helped out some homeless traveler outside the theatre. I gave him the leftovers in an old pack of cheap reservation cigarettes; the older brother gave him a twenty to help him get back to Toronto, for Christmas… They were all giggles as they wore their especially created and branded Star Wars Storm Trooper 3D glasses the rest of the way home. It was dark as I pulled into their poorly lit driveway, almost missing it as I pulled off the Bath Road, which out here is nearly a highway… We’d spent nearly an hour together so almost quite fondly I wished ‘em a gleeful goodnight, wishing them a Happy Christmas, telling ‘em I hope they enjoyed their Star Wars opening moment. Forty dollars or so richer, I logged out and headed CAR 29 in the direction of home.

…now let's get back in the CAR on Boxing Day morning. I was doing my best to keep old Mr. Twitchy, Too Sketchy calm and relaxed. If I’ve learned nothing, I know it takes very little to get a fella in the throes of a vein-banged or smoked up Crystal Meth high hopping, mad or erratic, even just a little plain crazed enough to start flailing, screaming or simply getting too out of control to be riding in the back seat of a cab in the dark on the way out to some unknown address that he promised we’d find along the way; a way out to Old Collin’s Bay. I’ve had far too many of my own conversations with overly-stoned-stupid drug addicts to know enough to keep the conversation from herkily-jerking away from the mission at hand; that of getting this asshole OUT OF MY CAR! I softly kept his babbling-ramblings roiling in a friendly direction; laughing with him at his inane proclamations, sharing best I could in his deranged delusion, always assuring him that he might be making sense, anything, just enough to keep him focussed on giving me directions to exactly where we were going… as quickly and politely as we could. I know enough to know, one wrong flinch and this fella could have easily started digging through his pockets, past the wad of bills he couldn't find earlier. Looking for something sharp n’ pointed... I kept him quiet and we eventually found the place we'd been headed towards.

As soon as he said “…hey turn left, right in here.” it immediately seemed all at once all too familiar. I knew exactly where we were. I told him I’d taken two boys for a ride through town from this exact place just the other day. His mood changed (again) immediately to one of, hey it might have even been joy… “Oh, for Christ sakes…” he chirped, “…so you've met my boys!” I asked him if they had enjoyed Star Wars, he mumbled something as I handed him the change from the two twenties he given me to keep the ride going earlier. Thankfully he simply stumbled out of the CAR as I wished him and his boys another Happy Christmas. As soon as he was clear of the CAR, headed off towards his door, I peeled out of his driveway and went straight to the Tim Horton’s just down the road… it wasn’t open, but I wanted to stop, decompress rest my mind for a bit, digest the moment and think about, what was it I was feeling? Was it old fashioned fear, or was I simply loathing… all these so totally lost in nasty drugged losers.

I asked myself... just what would I miss If I were to lose my life behind the wheel of this CAR 29? A crash, a wrecked misadventure or an inadvertent unprovoked slash of a pointy thingy poke from some meth head I'd pick up along my way. Not much I supose, the tip, the next fare the next nice conversation... so losing my life, is this what I fear? Or do I fear more my own growing loathing of what’s being stolen by these characters I’ve just met… Do I fear seeing another family of nutbars, two too boyishly young jailbirds destroyed by watching daddy stumbling home stoned out his mind after Christmas, out of his mind on the worst drug anyone could ever imagine? Do I fear my morning’s serenity being shattered by a wretched Bumblebee man who can’t leave me alone in my own place on a very special morning, that place I go each and almost every single morning and on those special full mooned eyeball evenings with a very special friend? Perhaps I fear most for the future these morons will leave for my son.

Honestly though, it’s really just Kingston and I truly don’t really don’t fear any of this all that much… And who wouldn’t loath having their garden-like little city being sullied by this kind of annoyance? Putting up with these far too strung-out and flung-out from the normal, totally lost people, wretchedly wandering around without any real purpose? Who doesn’t get tired of all those who say we can and should save ‘em then start by doing absolutely nothing about it all by themselves… I guess it’s my anger at this that has me fearing my thinking on this the most as… all I can do really is to get ‘em where they’re going while hoping they don’t get the notion to poke a hole in me and my imaginary impression that this place is any different than the other places I’ve been to… worse places that, if you can imagine, I can so easily recall and call all my own.

I just found out the Queen's Inn overnight desk clerk is a Jazz man, go figure a drummer. He’s got no gigs on the go, bandless at present but he does have a kit in the basement, a keyboard, a little makeshift recording studio he’s laying down tracks on. He knows Mr. Love and gets into Musiikki, sometimes. I told him how much a friend and I enjoy hearing Trebot and Nubbs… he smiled.

I was surprised to find out that the overnight desk clerk over at the Queen's Inn hadn’t seen Jarmusch’ Night Train… “are you into films?” he asked me. I told him how I’d kinda given up for the most part on movies as even the so-called underground indies seemed all formula these days. All high realistic tales from tiny little towns, made specifically for Sundance. You know well written but tounge-twisted little plots, most with unsatisfying non-endings… I guess there’s no harm in bringing the craft down a notch, I thought immediately as I said this.

He spoke of his music, I spoke of a mission in re-univenting myself, rebuilding unfinished sculpture, pretending as we drove the fast way uptown on my secret little back street, I told him I was taking this route as, first it was faster and skipped all the lights and that it allowed me to send magical vibrations to a loved one whose place we’d drove by. He dug it and asked me what books I’d been reading… “I’ve kind of given up on books too…” I told him how’d I’d run out of time to read any longer as I’ve simply left myself too much to do. He got it but said all the same, you should read Miller… “…really” I said, shaking a bit, “…you’ve just spooked me… man.” As, this was the gist of an earlier vibration.

As I stopped, pulled into his driveway to drop off the over-night desk clerk a way up on Montreal. I mentioned I might pop into say hello one evening if I were walking back from Musiikki and tapped on the taxicab medallion, my licence to drive I have dangling from my dashboard… “ever think of getting one of these, I bet you’d get into it?” He shook his head for a moment as he told me “I’d love to…” but cars petrified me.” He sounded a bit tired but quite happy to be doing the dream job he’d been given. “It’s really just great having a job… man” he told me as he popped outta the cab.

Why bother to get a head start by looking at a weather report? They sky is going to do what it’s going to do, I can’t change it, it’s way way bigger than me. Knowledge of the weather need only be immediate, for the moment… what’s it doing, right now as I turn this corner, search for a street number and start looking for my fare's address. Oh, certainly anticipation and preparation, bracing oneself for what may come next might be worthwhile, but, what's good about certainty and… where’s the fun in that?

I pick up a sense for the impending weather from the folks in my car, “…they say it’s going to be warmer all this week.” “Looks like we’ll finally get some snow tomorrow.” ...listening half heartedly I flick on the windshield wipers when I need them. After all, I work outdoors in a fast moving climate controlled canister, a capsule slowing a bit if the roads get too slick and slippery. I’m rarely more than a half hour from home if my socks get too wet. I may carry a duffle bag one day, a heavy coat, gloves and bigger boots if it ever does begin to pile up. In the meantime, I'll watch out for the weather through my windshield… so totally in awe of it all.

I began to drive at the end of last August's lush summer’s green. Treated to what was quite likely the most glorious fall I’ve yet to see. I watched the old maple at St. George’s corner at Johnson and King turn a certain blood-orange red I’d never expect was even possible. There is a clump of trees along City Park that, as they thinned on rainy days, their black stems seemingly having been drawn quickly, charcoal stick gestures behind yellow, ever brighter, day after day fewer translucent leaves laying against damp darkened limestone grey skies… Kingston is a garden… I’ve rolled down the middle part of Johnson, in the morning as the sun broke open and cast an electric hue over the city, bouncing so brightly off Brock Towers, one couldn’t help singing, something, anything that came to mind while heading further into the older part of town, just passing Barrie. I’ve swung onto Livingston as the sunshine between each leftover leaf. glittering, seemed to match seamlessly with twinkle off each little wavelet out on a light winded lake. I’ve watched this garden blown furiously to the ground, nothing left but old bent spines, almost colorlessly brown and dried out anatomy diagrams, Grey’s nervous and/or cardiovascular systems… barely breathing as we head towards another older man’s winter…

I’m sure a few pals might wonder if this ever gets boring, driving around and around on these same few streets day in day out, hour after hour. Much like any moment I’ve spent over n' over with any really good friend, I’ve never driven down the exact same street twice... I’ve never tired of a moment spent doing the same thing with old friends, who… like the weather, that allows me to decide for myself whether to be bored or not. And like the weather, why sit around and wonder what any of these wondering friends may do next. Oh, certainly it’s good to put on the right boots when off to meet with good friends, but to worry over what might “blow over that day”… I’ve seen glittering smiles, twinkle off the same same cheeks where knotted brows and gloomy thoughts grow then get blown to the ground, swept away by a simple lighter blown breezy n' comfortable conversation… boring? The skies going to do… as my friends might do; it's all much bigger than me and rather than try and get a head start on it all before I head out the door… the weather reports right up in the sky and... oh great, and it’s starting to snow... again.

She looked to be about 17 months pregnant as she waddled down the steps from her apartment and plopped herself into my cab.. Just as I was kicking myself for not having leapt out to open her door… “What you’ve not finished cooking that turkey? When are you due?” She said she was ready to pop but not for a month or so… no problem, the speed bumps on Queen Mary wouldn’t bother her a bit.
​
“We're off to Nickel and back?” After having her mother over for Christmas morning, she was off to pick up her son from a night, Christmas morning at his dad’s place. “How many do you have?” She told me the one in the oven would be her second, her girl, her voice, crackeling with smiles. Immediately correcting herself, she reminded us both that she had two sons… the other one spending Christmas at another dad’s place... this year.

We swung around beside a lawn strewn with last year's broken Christmas presents. As she ran across the muddy yard, Jennifer opened the door in her pyjamas to greet her. Dominic, was excitedly pulling on his coat, rushing out the door faster than the coat could follow as they all exchanged hugs, warm friendly smiles …waves goodbye as the two of them skipped back into the cab. “Did you get everything you asked for?” asked his overstuffed n' happily beaming to see him, mama. “I got Halo 3, but I wanted 4… but I got my x-box, it’s almost all set up… there’s a wire that connects it to…” “…so Nana Ann is at our place for lunch, then we’re going to Nana Carols for dinner…” “…are there presents at our place?” yes, and there’d be presents at Carols place too. “...which one’s Nana Carol?” She was the one with Bob, Danny's mom. “Why doesn’t Nana Carol live with grandpa Mike?” “Because they split up like you dad and I did… “Oh and Nana Helen is coming tomorrow, she want’s to take you downtown all by yourself…” “Which one’s he again?” asked Dominic. I could easily understand his confusion, but then immediately imagined the, what must have been six or seven mountains of dollar store gifts this kid would be faced with over the last and next 24 hours or so…
​
Mom’s place in the morning with Christmas dinner at Dad’s.... shuffling folks from various parents and exes to grandad’s new girlfriend's place then over to either, is it her mom’s or maybe it’s her dad’s or both their turns to host Christmas this year. Then, just as I was kicking myself for dang not again, not leaping to open the door for Dominic’s mother’s I was left thinking of…  my son with his mother down in New York, his Aunt, Uncle and cousins over from Rome, with Nonna... me alone in my CAR, driving around Kingston this Christmas… it only my half that's half bad... on the other hand... the tips and the snippets of stories describing which family member's been left where with who were pretty darned good... this year.

I’ve asked him his name on a number of occasions but have simply forgotten it… A wizened old fella, a fellow cab driver, the first one of many that I driven either to or from their own days, mostly nights of driving. I picked Scottie up early, the first fare one morning one of the very first days after I’d started in on this little adventure. It was the day I would catch my first fare all the way to Toronto. This is probably why I count Scottie as, not just another old coot of a driver, but someone I’ve had in my CAR on more than one occasion and who I treat as kind of special each time he gets in.

That first morning he showed and told me a few things about driving. It's important to mention, he told me these few things in his especially strong Scottish accent. Since, he's never showed me anything in a fashion that may suggest they’re things I really must be doing, just tips n' tricks he thinks I might find useful. He’s also shared a few of his own stories. You know, I’d believe it if I were told he’s been driving a taxi around the city of Kingston pretty much forever, of course this would put into suspicion the origin of… his strong Scottish accent.

Scottie lives in one of those three frightening apartments up in the heights, on Compton. The one’s I’ve been told are actually quite lovely, whose tenants are really quite friendly, quiet and quite nice to live with. He lives there alone with two, maybe three cats. He’s admitted that he is afraid that one day these cats might eat him. Apparently he often forgets to feed them. He told me this while showing me the scratches they'd given him the day before, he speculated that he was given these scratches to remind him,m they’re waiting. Scottie has reminded me of something I fear about doing all this driving… alone.

I no longer keep nor have any interest in cats, but keep pretty good time and have a fairly good handle on my readiness for action, my emotions and ability to stay awake long enough to participate with people, my pals in activities other than driving around in circles. I do worry that these early starts and the long hours may eventually exhaust me, withdraw me into my own little dinggie-dirty apartment. I’ve really no interest in one day waking up in the dark up on Compton.

So I eat as much and as well as I can. Mega dose myself with echinacea, drink as much coffee flavoured water as is possible and only smoke cigarette whenever I can. I’ll likely start swimming again and look forward to keeping an old promise I made to myself by joining the club and spending a whole summer racing and sailing every evening this coming season. Then again maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to end up like Scottie, after all he seems very happy. But as much as I do love this driving... I really don’t want to be eaten up by this or by cats. 

I’ve a guilty pleasure… I’ve decided to drive as many days in December as my owner will allow. Sadly, he won’t let me drive every day, so… perhaps one day, we’ll thank my owner. Regardless… it’s started; the other day I noticed, that with very little warning, I began wishing my fares a “Merry Christmas” as they hopped out of my car wherever, to do whatever it was they needed my driving them there, to do… I’ve also found myself, as it’s an easy n’ ready made conversation opener asking “...are you all set for Christmas?”

Am I ready for Christmas? Certainly. For what’s truly only the second time ever, I’ve absolutely no plans. Well no plans other than to go for a drive. I’ll drive on the day of Christmas Eve. Weather permitting, I’ll drive out to Trenton for a eve dinner with my family, then head back quickly to rest up for… I admit, I am a little excited to see just what it’s like, feel the flow of the City, meet the people in need of a lift on Christmas Day. To be even more honest, I’m more excited about this Christmas than I have been in well, ever really.

The last time I had absolutely nothing to do on Christmas; earlier in the year I had split with the Jewish woman I’d been seeing for far too long. She went off to The Island visit her family and do the Christmas things they most liked to do, most likely shopping. On that Eve I went to a rigorous midnight mass at Smokey Tom's, St. Thomas Episcopalian on 5th Avenue, just across the street from Patrick's Place, Manhattan's most famous Catholic Church which was way too busy to get into. I walked home over the 59th Street Bridge after a few beers at 3am. I awoke quite early with the notion to wander around handing out cigarettes to homeless folks. I walked over the Williamsburg Bridge, into the city and had breakfast at some deli, then walked back over the river and as deep into South Brooklyn as I could manage. I had a muslim dinner at some Turkish restaurant, took the Subway back into the City, found an open hotel bar then wandered home thinking… what a lovely Christmas alone it was.

Don’t misinterpret this. I’m not one of these folks who couldn’t be bothered over Christmas. On the contrary I’ve a number of what some might consider bothersome Christmas projects already underway. There are a bunch of songs I like to hear at Christmas, and I’ve begun to listen to them. It’s been years since I’ve had a Christmas List of shopping obligations, but I have yanked myself into a few stores… For years now my M.O. has been to browse with intent to get a gift for one or two people, if something jumps out at me for them, or someone else, well that’s the person who gets the one or two gifts this year. In other words, I don’t go out looking to fill a list of gifts, I simply put myself in a position to let certain gifts find me. So far… no one’s been too disappointed.

I’ve no illusions of being totally alone this Christmas. On the contrary, I plan to be a crucial tool of service along a critical path to the success of more than a few people’s Christmases as I drive 'em around in CAR 29, here in this old Currier and Ives look-a-like kinda city. Who knows, maybe one of my fares will invite me in for turkey dinner, maybe offer me a cold turkey on wonderbread sandwich on Boxing Day. We’ll leave these admittedly remote possibilities open along with none of the other expectations I do not have. I may yet get an invite from some random friend that strikes my fancy, I've kind of found myself resisting this. I may get a far flung fare that takes me a way out of the city and spend the rest of my day simply, coming home... for Christmas.

So, it’s off we go alone in CAR 29. No plans no pressures... no commitments nor obligations. A simple day of driving around in limestone circles to see what happens on the streets of Kingston at Christmas. It’s not lost on me that this little guilty pleasure is just a little bit selfish, if it weren't, how could I feel guilty. I’ll even admit that it’s a well crafted plan to have no plan at all. In the end, something will happen, there will be a story, maybe two to be told as this guilty pleasure plan of mine unfolds around me… And... if you must, indeed I do know there is cost to all guilty pleasures… all tolled? It has been noted, perhaps with just a little solemnity, this second time 'round, this year's Christmas... The cost of having a day off n' alone in CAR 29, well... it's simply quite immeasurable.

​Flying… low and alone, overhead honking as geese do. This solo goose flew in quite spectacular fashion over my CAR. Lost? Or simply wandering on air, calling out to another or one of the many more gaggles of geese floating around this old city. Is he looking for his lost soul mate maybe seeking a new one? Perhaps searching for his lost flock, old friendships or something more simple maybe something to eat, see or do… I don’t recall having ever seeing a goose fly by solo. I found myself wondering just what this goose and I might get up to this morning… me for the most part, alone in CAR 29…

Driving… around in these little limestone circles picking up and yicketty yacking with all sorts of people as cab drivers do. At the risk of sounding like I’m tooting, dare I say, I do tool about in a spectacular fashion with ease around this old little city. Never honking but grilling my fares softly, simple conversations, peppered with questions. Am I like this goose also looking for, something? Perhaps just another story to tell, a new friendship or something as simple as something different to see. Maybe some sense of belonging? Or it’s really quite possible, there’s just nothing much better to do.

Being… of some form of good service may honestly be the only thing I should aim for. Certainly not the measly bits of money, dimes and nickles nor my new vaunted status, nor even a notoriety I once dreamed I was after. Simply starting each day down by the boatyard, watching my stars change position. Looking up at our moon and noticing a goose, flying solo quite spectacularly low, over my CAR. A sight that on this colder almost winter like morning really got me thinking; all these things I once got myself up to and into… I started laughing and smiling as I stood watching and listening to him honking… you know maybe, just maybe this smile and somewhat sharp and pointed chuckle, this laughter was all the silly goose was after… maybe me too, after all I am after.

I hit a trifecta this morning, or was I just along for the ride? A natural trifecta no less… or maybe hat trick. No diddling nor dawdling, I hopped in and rode CAR 29 straight to the boatyard. While gazing at the few stars able to shine through the once again all too cloudy, pitched black and blue end of another night’s sky, I got the first call. A Zone 22 call, one reason I go down to the boatyard, another, …simply to gaze at the stars.

It was a pick up at the Armed Forces Base, off to the airport. Essentially, as clear across town as it gets, in this town. Waiting at the barracks, a nice fella, a bit wobbly, a helicopter pilot. I’d be driving him part way to Edmonton, his home, this morning. After a rambling conversation with a stop for a breakfast sandwich, his vitamin G enriched cure for a hangover and a valiant attempt not to talk about refugees… after shaking his hand and thanking him again for his service, I followed my gut rule, head… “back to the middle”… downtown to Zone 1.

I failed to make it all the way back into Zone 1 before the next call. On the way through Zone 6… got a call to pick up on Clergy, I turned into the campus then off to the railway station with a sweet young lady, a student, an Art History major on her way to help her boyfriend focus, study for exams in some other college town. The sweet young student and I had lovely conversation… were the Group of Seven the first Canadians to paint Canada a Canadian would? When should a contemporary Canadian artist identify themselves, say in their bio, as Canadian Artist? Perhaps if they’re painting Canada as only a Canadian could, or should? As I bid her goodbye I asked if she had a minor, a back up plan. I shook her hand and  told her I was off to find a fare to the bus station… this seemed the natural thing for me to do next.

There's really no choice where to go when bolting from the railway station. I slipped into Zone 8. With no diddling nor dawdling I raced down Sir John’s Boulevard, left onto Johnson heading as quickly as I could to back to the middle, again… Back to Zone 1. As I rounded St. George's corner, left onto King towards the Market Square I heard a shout… “hey, taxi”! it's kind of a surprise for someone to flag a cab on the street in Kingston. I stopped short, backed up… In jumped a big fella who said, “Can you get me to the Bus Station?”

This big fella was just a little surprised, taken aback a bit by the almost high five n’ fist pumpin' reaction to this simple request for a lift, from a cab. After I told him what had just happened, that he’d completed a trifecta, he joined in my celebration best he could, which as I would learn was pretty darn good considering  he was on his way back to Newfoundland after a three day stay, visiting a good friend in the hospital who we’d almost lost in a car crash near Brockville earlier this week.

“Any lasting injuries…?” …perhaps a brain injury, I almost didn’t want to asked him… yup… “Well the brain does have a way of doing all it can to heal itself, learning to work in different ways my friend… your friend will be OK.” We talked a bit about driving and how I try to do it safely. Turns out this Newfoundlander was an underwater welder, works on the rigs. We had an intensely enjoyable conversation about doing jobs in hostile environments, you know, like driving this CAR here on the sleepy streets of Kingston, on the way to the… bus… trains n’ airplanes... stations... (church basement BINGO). The Holy Trinity of consecutive taxicab destinations?

After a few more fares, when things settled down, I found myself sitting for a bit in the Riocan parking lot. I stretched out of the cab and lit up a smoke to ponder the odds of the cleverly devised, GPS driven newfangled dispatch system serving me up three straight trips to the airport, bus and train stations… by 7am no less. A good day already, would get even better. By 11am all the calls had been longer trips, double digit fares with time for good conversations. Indeed this cleverly devised n’ automated, the GPS driven dispatch system was working folks well into my. Catching my breath in a parking-lot way out west, along Gardiner, the Riocan is a vast “big-box” store strip mall that stretches on forever. I felt the urge to give  a little bit of thanks, even to say a little prayer, even if I wasn’t exactly standing anywhere near one of Kingston’s holiest of locations... The Riocan's big-box parking lot would just have to do.

I’ve never been much of a really religious fellow, but after easing up on some old conceits of late, say such as a silly old disbelief in a God... This morning I thought maybe I should I’d give it an even bigger shot. As I stood alone, leaning on the opened door of CAR 29. Bathed, squinting at the day's bright sky, awash in a surprisingly warm December’s low hung sunshine. I thought, let's push this giving thanks thing as far as I can. Grasping at the littlest bit of learning from all this reading, talking, thinking and meeting with good fellows these last few years, I almost spontaneously, definitely quite awkwardly I blurted out the words “If thy will be done…”

Eh hem, “If thy will be done… let the brain injured friend of the underwater welder be healed up, hopefully making his Newfy buddy very happy” …if thy will be done, let the Ukrainian bride of the helicopter pilot break free of immigration's red tape and be repatriated with her lover, her new husband here, where Canadians paint Canada as it ought to be painted, you know, where it’s just a little bit safer. If it be thy will, let our sweet little Miss Art Major find a career outside of the aisles of Costco or Walmart or… further afield than these vast n’ endless big-box strip mall parking lot stores… maybe she’ll switch to studying nursing as I jokingly suggested on our way to the train station.

If thy will be done, help the so totally drug addicted woman who bickered with her fella in my CAR clear across town find an answer to her drunken mumbled confession, “I hate this life”… allow the soon to be a mother-in-law’s overworked and exhausted future son be seizure free for a few days, at least help him keep his driver’s licence… If it be thy will, let the woman who broke out into tears as she got out of the wheelchair and laid her broken leg out in the backseat of my CAR enjoy Christmas despite having to cancel all her holiday travel plans to northern Winnipeg and… let the anxious car salesman who admitted so shamefully that, for the first time in months, he’d taken his sick stricken wife’s Oxycodone again... if it be thy will let him not have to have some cabbie like me swing him by the Methadone clinic on his way to work... too many more mornings. If thy will be done, let his young wife respond to these last few treatments and overcome her cancer and get on with her new career here in Kingston and enjoy raising their daughter… at this point I was quite certain, this was when I was meant to say, Amen... right?

If God only knew, well he’d probably know I’m really quite happy with the good folks that get put into my CAR by this new fangled and very clever, GPS driven automated dispatch contraption. How on some days, especially days when the December sun seems a bit brighter, definitely warmer that I’m thankful to be driving CAR 29… or, just along for the ride with strangers who tell me short stories of things that they’re doing or might get up to when they arrive at the places, say the airport, bus or train stations. The place in this city  I drop ‘em off at or the further afield far away places I take them part way to… in Part two of perhaps three of this now, too  long winded story.

...the company I drive for uses a cleverly devised automated GPS driven dispatch system to fairly divvy up the fares amongst all us “free agent” drivers. Our whereabouts and fare status are fed into the system; when a call comes in, it’s routed to the first available car in the zone in which the pick up is to be made. If the zone is empty of CARs, the system finds the closest CAR in the adjacent zone. There’s some gaming one can do, but for the most part, it’s simply where n’ when you are… luck, fate… providence... who really knows?

The city is carved up into 20+ some odd zones. These zones originate downtown in Zone 1 and stretch outwards into the thinner, more spread out parts of the City; stretching as Kingston does, straight out and on into the wilderness. The single digit zones more or less cover the city proper, the “teen” zones cover the western expanses while the zones in the 20s cover the east side of the city, the Armed Forces Base, and mostly more freshly minted subdivisions across the Cataraqui River. The city of Kingston’s post Harris’ amalgamated taxi cab service stretches pretty much from Napanee to Gananoqui and say Battersea to the North.

These zones act more or less as a traditional “taxi stand” might work. Taxi stands, you know, those long lines of empty cabs you used to see idling outside of the landmarks, grocery stores, bus and railways stations in your city. When a taxi drives into one of Kingston's 20+ or so odd zone, they are “lined up”, behind the other cabs already in that zone and receive calls for pick ups in order of arrival. Zones “churn” at different rates at different times on different days. I know there’s a rhythm to this city, I can already begin to feel it, but at this early stage of my next career this rhythm still feels erratic, fickle, often seemingly dependent on nothing more than the color strength and accuracy of the morning’s sunrise…

Each zone has a mix of businesses the odd attraction or special location and a mix of residences. Kingston’s General Hospital and the University are the key features of Zone 6. Zone 13 is all about the Mall and drive by shopping strips. There’s another smaller mall and the central transit bus hub in Zone 8. Like any given city, Kingston’s neighbourhood are indeed demographically divided but mixed up all over each zone. There are enclaves of this over there and a few ramshackled blocks of that over there in each of the zones. Upon saying this however, it’s also easy to say Zone 3 is chock full folks with very little dough and a lot of low income housing while downtown, Zone 1 is home to all the old n’ finery, the “Earl Street Mansions” and lake shore condos. Zone 6 is pretty well to do, Zone 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9 are various shades of whats left of our middle classes, in varying states of disrepair, despair and get me outta here’s. Zone 2? It’s full of zombies, weirdos and well meaning young couples… my house? It’s exactly on the edge of Zones 1 and 2. Like I said, it’s a pretty mixed up lil’ (very) old City.

There’s a little more than an itty bitty skill to “working the zones” other than developing the aforementioned inherent feel for the cities ebbs n’ flows, it’s rhythms vibrations and minute by minute undulations. Auguring your expectations and aligning ‘em with the sunrise you saw from the river’s shore early in the morning, a challange, but a skill… that can be learned? Or a feeling, a twinge n’ twingled sense of what’s going on around you… I suppose that even without much sense at all I seem to be doing OK, pulling good enough numbers to keep my owner happy. At least, he looks happy… well, he hasn’t yelled at me yet as I’ve heard a few drivers say, he might one day. Skill, sense or twinge n’ twingles… The only real choices I have make each day are… “…should I stay or should I go now?” say if I drop a fare off at the train station in Zone 11. AND, if I do decide to “…go now”, the next choice n’ decision… go where?

A drop off at the train station... a good example of “go where?” A Via Rail drop off leaves you in Zone 11, a pretty dead zone with nary a zombie to be seen most of the day on any given day really. When bolting from the train station you’re quickly thrown into Zone 8… an OK zone most of the time, at least during that day. My gut rule remains, “back to the middle”, i.e. when in doubt always head back downtown to Zone 1 as even if you arrive as the 5th, 6th, or 7th cab, you won’t wait too too long to be fairly assigned a far… but… my gut sometimes reminds me that it’s a quicker drive to Zone 3’s lower income neighbourhoods, you know all those good people with no cars… 

Who really knows what leads CAR 29 to the zone I’m supposed to be in next to pick up the next best conversation I’ve had that day. There’s a few things I remind myself each time I find myself sitting and waiting in a zone that doesn’t seem to be churning… First, don’t second guess your earlier self too much. That fella you were just a few short minutes ago felt something… wait for it, you never know AND certainly, chasing the churning numbers from zone to zone… Second, you didn’t just miss the call n’ conversation of the century in that other zone, the one you shoulda gone to, nope that call n’ conversation is waiting for you… just on up ahead. Thirdly and most importantly, you get the fares you’re going to get, where n’ when you get them… and remember, always remember… “you’re not doing the driving…” although you’re just making the CAR stop n’ go and making it turn, it's going to go exactly the way it’s meant to go… I may appear to be driving, steering, making things go, but in all likelihood, I'm really just along for the ride.

I’m wondering, is it derogatory for me to call it “check-day”? That day towards the end of each month when to various government checks are issued, either direct deposited, mailed out or ready to be picked up… OW, ODSP… and so on. Maybe I'll think about how derogatory the term check-day is, one day... when this is all over. Regardless of the how one might feel about what we all call it, it should be obvious, check-day is a bonanza, a potentially deliriously if not intoxicating beneficial day for taxi drivers.

Early this week, the first work day after this month's check-day, which for some unknown reason lands on a Saturday, I got “the call”, my check-day call up to Montreal. A pick up at those ram-shackled row of houses near, oh I better not say, to the offices across from the Kingston Shopping Centre “with/STOPS”… An extremely twitchy n’ fidgety undefinably mid-aged gal dashes from the doorway and lunges into the back of my cab “...wait for my friends, there’s more of us.” As a couple of scraggly and as equally twitchy fellas get in, one in front the other in back with his gal, one of them tells me we’re off to the ODSP office; I ask if we’re to make  a stop afterwards at the check cashing place, it's quite likely, I hit that gas and I think, oh… here we go.

Driving around with three fidgety n’ twitchy crystal meth fiends can be a challenge, if you want to make it one. The conversation's erratic, overlapping and idiotic. I find it best just to be mindful, a bit careful not to say anything that might confuse or provoke ‘em, crack a few inside jokes… They were a bit more docile than others I've had in my cab and I found myself in a playful mood, so I just played along. It was almost as if we were all in this together, just some pals off to get what we’re after right from the get go. It helped that they didn’t smell so bad.

Getting them out of the car at our government's offices in an organized fashion and in a way I felt certain they would come back  and pay, better yet, continue our ride was a challenge. A little trick I pull is to offer to pause the wait time a few times, to save ‘em a few dimes. This also keeps me from running up the meter, the fare I’m ultimately responsible for, if they do flee. I was happy to see ‘em leave behind a worn out old bag and a dirty n’ ripped up jacket, you know, their valuable belongings… they got out and into the offices then after a too long while later back into the CAR with checks in hand, hooray for one and all!

After a bit of discussion, it was decided that indeed, I would take ‘em to the check cashing place. Deciding on which one was a feet of decision making I simply cannot begin to describe except to say, how it was ever made… I was quite proud of my new found n’ fleeting drug addicted pals. On our drive to the Money Mart on Division between Queen and Princess, I peppered the conversation with stories of my own… they continued along in fragments, a now more excitedly babbling incoherence that I knew meant something amongst themselves. As expected the overall mood in the cab was definitely improving… we were soon all going to have cash money!

The two fellas got out at the Money Mart. The undefinably-aged gal and I had a nice little chat. She asked over some of the snippets of my own I’d told them on the drive down to get our cash. We got a chuckle over the one about taking an eh hem… in a garbage pale while “waiting for my man” one dark n dreary night in Brooklyn. I think it relaxed her how I described the friends I’d made here in Kingston, folks much the same as her and her pals to the methadone clinics here in town, often, to often really, almost daily… When the fellas returned the conversation turned to “...where next? Hushed, a bit withheld at first until the young lady assured them that I was indeed “…one of us" Believable perhaps because I yam whats I am after all n' another challenging round of decision making... It was finally decided that, despite earlier agreements they’d reached long before jumping in my cab, they would like me to take them to… I’ll not mention the location out of my desire not to become too too involved in this. I mean, forgetting for a moment the joke I'd made with them that I'd had a fleeting notion of parking my cab and joining them for their afternoon’s endeavours, I had absolutely no intent of doing so. Having any more of a role in all this other than...

But… And I did have a thought... Really, what was my role in all of this? Honestly, as we sat at the curb just a few doors down from yet another “there” I stood down from before... I stood thinking for a moment, having a smoke... I waited for one of the fellas to do his business with many a long ago but not lost memory swirling ‘round inside my now spinning head... old thoughts, along with the thought… What is my role in this? …a roles I felt somewhat particularly troubled with was the role the Kingston Police might assign me as we all stood there, parked at the curb breathlessly waiting for that older looking than he should have, twitchiest of scraggly fellas to come back with… you know what, I don’t know, officer? Having had this thought, I’ve decided, I should really look this up one day.

The fella finally did get out and back to the cab, hands in pockets... We got our crazy o’l show back on the road.

Now, nearly in view of it all being in very “full swing” very soon. I watched as this scraggly bunch transform from scatterbrained and twitchy, undefinably aged bent over n almost dying drug addicts into a gang of almost too-happy gleeful pre-teenagers… yet another scramble to decide which convenience store would be best to make a stop for chips n’ pop n’ other stuff, various bits of paraphernalia I assumed, “...this one has that but doesn’t sell lotto tickets, that one has lotto but doesn’t sell that, we need this and that… and lotto.”

I was exhausted by the time we all got back to the ramshackle shack up on Montreal. They’d run up a thirty sum odd dollar fare, paid without a whimper and gave me a whole 5 dollar tip from the quickly dwindling pile of dough our government had just handed them. I pulled my car out of the driveway as quick as I could, rolled down all the windows, not to let any smell out… really, just to let air in. I pulled over into the nearest parking lot, out of their line of sight, as if they'd even bother looking, got out and lit a smoke as quick as I could. That ride? It had it’s moments of course, at times it was fun while it lasted and we got up to some crazy conversations, in the end about absolutely nothing at all. In the definitely very end of it  though… I am truly glad… that that’s all over with... derogatorily... or not.

There is very little I like more than to get together with a friend or friends and make a wonderful meal. Either hitting up an old n' favorite recipe or making something up as we go along. I enjoy cooking for my son, I love it when my finer dining and/or cuisenartisan pals invite me over to eat what they just made and heck even going out for a bite, at a grimy diner or one of the town's fine eatin' establishments is always nice... but if I'm makin' food for myself, it's straight up, sandwiches, sausages or GGew.

I've been making GGew in one fashion or another for some 20 years or so... some GGews have been heavily pasta based, others more, whats left in the fridge based. I've fried, sautéd, boiled and simmered (never baked) my GGew any number of ways over the years. These days... I got given a slow cooker from my mom when the parents recently moved. Without a doubt this has had, most likely the greatest impact ever on the nature of and quality of my GGew... So great an impact I thought, this I must share. So... here's GGew, circa fall 2015... (for friends I've known a bit longer, GGew used to be called dog food, I changed this a few years back, you know, for the sake of kids.)

​Step by step... MAKIN' a GGew... Putting a Pot On...

STEP ONE: If you're anything like me (even just a little bit)... they're likely be some basic prep to get to first, most likely cleaning up the mess in the kitchen. ...although being hungry is great motivation to get a pot of GGew on the go... NEVER MAKE GGew on an empty stomach! – Today, I found a burger I'd bought the other night at 5 Guys; a perfect way to get today's GGew going!

WAIT: Oh Right, you will have to go shopping first. Not that big of a deal really. I like to do this first things on my day off. I wander the produce and meat aisles looking for, I don't know, things I've put in my GGew before and things that just catch my eye... Today drove up the Farm Boy, our local grocer with the better than most produce section... a lot caught my eye... AND look... it didn't take more than two minutes to clean up my kitchen!

THE ONLY REAL WORK: Really, the most time consuming part in making GGew is chopping all the bits you'd rather not eat off your vegetables... then chopping them into more manageable pieces...
​I like to leave as much hair n' skin on my vegetables, I simply rinse them and chop them coarsely into a size I might like to put in my mouth... INGREDIENTS WILL MELT DOWN when cooking, so even if you don't have a big mouth (like me)... don't chop 'em too small (besides, it's way too much work work to cut things smaller)

COOK FOR... 5 or 6 or 7 or 8 hours depending on how crunchy or uncrunchy you might like things

SERVES... 5 (or less depending on how many days I will eat 2 containers)

I'm a pig when it comes to GGew. Imagine yourself hungry. You've just spent a day driving the pleasantly wonderful folks of Kingston around town. You've had three large coffees, maybe a sandwich and or some Timbits (Taxi Driver Doughnuts)... You're a bit wonky, a little tired out... BUT... rather than having to go home, cut stuff n' cook it... you got GGew... good n' ready GGew! Five minutes in the micro and... mmm... half an hour's nap, a little work on this and/or that, then...​