The building that burned down while under construction the day after I arrived in Kingston a few years ago has now been re-built and is open for business. It’s huge, an almost New York style apartment block of a building, built specifically to house hundreds of students. It’s just a little outside what many folks here call the ghetto seeing how it’s all the way over at Victoria and Princess, 663 Princess no less. Now, one need only ponder a little bit longer on that street number to realize just what it’s tenants have a view of… across the street. Of course, one might say, it’s actually the old horn rimmed fella himself who gets the advantage of, you know, watching over his flock; I mean if you were to give the street number a bit of an extra ponder.

Calls to 66… 3 are more often than not quite annoying. There’s little room to park n’ wait out front and, we’ve been specifically told, scolded about blocking traffic at this location which, is kind of a chuckle considering how these kids, the entitled ones, The Queen’s own brats do like to keep us inconsiderately, waiting. But waiting is not what this is really all about, nor inconsideration even. Really, quite honestly, perhaps even a little honourably, it’s about a kid, a couple of kids really who like a lot of kids on Sunday morning, really weren’t a couple at all.

I hadn’t noticed as I pulled up to 66… 3 that the destination was an address close by, just over on Earl. This would have me going down on Victoria, just a few blocks into the heart of the aforementioned student ghetto, or the Village if you’d like to be a little more poetic about, the gooey mess this neighbourhood can get to be. Thankfully this couple, a nice looking gal and a confident looking fella didn’t keep me waiting, jumping into my CAR all dressed up for a night of night clubbing in the Hub. Oh, I did mention, it was about 7am on a Sunday morning, indeed… leftovers.

My first thought, well isn’t this kinda nice, this fella ensuring the gal he’d snagged the night before didn’t have to do, what I still refuse to call “the walk of shame” all on her lonesome… especially not in those shoes, in the new fallen snow that had quickly turned to slush after yet another one of these mini-minorly furious flurries we’ve enjoyed so far, most of this winter. A nice enough fella making sure his, eh hem date made it these very few blocks home safely, at least without ruining her quite lovely high heeled shoes… And, for me… hooray, another under five dollar fare! My role in this most instant of adventures would be to drive ‘em to the point were little Mr. Good Dude could flash his daddy-backed plastic and waste even more of my precious time as I ran the under five buck fare… on a card… and did whole extra two whole more strokes of a pen pushing paperwork, sigh.

When we got to Earl, I pulled way up and over a smallish snowbank to ensure the dryness of our little Miss, now noticeably quite wobbly little Princess. Aiding in her shoes not getting all wet n’ ruined (is it just me who has a thing about nice shoes?) I stopped the meter as they jumped out “…keep it running” barked the good dude, hmmm… OK. I could only wonder why? Maybe they were just picking up another, perhaps I was to drive the magic “we ain’t takin’ no perp walks today” bus… on this… a slushy, snow day (all the kiddies cry, hooray)… maybe not.

After a few extra long minutes of what I thought may have been their canoodling at the door, I couldn’t really see ‘em, he jumped back into the Cab. “…you can take me back to Princess” he said, with not as much as a grin as I would have expected. I could only ask what I usually ask my Sunday morning leftovers at 7am… “…the end of a glorious evening?” or, “...the start of a beautiful day?” …”Neither” said this, it was soon to be discovered, fine young fella.

He told me how he’d, in his own way had rescued this young lady when they had become separated from her friend, who’d run off into the crowd at the Hub with yet another, quite likely less wonderfully nice young fella she'd found on her own. How he couldn’t get an address out of her last night so he had hauled her on homeward, to 66... 3. How he’d drop-plopped her into his bed, even though these days that’s a risk all on it’s own. How he’d spent the rest of the night finishing off some homework and a pizza, watching some television. “…well that’s quite honourable”, I mentioned. As the conversation continued, he did agree that his generation, these young guys n’ gals, friends of his do tend towards fucking first, asking questions and cleaning up the messes later, but that… He’d been raised by a grandma who’d smack him upside the head if he didn’t hold the door open for her… I immediately began to wonder, I bet his grandma is as old as me, and… I wonder if she’s, you know… hot… or not... eh hem… back in the CAR.

I kind of ignored this nice fella as he softened his own story, back peddled his own particular brand of man like mettle by oh so boldly claiming that “meh, they come n’ go…” that he didn’t really need the hassles that come with bedding one of the millions of drunken Princesses he’s faced with… offered up daily, or at least nightly at the clubs in the Hub. I ignored this as, you know his kind gesture had not only more than doubled what would have been a pretty measly little fare, it reminded me… the chitter chattering jokes these other cabbies belly laugh over, the stories the night drivers tell of loose girls and loud mouthed little boys aren’t always entirely fair. I’ve mentioned before how much I despise it being called “the Sunday morning walk of shame”, how I prefer “the dreamy walk of infinitely lovely n’ wonderful possibilities”… and after dropping off this one good ol’ boy it nicely striked me; despite this culture of getting what we want as quickly as we can get it, perhaps it is possible, and wonderfully so, that chivalry, at least a mild form of it, isn’t quite as dead, at least not totally in this quite wonderful n’ lovely little Limestone City… on this Sunday morning.

With a nod to all these fresh young kids in all these grand old halls n’ residents… I found myself in dire need of a new schtick, a new ice-breaking conversation starter to get things going with the Queen's kids the other day. My conversations with the little ones was getting kinda stale, especially the really young n' fresh ones. Those feisty first years, minds all full of not much more than enthusiastic mush. I mean how many times can one lean into ‘em with the “…where ya from?” “…how do you like Kingston?” Only to find yet another little still wet behind the ears n' wild one from out yonder upon the windswept plains of the Toronto hinterlands, all those Richmond Hillites, Vaughntoninans and Oakvillians . AND, of course they adore Kingston, I mean, really, why wouldn’t they, it is made of stone after all.

Out of the blue, I begun to tell a tallish tale of how us taxi-cabbiests were actually doing a double duty of a sort. In reality, we were firstly and fore-mostly, simply, just pelt collectors. Fishing our fares for the freshest student… pelts. The ever-freshest being the coveted first year pelt. I mean sure, one could argue, and perhaps it is just a little correlative, but “…have you ever wondered why there are so few of you left after April, so fewer of you returning for that second year?” Indeed, last year was a good year for pelts.

This year? The pelt market is down a bit. We’re not getting that good a dollar for your pelts these days. Some say it's UBER; the older, aging, crinkly n’ wiser drivers, well they put it down to Pierre and Claude laying out far too many trap lines out front of Victoria Hall and along down Albert and Collingwood Streets. Others say, well it just hasn’t been cold n’ wintery enough… yet. You know… the best way to prepare a fresh pelt is to stick it in a snowbank let it get all chill overnight, alive n’ wiggling n' wriggling, letting it turn all blueshly purple, you know, for the Engineer’s market. Those engineers, they do so love the leathery old Queen’s jacket!

The last couple of fresh n’ first yearlings I had in the cab were, well he was all nervously chuckling a bit in the back (little did he know), she was a little non-plussed but I could tell she was giving it some thought as I pulled my now patented stunt of driving right up and onto the the sidewalk of Stirling Hall, the Science Building, to get my fares as close to that door as possible, I will get caught one day… I assured her that she was safe for now. I mean with the pelt market being down as it is. Most of us cabbies, er fare-trade collectors were simply practicing a catch and release modus operandi, "... we're keeping up our skills“…you’ve nothing to worry about sweetie.” I mean, unless it gets much colder. Oh and by the way girls, no I’m not a dirty old man behind the wheel of this large automobile… I’m just eying up that pelt of yours, baby does needs new shoes after all… dontcha know.

The cab company I work for has done a very nice job of securing accounts, businesses offer their customers rides too and from their offices, service centres; schools shuttling around certain kids with special needs; retirement homes and various medical facilities that offer transportation, either themselves or through government programs. One government program we get a lot of is the Ontario Disability Support Program’s service of shuttling whacky "recovering" drug addicts to and from the methadone clinic. I sometimes wonder how many of the people I pick up from the condos on Ontario Street or from the Earl's bottom know just how many people in Kingston have disabled themselves with drugs that require they get their daily dose, the cuppa, a swig of juice. Me? I wasn’t too surprised, I was a bit surprised to find that I'd one day benefit, perhaps not as greatly as some, but quite tidily from our drug addiction industry, at least on the days I was lucky enough to get the call… Compton to Hickson, Patrick to Wellington and what not.

One of these addictive customers is particularly lucrative. He’s a fella up in The Heights who for whatever reason of his own making has been barred from the Methadone clinic closest to where he lives. He requires shuttling clear across town, three exits along the 401… Twenty sum odd dollars goin’, twenty some odd coming back. Not so oddly enough, this represents a nice bump on one’s daily sheet, the take, what we measure our days by. Not odd at all is that the ol’ Meth Head’s come to be known as the Jackpot.

Brian’s fine with this. He takes a takes a taxi often enough, that being every day he remembers he needs his juice. Often enough to know a lot, if not all us day drivers. I’m sure there are those he’d rather not have call him the Jackpot, those drivers so fearful or perhaps those who so despise this program. Me? I think Brian gets a bit of a laugh, a break from his agonizing anxiety when I roll up, he jumps in and I say, “good morning... JACKPOT!” I think Brian and I share a bit of a self effacing humor over our predicaments; I think Brian gets along with me as we kind of do speak a similar language.

I hadn’t had Brian for a few weeks longer than I would have expected. Long enough that I had started asking other drivers whether they’d had him in their car recently. I wouldn’t say I worry, but after even a couple of trips with the same folks a few times... OK I do start to worry a bit about my favourite little drug addicts. My favourite? It’s not Brian, I’ll likely get around to telling’ a story about her, some day. Let’s just say, it was a nice relief to see Brian today. I mean after all, who’d want the opportunity for a Jackpot to dry up?

Perhaps it was on account it being the first day of the year, but Brian was especially reflective today, “…I have to make some changes”. Indeed… “You certainly do Brian.” Maybe it was the fact that he had a disgustingly pusy, agonizingly sore and growing abscess on his arm where he'd poked himself over and over again with a makeshift syringe fashioned from a broken then sharpened Bic pen; you know, to ease his pain and suffering. Maybe it was just, as he said, after a while ya just do so much Meth you get absolutely sick… Who knows, maybe that pusy abscess and today's sick feelings will save Brian… one day.

These trips with Brian have started to follow a clear bit of of programming, a familiar script. On the trips out we tend to talk of old glory n’ gory days. Stories told boldly, to get a chuckle out of “…oh the troubles we’ve seen”, got up to, created and waded through; the trips back, I guess we’re meant to discuss the results. Today it was the messes we’ve made with, my kid, his kids, his grandkids, our families. Tis the season after all. I asked Brian of the state of his relationship with his kids, as of say, today. Not good. They keep trying and he keeps failing, often appearing to them as a still flailing just banged-up the minute before they arrive incoherently babbling dick-head. Daddy’s at it again, won’t ever stop, he mustn't love us, why bother… we don’t need this shit any longer. I reminded Brian, he’s got a monkey on his back that’s strong than life itself, that he’d happily go as far as kill himself to get smacked up, so, fucking up his relationship with his kids… ain’t nothing. It was a good trip.

As we got close to the turnoff to his place Brain raised a particularly sticky problem he’d been having, guilt. It’s quite often that drug addicts do have one of those “duh moments”. He whined on about how he’s trapped in the typical circle… banging to relieve his guilt, guilty over having banged. He asked me, “…what do you do? How’d you get over the guilt? What can I do…?” I scratched my head over this one and said the only honest answer I could come up with… “Brian, I haven’t gotten over the guilt, and haven’t a fucking clue how one could…”

I dropped off a good kid at one of the big building block apartments over on Leroy Grant. He was getting off an early shift from an OK job he’d just done well, he thought, on little over an hour’s sleep, you know Happy New Year. At the door was an anxious mom and her little girl, sniffling in tears, Cassy. They’d called another cab company, I told ‘em to hop on in, I’d take them to… Kingston General. “What’s your name?” Cassy… “…does someone have a little pain?” Distracted, her mom explained that Cassy was just finishing up another round of Kemo. She’d done great and was in remission, but had a fever which required yet another, after so many other visits to the hospital. I wasn’t sure if Cassy was hurting or sad that this visit had interrupted a visit she was having with a buddy upstairs… “...maybe we’ll go to Sharon’s place after the hospital…”

“What you get for Christmas Cassy?” I promised her I’d channel all my powerful New York City drivin’ skilz to get her to the doctor's quick as a bunny, a crazed bunny... then proceed, like the dork I am, we proceeded to hit every damned red light. “I got an underwater camera.” “Have you tested it in the bathtub by taking a picture of your toes?” …got a little chuckle, tossed at me from behind; a nice feeling chuckle from a scared little girl in my backseat who… is being put through just too damned much than …a little girl might like. Cassy wished me a little whispered Happy New Year as her mother paid the fare and herded her wee little thing in a familiar fashion, out of CAR 29 and into the Emergency Room Entrance... again.

Brian and I sat in the cab while I waited for my next fare. He was thinking that maybe moving from an apartment where six of the thirteen tenants are users might be a good idea for the new year. He told me how happy he was that just last night he’d turned down his girl friends offer to smoke a rock ‘cause he just needed to do some healing, needed to find out if he was really sick, or just “hung over” from banging day after day after day… I finally gave Brian a non-answer, “…you know Brian, you’re not ever going to get over that guilt. That monkey is never going to stop crawlin’ and clawing all over you.” At the risk of skirting along side some kind of, or gettin' all up n' religious, I suggested, maybe you're going to have to find a bigger monkey, one that can maim it, or maybe tame it, train it to do something more useful than handing him the sharpened Bic pen again. Maybe ya just gotta suck it the fuck up Brian. Or, maybe you’ll hit your own damned Jackpot one day… I mean, who knows… I just did... twice.

​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.

It was maybe just, oh… a few weeks ago that his mom, Hunter and I took a drive down and around town from the Heights. His mother had me make a number of stops; some church on Patrick and Quebec, the cheque cashing place up on Division, near the Shopper’s on Princess… Timmies. On the Run then to the Sunshine Deli then back home again, to Compton. At each stop, Hunter and I had the chance to get to know each other… a little bit better… not bad for thirty bucks or so.

“I’m the only one in my family who's never been in an ambulance.”… Really? Yup… all his, who really knows how many, brothers and sisters had been hurt, either had accidents or done one dumb thing or another that had ‘em whisked off to emerge. Hunter’s one brother gave him no end of laughter, he slipped and cut his butt on the soap thingy in the shower. His mom corrected Hunter’s assertion by pointing out that the one who cut his butt, was fixed up right there outside their place over on Compton, right in the ambulance outside their door, it never had to go anywhere… splitting but hairs as far as Hunter and I were concerned.

Boys n' their moms… The moms crazily fretting the choice they’ve made to waste a bit extra on cab fare to make the hectic bits n’ pieces of their day fit together, the boys… cool, I’m in a cab! “What’s your name?” “I bet you’re… what 8, 9, 10?” ...and I know enough to guess higher with the boys. Which one of them doesn’t want the taxi driver to think he’s older… regardless as there’s really little difference between a 6, 7, 8, 9 or 10 year old little video gaming addicted Minecrafter… Boys are a funny n’ jumpy little bunch in the back of my CAR… and it helps my knowing the other questions they want to be asked, and the ones that’ll drive their moms crazily… easy enough, the same questions.

Yesterday I picked up Dawson on Stephen. He’d missed his bus… well. let's be clear, his mother missed it. She lifted him out of his chair and into the back seat of the CAR. “The seat part comes off like normal” …but the back is different. As she showed me how to disassemble the contraption so that it could be folded and stowed in the trunk, it dawned on my last shift of the week’s and surprising busy Monday morning's mind that Dawson and I would be off to school together on our ownsome… awesome. "...would you like me to call you when I get him there?"

Dawson mumbled loudly about some chocolate mouse and Snoopy flying a plane, or something… oh… “…did you see the Santa Parade on Saturday?” Ya! “They had… this and this and that and that and that and…” Bumpity bumpily… “Why do you keep asking me where I live?” “No you asked ME where I lived”… oh(?)… “I like when you say bumpity bumpily” So I said it, well kind of sang it ove n' over again as I hit every pothole, bump, rut n' ridge in the road I could find on the way off to Dawson's school… up in the Heights. Dawson and I were having such a wonderful little wee of a time I made a wrong turn, turned around and hit the meter off early…

I unpacked Dawson, taking his chair from the trunk and re-assembling it just as his young mother had shown me. I lifted him into it, with, what a wonderful feeling to have a little boy in my arms once again… After putting his feet n’ the foot holder thingies and buckling up his seat belt, I noticed there wasn’t another sole in sight at the school to hand awesome Dawson off to… except for another little boy headed, head down I guess a bit late, near the doors. “Can I bring him in here?” sure… “Do you know Dawson?” Ya… I’ve seen him around… we went into the school, I grabbed the taxi chit from the secretary as some busy young teacher whisked little Dawson away before giving me one final chance to say… bumpity, bumpily… 

Later that day, I got a call to deliver Kingston’s young maestro, to the railways station, stopping for, of all things an extra clothes hanger that had almost ruined his day… He was in a mad hurry but we had more than enough time to review the minutia of Kingston’s new music hall, and go over what it’s like to be a symphony conductor in a littler place like Kingston …”sorry for the bumpily, bumpities” I said, rather sang to our town’s newest young maestro, almost without thinking as we bounced over the level crossing they’re currently working around n’ soon over, over up on John Counter n' Portsmouth… Another very pleasant cab ride… calming an anxious fare with my oh so superior superhero like driving... say the 20th or so of almost 30 this day… bumpily bumpity… thinking… if this is all I get… boys today… if this is all I get… then I’ll take it... bumpily if not beautifully.

I found out later in the day that last night was the Royal Military College's yearly Ball, there do seem to be a lot of balls of late and conferences too. Enough to keep a guy driving a CAR around this gorgeous little city busy... enough. The RMC Ball made for a little extra business this morning as I picked up stray ladies from Queens all over here and there, fetched a few couples out of the various hotel rooms ...before I knew of the Ball I got a Zone 3 call while sitting all the way down in the my boat yards, Zone 1.

It's rare to get a Zone 3 call all the way downtown... a challenge I guess and man, did I rise to it. I raced up Bay to Bagot, raced down Bagot barely slowing at the single stop sign, the reason Bagot has become my chosen route for running "up". Up Bagot to it's end at Russell, left n' right onto Montreal then playing the angle on Railway over to Division... (man what a wonderful freewheelin' time of day to be driving)... If it weren't for a Wonderbread Truck, I may have alone risked a ticket... I was able to pass the truck where Division widens out to two lanes just passed the Police Station... A timely Wonderbread cover I guess... caught a green at Counter and the No Frills intersection. Swung right onto Benson and was at the Day's Inn door in, by no stretch of the imagination... four minutes... flat... out to the Inn.

I picked up a kid in uniform, RMC Cadet; first yearlings are forced to wear their uniforms out n' about town at all times... a tradition this kid respected. He was an extremely respectful kid, and I would hope so seeing how these RMC kids are the future brass, our future Military leaders who at some point a ways off in the future may be called upon to... You get it. Someday I'll run through my ranking of the kids who attend Kingston's three institutions of higher n' then much higher learning... This kid ranked right up there.

...for all intents and purposes he was AWOL, out past curfew, he had a more than good enough reason seeing how he'd invited his gal down from Quebec for the Ball. He hadn't seen her for months. I assured him that there'd likely been well more than a million military men before him who'd risked the wrath of a superior in order to spend the night in a superior situation; he certainly sounded much in love with this young lady and told me of her with as much respect as he was showing and told me that he had of the uniform he was meant to and made to wear each time he went out in about town in his first year at RMC. I dropped him off with a suggestion that, rather than sneak back in, he should confront his superior later that morning with an explanation of his situation surrounding curfew. He told me that this what he had intended all along... "...good, now GET IN there." I said with a smile.

The very next call had me plucking a young lady wearing a gown with Queen's University Engineering Jacket draped over her shoulders, straight out of the clutches of another young military man, most likely out of uniform, in the adjacent dorm. She'd had a grand time at the Ball after all... The kids n' the other cabbies choose to call this "the Sunday morning walk of shame". Me, I've decided I'll call it "the walk of infinite n' pleasant possibilities." – I mean, it's another beautifully gorgeous Sunday morning. The sun's shining and this young lady beside me is smiling all the way through or drive back into the city... Why cheapen a moment, I thought for the moment, she was with another good uniformed young man... and smiling.

...quite a bit earlier that morning, mixed in with all the ruckus of these kids having a ball, I'd pick up an old fella at Emergency Ward at the Hospital. A frail old fella who looked lost and bewildered as I drove him home in the dark to his lovely old home over on William. Are you alright? He was doing OK, he'd been in with his wife all night... I stayed by his driveway for a few extra minutes before...

I picked up a couple more couples who looked ready to spend a nice next day together then another guy and a gal who'd called two cabs to go their separate ways... A girl in a hurry to get from the Holiday Inn to what I figured was her own place up on Johnson. She was adamant about being in this hurry... I hit every light right and asked her "...was that fast enough enough for you?" as she stepped out of the CAR with a smile and said... that it was OK.

...a bit later that day I got a call, a pick up on William, "...have I been in your cab once before?" I told the old fella, a sweet old former professor that I'd drove him home from the Emergency Ward earlier that morning. He looked a little more rested, but still rather bewildered; his wife had had a few falls over the last week and this time wasn't able to get up. I asked him if he had been able to get a little sleep, he rambled a bit about this, that, and anything but how his wife might now be doing. He needed a bit of extra help to get out of the CAR. I waited as he walked very slowly around it and held to Emergency Door open, literally shooing him inside with "GET IN there ol' fella!" as if to lighten his moment waving gesture to emphasis... KEEP it MOVING. He and this busy little morning did keep it moving at points even hopping and racing. Indeed... what a ball... all this balling after all.

A cab ride in Kingston is the start of a lot of lot longer trips trips... to Toronto, far less so to Montreal than I would have expected. So few in fact, I feel it necessary  to celebrate them by gushing-about that lovely french city of ours. My CAR has been the start of more than a few trips to Vancouver even more to Ottawa and a very few to Winnipeg and Edmonton Alberta. Each time I pick up someone who is off to the railway or the airport (I still barely believe is really there). I’ll ask “Where are we headed today?” On answer… I reply, “…well I can [only] take you part of the way there.”

I’ve taken a humanities professor part way home to Sweden and a marketing exec partway to Atlanta… I’ve taken three suspiciously fit n’ quite large military fellas from their headquarters to… er… the Middle East… er… for a while, I think. I picked up a very nice woman, early one morning at the ferry docks and drove her part way to China, well actually the Hong Kong part of China at least. This morning I picked up a young Lady at the Frontenac Club on King. She was on her way to the Via Rail Station. Where are we headed? To Toronto… Home? No ultimately I’m headed back to New York City…

Oh… really... ?

I’ve had a few fares in CAR 29 who once lived in The City; the exec off to Atlanta and one of my nurses who for a time was an actress down over in the East Village. I’ve had plenty of folks who’ve visited there plenty of times and I’ve enjoyed comparing our notes quite a bit, but… I guess something just struck me this morning about this nice young woman, a new mother.. as she jumped in my CAR and we headed off for New York.

Her place is on Bergen just down from Smith Street, merely five blocks from The Sacred Heart of Jesus and Mary, the first place I called home in Brooklyn. “Right, you get on the F Train at the front...”; as we talked, the smiles I saw as I glanced over my shoulder were ones perhaps only good neighbours usually share. I told her of all my places, she told me her stories, we chatted at a pace that only now seems vaguely familiar. Sure, we talked a bit about the towers but didn’t linger on ‘em as I had a whole list of things to go over with her about the playgrounds she’d soon be using… I couldn’t stop smiling throughout our whole conversation..

It’s happened a few times upon arriving at the Railway station... grabbing her bag from the trunk of the CAR… I sensed a pause in our chatter, feeling an almost mutual urge to give each other a hug as we said our goodbyes. I blew her a kiss and as she headed off homeward and couldn’t help but think of my city… the rest of  the morning. A few twinges of homesickness for a home I don’t live in and quite likely will never even ever see ever again? Maybe just a bit lonely, certainly missing my son, but incredibly happy to know that someone I’ve just met is really enjoying using my old place… home to my city, my big ol' New York City was most certainly a nice place... to get part way back home to this morning.

This day… just the other day, just another regular old n' routine sort of a day, started a little differently than most other days I suppose. After checking my fluids, I turned the key and logged CAR 29 on to find myself at number one in Zone 3… Rather than racing down to the boatyard… sure, why not… I felt up for an early morning's pitch dark drive through the Height...

After a spin down Compton at 5:42, a pick up at 766 John Counter on route to the very end of Rigney... (a way up by the railway tracks almost right back next to our taxi garage).

"...oh, thankfully I'll be laid off soon if they don't give me a plough.” said the nice young fella with the biggest lunch box I've ever seen. In work clothes with his big pile of work gear, I dropped off this youngster, a Cruickshank's Construction worker, a former crane rigger at Kimco and then got the hell down from the Heights and on with the day, in towards the heart of the City of Kingston. Down Division today, again simply to do it a slightly differently... I headed for Zone 4, the Wartime and sat there for few more minutes than I would have liked to… read my readings, chanted a few chants, casting a few incantations n' had had just about enough, when... it stared raining as it would and then wouldn’t then harder and softer, all through this… regular old n' routine of a day.

Around 6:33 I was at four hundred and something Bagot, off to Kingston General Hospital [KGH]... at 6:57 I drove back over to 135 Ontario Street to the Via Rail Station... it’s 7:21 and we’re off up on Princess, the Best Western west of Sir John A, to Starbucks at Wellington... then at 7:48  a hop over to... a pick up at Four Points all the way to 49 Place de Armes behind the K-Rock (thank goodness that was Cancelled).

An average old n' routine day really got rolling with a new nurse on Bagot. Well likely not new as she wasn’t a youngster, just not one of the many nurses I've been getting to know on those way too early mornings they hurriedly have to jump into my CAR… I do love my nurses and can usually get 'em giggling on these mornings that they've slept in... again! Zipped back into Zone 1 to grab an older woman, a retired nurse? A professor? At The Curruthers down on Ontario to run up to the train. She’d be meeting friend along her way to Toronto to visit the Aga Kahn, a new museum in Toronto with a great collection of Islamic art... so she told me. I thought to myself, indeed we’ll have to see that and say thank you to this older perhaps retired woman some day. Then down from the station to the Best Western on Princess to fetch a corrections officer in for a conference at Four Points. Funny enough I ended up there myself just moments after I'd dropped her down the road at the Starbucks for her morning’s first fuellings…

At 7:51 a cancellation make up, a pick up at the Delta to Transformix Robotics a way out on Gardiner... Then at 8:20 a "back flip" to Bittersweet Place all the way down Princess to the Tim's on Macdonell… afterwards at 8:45, over to Mack Street and again off to the Via Rail Station.

When Four Points was a bust CAR 29 threw me a bone and had me take a couple of Italians, serious business men a way out to the westend to meet with some roboteers who were making them angry... Apparently the robots they felt they needed to assemble the thingies that make mist squirt from their perfume bottle was a bit behind schedule. My only question, definitely not spoken in Italian was weren't there enough Italians looking for something to do that you couldn't find one or two to assemble these misty thingies for you back in Italy? A business like smile and a friendly nod... then I was off to a bittersweet place… You can’t know how happy I was to find out that my new home, The City of Kingston has a street named "Bittersweet Place".

Another construction worker, this one quite careless with no lunch box; just a kid who'd lost his licence in an, eh hem, bittersweet fashion... "that'll teach you" I told him. He agreed and promised he'd learned his lesson and wouldn't do that, ever again. He led me to believe he knew what it’d cost him... almost... Then off to Mack for another in a long line of professors I’ve had in the backseat of CAR 29. Perhaps a bit not like the others, he worked in drama, the Theatre Arts department, the author of the play, Brebeuf's Ghost. He seemed rather nonplussed when I told him I’d come here to work for Jim and that I'd seen his kids perform Galileo's Daughter at the Bader last year... I've a touchy time with these professors... I’d accuse them of having attitude, if only I knew for certain it really wasn't just an attitude of my own.

Just… a little later, 9:42 another hotel stop along Princess, the Peach Tree and off down to the hospital, again… At 10:09 to Shopper’s Drug Mart’s back door on Bagot to the Queen’s campus, Mac Cory Hall... then way back over across town at 10:23 to Sydenham past Bay, almost too close for comfort and down to the Lone Star... yet another stop along the shore of Lake Ontario 10:40 Ontario to Shoppers Drug Mart’s… back door.

"How's my cologne smell?... I mean, is it over powering? ...its the cheapest I could find at the Dollarama last night" said the huge n' happy n’ jovially round n’ puffy man from Grand Prairie. A fuel truck driver who seemed happy that so far he didn't have a story of his own truck exploding... one did catch fire though. He had a belly laughing posture but with anxiety in his eyes... He was off to visit his ex-wife, on her last days in the hospital... "Mother of your children?" (I asked quietly)… He described his boys as… the oldest, the smart one is not doing too too well, the one in the middle caught in a revolving detox puzzle, the youngest one, the dumb one, is doing the best of ‘em all… Oh, and the cologne? I pulled out the extra Pine Tree car freshener I had in my pocket; Black Ice scented and told him to rub it all over his neck, face and chin… he could have done a lot better as these Pine Tree car fresheners are likely much cheaper than… the smelly cologne he'd found last night at the dollar store all on his own.

The rain we'd been having all morning became a monsoon as I drove an Indonesian student with heavy and very British accent to class. Then picked up a couple and drove 'em on back to Shopper’s… back door. Hmmm… I think I may have missed the opportunity to introduce you to the Lone Star Bartender, no worries there'll be other pretty routine n' regular old days in CAR 29 quite shortly I’m certain… the next one, it’s likely has already happened.

Back downtown at 10:55 for another try at the Four Points this time success and off to, you guessed it, the Via Rail Station... then all the way back for an 11:35 pick up at the CIBC's branch on Bagot to the Bus Station... up in the Heights again at 11:55 it was off to the upper corner of the City of Kingston, 44 Virginia to the Credit Union at the grotty old Kings Lake Plaza... then back... 12:20 re-pick-up at Kings Lake Plaza to 44 Virginia... again.

You may have read it in the papers already, in the next few days, Canada’s wee little Army will be putting boots on the ground in Iraq... or so I was told by a Lt Colonel who’d been attending a Military Futures, Readiness Conference... Frighteningly, like all the brass I've had in my backseat, this fella was younger than I'll ever be. Three tours in Bosnia two in Afghanistan, he couldn't wait to get back on his playing field and do battle again. His family? They understood him... As always I thanked him for his service and asked him as he stepped out of CAR 29 to “…do keep an eye on our boys... after all, you’re the Lt Colonel”. He gave me a nice tip which left me wondering... am I nothing but tip mongering ploys?

The fella I picked up at the bank at the corner of Brock and Bagot had come to town to sort out his aging parents affairs and... was staying in Kingston, or maybe not, although he maybe might like to. An RMT with a laser surgery practice and a new member at the yacht club which I'll soon be joining and I did get the chance to asked him if he'd consider crewing for me on race nights? "Will I see you at next week's wine tasting?" ...not likely, but I'm looking forward to seeing this David fella again. Oh dear, Bus Station drop offs leave you back in the Heights… this time to drive ol' Jack to the Plaza then back. A sweet old man who reminds me of some old TV actor I can't put my finger on... he read the name on my taxi driver's badge and called me by name many times during the trip down to the Plaza n' then the trip back. “Thank you Gordon, I look forward to seeing you again”.

At 12:57 back to the Shopper’s back door on Bagot n’ over to Goodes Hall. Then up for a coffee n' pee and a pick up at 13:31 at the Maple Family Pharmacy... over to 47 Village Drive up and tucked over by the river... then at 13:59 a No Frills call that strangely took me to Patrick and Raglan... near home.

Admittedly these routine days can get kind of rugged, gruelling even tiring at some point or another… I’ve learned to smile through it and with a happy hello... "are you partially blind? …I mean, do you need some assistance?” I asked the fella who walked gingerly from the pharmacy and had no end of trouble squeezing himself ever so awkwardly into CAR 29. "...nope, just a rare form of spinal arthritis"... that's all and much more. Then a couple that spoke mostly with themselves except when I told them we were neighbours, that he lived just off my island, the block that I live on… He'd done two stints in therapy and is applying to become a councillor... seeing how he's been through it… I helped with their groceries... "looking forward to seeing you around"... and all.

14:15 To the hair dresser at 187 Sydenham to the Cataraqui Centre ... a short wait in the rain 14:45 Cataraqui Centre to Warburton... and then 15:01 MacKay Street to the Metro Grocery at the Gardiner Town Centre... down to another end of Kingston off Day's Road 15:22  Chelsea Street to The Keg... downtown again.

Nothing perks me up more than my little sweet n' blue haired old ladies... This time there were two, one with a walker the other couldn't walk well at all. All the way out to the Cat Centre, fighting over directions as we watched the sky turn even more blacker I told them I was racing the next blast of rain as I wouldn't want to leave them getting all wet with new hairdos... After dropping them off, unfolding the walker and walking them up and into the mall's covered doorway a happy little n' goofily bitchy little girl taps on my window and asks that I drive her to her parents where she's living after a split with her boyfriend and losing her job... As we pulled into her driveway I noted the tree swing hanging in a tree in the front yard of the house she felt too old to live in and asked her... “is that yours?"

"...is that accent Greek or Russian?" I asked the wizened old lady. The question perked her right out of her grumpy old demeanour, I'd given her some leeway as she was all soaking wet. "Ukrainian" she corrected... then we proceeded to sort out which of her countrymen like and which others don't like the Russians. She was neither here nor there on the Russians but don't bother her with the Poles. As I unfolded her walker and helped up n' out of the CAR, she smiled and asked, but then realized she'd probably take too much time with her shopping for me to wait and drive her home "...I do live quite close". Sadly, I had to go...

Eating last nights leftover pizza was the restaurant manager I'd driven with downtown a few weeks ago. He says very little, make me feel a little un-comfy but leaves a nice tip and a smile as he gets out and gets off to work.

Finally it’s almost over… 15:52 with pick up at Staples on Queen to Concession and Kingscourt... then I finish the day 15:56 just up from my home at Raglan to Diana’s Fish thingy... er, Market.

Just another, what, it's done already? ...rough n' tumble and regular old routine sort of a day... with no real surprises, just extremely nice people, one after the other that I picked up, spoke with and learned a little something of as they went along their way... Twenty or more little stories I don't have to make this stuff up… just listen and prod and asked one or two questions more than the last fella who didn't really show much of an interest… and… your day? How was it? Truly, honestly, seriously even, I've a need to know as... I've not heard anything like this before.

My new found n' favorite "fishing hole" was very good to me the other day (a place I go to find the odd good fare). I can't say much about this hole here as indeed, I've definitely become one of those drivers who feels it better to hold certain cards close n' tight to chest, in his own hand. Although we're, for the most part quite friendly with each other I have to admit it, all us drivers are really free wheelin' agents out here. Even among us drivers drivin' for the same company; we are after all still battlin' it out for that same fare... the good fare, the juicy fares that put the good numbers on your sheet each day. The second fare I fished outta my new found favorite fishing hole this day was a pretty young Nigerian-Canadian woman; off to take the train to Ottawa to write a licensing examine as a step towards her long life ahead journey in becoming an immigration lawyer...

"So, ya wanna be a loi-er do ya?" I asked her in that botched New York accent I never really was able to truly pick up while living down there. She giggled, and said something that I guess subconsciously indicated that she'd be a little more open to a little vicious political ping-ponging... the utterly dangerous sport of discussing "politic" so often best to be avoided while in the cosy confines of CAR 29. She was kind of a rookie, but we had some very good vollies over the dreaded immigration issue. It was a good 25 minute drive, discussing guilt, being nice and "should feeling good about ourselves" really set the tone of policy in places like Canada, the US and Europe?

I really was just practicing my new found, freshly minted and definitely not perfected "non-absolute" conversational tactics peppered with softening jokes n' giving an inch banter... by the end of the trip we were both laughing. I told her..."...do the best you can on the exam and come home and give that big ol' Nigerian dad of yours a huge hug for giving you the opportunities you've before you today!" ...she smiled as she left CAR 29, leaving me a whole $6 tip, which... I will admit seems small but is a quite nice one when mixed in with all the driving arounds with these little lovely blue haired Ms Daisys with their walkers all day... keep the shiny bright quarter young man... I ramble... and remind myself, I do love my little old lovely blue haired old ladies (really, I do)... and their walkers.

Exorcising the rare n' ghastly feelings the oddly none-to-often political conversation leaves behind in CAR 29 is a bit of an undertaking... Best bet is to treat the next fare with even extra kindness, go lightly on banter on myself and keep the conversation squarely on their own adventure, the one that's unfolding around their immediate need for a ride in CAR 29. My next fare was a young fella, picked up on Newmarket, on his way to his restaurant with a "quick stop" to pick something up at the wholesale grocer over on Elliot along the way. A good fare with stops and wait time, a few extra nickels n' dimes... I thought.

 As we pulled into the wholesale grocer's the kid tossed me enough "dimes n' nickels" to pay off the fare already on the meter... a bit odd as we usually settle up these stop n' goes at the end of the road... "...just wait for me, I'll just be a second or two." were his only instructions. He left his bag in back and hopped outta the CAR. Hmmm... I guess he's nice enough, I'll consider the fare paid and not charge any wait time (a nice little trick n' gesture I often offer to good fares as wait time adds up lickity quickly in these taxicab meters)... I waited... hmmmm... maybe since he's already paid up, I'll restart the meter and charge him another $3.20 drop, this'll cover a bit of the wait... I waited some more. Hmmmmm... what's this little bastard up to I began to worry to myself. Perhaps it was even a legacy from the last fare, those rare n' uneasy ghastly feelings left behind by the oops a daisy but lovely political conversation I'd had just before; maybe they hadn't been fully exorcised outta CAR 29 ...yet.

I started to get a bit... even more angrier than I ever really get. Anger is a feeling I really can't let into CAR 29 and never can hold onto as, driving angry is not only a drag on the day but by all counts pretty dangerous business in this business I've now found myself in... this nickle n' dime business... hmmmmmmm... I thought.... was this fucking little shit head of a restaurateur, a nickle n' dimer himself, nickle n' diming me outta what, a little "wait time"? I woulda just drove off if he hadn't left his bag in the back. Hmmmmmmm... I waited... almost ready to grab his damned bag, bringing it into the wholesale grocer, handing it to him in a huff and storming off over and act of full on dramatics... hmmmmmmm... I waited myself into an almost rage (damned ghastlies, release me!)... I waited until he wandered out with a full shopping cart of crap for his little shitty nickle n' dime hole of a restaurant down on Princess which I will not name because, you know I'm so much better than to be one that might smear another man's business (besides, I hear it's quite a fine dining establishment)... but I did let him have it!

I schooled this little twit on business the whole way down Division. "Messin' with another man, especially another man's business wasn't in any way shape or form a good way to do business yourself!" "Nickle n' diming your suppliers is a false starter that'll blow a whole fart load of pain your way if that's the way you think you'll make a go of it at your own stinking nickle n' dime business"... I scolded him over how it wasn't over my own dollar here or dime there wait time I'd lost out on, but that he'd squandered my precious time... It wasn't about my own nickels n' dimes but the opportunity costs, what I may have lost by sitting there, waiting, meter not on and not on the grid n' available to take other calls... You know, that "million dollar" call all us taxi drivers are just ... waiting for!

He may have got it, or at least a bit of it.

As I helped him unload his big pile of wholesale groceries onto the curb by the door of his restaurant (still schoolin' him as we unloaded)... he handed me a twenty on a $9 fare and told me to keep the change... "does that cover it?"... "Not really", but a (far less than heartfelt) quiet thank you and I was off... cashed out, hoping a little of it sunk in and wishin', thinking maybe I would have handled it a bit differently if it weren't for the leftover ghastlies from my ride with the pretty young Nigerian future lawyering lady... A pause by the side of the next road, a smoke n' a sigh. A definite re-unengineering of the last two drives to finally exorcise... fucking nickle n' diming... maybe that's why I'm no longer in business for myself I half thought, then thought better... nope, I still feel good for never having run a business, that way... but... I'm still not gonna tell a single one of you folks (especially you other fellow drivers) where my new found n' favorite fishing hole is... after all, that ol' hole well, that's just none of your business.

Little rituals have become a bit of a thing with me of late... rituals, chants... repetitive acts that keep me mindful of things I'm, well attempting to be mindful of. I've noticed myself slipping into daily routines that, rather than bore me as they once may have, keep me very focussed and offer me a wondrous sense of, is it ease and comfort? An example of this, I'm finding myself tracking certain stars and planets each morning, noting their position relative to the moon (who has, by the way become a dear friend of mine this past year or so). Other rituals include my (now) intermittent rock tossing and the far more regular "humble stroll" around my little island, the block on which I live and  call... home.

CAR 29 has come with it's own set of rituals. This may be more of a chant, but recently I've noticed myself saying to myself "in the car Gord"... "...get in the car!" – The way I've figured it is it's having the effect of reminding myself to not let myself drift too far away or out of the CAR, letting my thinking get beyond the car too too much. It's also a self imposed safety reminder I supose. One oddness around this, after saying this to myself I find myself either singing or humming an ancient favorite Talking Heads song, "Heaven". It's become a sort of, or maybe kind of the CAR 29 theme song... this oddness is further adds to another inasmuch as  how, long before I ever got into CAR 29, I'd so often find myself singing or humming another ancient favorite Talking Heads song, "This Must Be The Place", which starts with the word... home.

There's no question that CAR 29 is, or at least has become a very large part of what I've been calling the re-uninvention of myself. I've said to more than one fare "...you are witnessing the end of a 25+ year digital marketing career"; I often exclaim how much I dig this gig and how it's allowed me to pitch my past in the trash bin and unchain myself from the desktop. Of course, this is a bit of an exaggeration, it's more one of those "ice breakers" that works more than not. More often than not this admission of not so much defeat but rather drastic change prompts an interesting admission on the part of the gal in the back seat... Re-uninventing myself... ancient favorite Talking Heads songs... the sites n' smells of moldering leaves and that certain algae that blooms along the shores in this part of the upper side n' lower end of the Great Lakes... home?

...and heaven?

When asked ages ago, I used to describe my concept of heaven as the place one holds in their friends, family and loved one's memories after passing. In many ways this fits and is consistent with my current theology... although religion and politics, contrary to stated policy, do find themselves in CAR 29 from time to time, there's little room for my current theology here, at this time. This is simply another of the lala snippets far too happy a story from the, oh I suppose what some day may be looked back upon as the honeymoon phase of this routine job with the opportunity for pleasant surprises; the pitching out of aged old objectives and ideas of what I might get on up to with the rest of my time here... the re-uninventing oneself...

​Listen... have you ever had that fantasy where you are sent back in time, you end up as yourself say 25+ years (or more) ago, only knowing all that you know now?

...this must be the place. For now, we'll call CAR 29 my little ride in heaven in this new home of mine.

Just before it started to rain for the rest of the day. CAR 29 and I found ourselves parked for a very long time in the parking lot of the Kingston Shopping Center. Staring up at what, on any other day might have simply appeared as a monotonously grey late fall sky, I couldn't help but notice... Oh sure, I do love the daily spectacles the glorious, sometimes even gaudy sunrises I've been privy too, or even awe inspired by these past few month, but this morning... The depth and textures in this grey day sky really kinda took my breath away.

Take what we are given I guess and enjoy the most of it... what a pleasure it was watching the Jupitorial swirls of these various shades of grey overhead on a very slow day waiting for the dispatch thingy to go "ping" (well, it's actually more a tweet then an ring a ling)... finally it did.

Tossing away another "nine cent" smoke, and like the superhero I've become... seriously, I deliver people from one place to another simply by tilting my ankle and keeping my hulking steel mobile between the yellow and white lines of the roadways... I set out on yet another mission of... deliverance. This time my fare was a sweeter older lady who was off to fetch her own CAR... the glorious chit chat unfolded (as it so often does).

Somewhere amongst the usual pleasantries, the descriptions of our past and presents, we'd both noted how much we so enjoyed this season, agreeing that it was easily one of the four best seasons there is AND how now, even with most of the leaves blown away, the city was still so absolutely pretty. I must have said something about my earlier view of the swirling clouds as she shared how just a moment of her own earlier she'd been captured by the view of a cardinal sitting in a bush with red berries out on her front lawn. An image of a cardinals, alongside red berries against the swirling grey late fall clouds swerved it's way into my driving mind. Weren't we having a grand ol' time, this sweeter older lady and I as we rolled along watching the rain begin to fall for the rest of the day on this pretty little city of ours.
​
As we pulled into the Volvo dealership, she was having snow tires put on, I noticed a nice overhang covering the entrance to the service center and drove right up n' almost into the garage so that she could step out of the rain. As we "cashed out" and said our goodbyes... leaving one last remark, "Keep an eye on that Cardinal" as she shut the door ending yet another limestone circle in CAR 29... Take what we're given, give a little more and enjoy the most of it... or, so it goes.

I really do love my sweet old little blue haired ladies, especially the one's who don't walk so well or better yet have one of those new fangled folding walkers that keep 'em up and out on the streets these days. There's the one I pick up from the hair salon on Sydenham on Thursdays who gushes at me and tells me that I remind her of her son; the one she raised all alone when her idiot husband left her and her two kids behind here in Kingston. I usually leave her at the Loblaws. One day I picked her up at the TD Bank and drove her all of 1000 feet, all the way across the parking lot at the Kingston Shopping Center to... Loblaws. I really do love my little old ladies, but... that weren't always the case.

There are very few quiet little old ladies, mostly they do love to talk and well, I learned years before I ever got into CAR 29 that I do love to listen to little old ladies, thanks Aunt Marg. There's the one who I've taken all over town, Saint Mary's by the Lake, the library... she always tells me the best way to get to where she wants to go... you know. I was tellin' her just the other day how in my old career, I used to grumble over clients who thought they knew better about the job they just hired me to do; in CAR 29 I love a fare who knows better 'cause they've no problem telling me "where to go", and quite honestly, I don't always know (I mean, I've only been here less than two years).

Then there's the sweet old little blue haired lady I've only once picked up on that dreadfully aweful and awkward part of Concession. A real bitch of a driveway to get in and out of. The day I picked her up there was a wretchedly lovely rain drizzling down while I help her into the cab, folded and stowed away her walker then tried fruitlessly to perform a "back it out into a left turn" dipsy, umm... doodle... I ended up backing to the right and doing a New Yorker'esq U'ee right in front of a bunch of these sleepy ol' Kingston... hmmm, lets be nice and call 'em drivers.

My heart does pound a little more rapidly and with a little extra pride when I (quite safely and more or less within the law) pull a maneuver I wouldn't think twice about pulling when I lived down there... stunts I guess, never at speed... just good ol' belligerent, that's where I want to be, I'm going there, go ahead n' hit me if you want to... ummm... I maintain a spotless driving record, and this little old lady, one of my let's call 'em "Ms Daisys" was quite impressed with my prowess for getting her where she wanted to go... It did get my dander up though and the heart racing a bit more than normal.

This little old lady (that day's Ms Daisy) and I got to the TD Bank. She wanted me to wait so that I could, with no surprise, drive her over across the parking lot to the Loblaws. I told her I would temper the wait time if she was taking too long. I unfolded her walker in the now teaming rain, got her up and outta the front seat; up n' over the horribly too tall a curb next to the disabled parking spot I found closest to the door. Got her all the way inside and went back to sit in CAR 29 and wait... and wait... and wait...

I was flicking the meter off and on a bit to lower Ms Daisy's wait time charge load when this old guy tapped on my window, caught me a bit by surprise. I was all balled up in anxiety, wet and a little, well a lot weary of having to fold up another walker, once more when she got in, and once again over at the Loblaws... When I rolled down the window, letting in more rain, I was almost ready to scream "What the hell do you want..." when... he simply said... "I just wanted to tell you that I saw how you treated that old lady. You are very kind to have helped her into the bank... that all, I just wanted to tell you that someone had noticed"... er, eh hem. All I wanted to say back was... Just doing my job sir, after all, us taxicab drivers are Super Heroes... Just doin' my job sir. I actually just smiled and thanked him as he went on his own way quickly in this darned wretchedly n' lovely rain that just wouldn't stop falling.

Yup, I do love my little sweet old blue haired ladies, my Ms Daisys... and sure it isn't always that way. But these days if I get a little weary about folding another walker, taking two left turns and driving a block or two before having to unfold it to collect the "you keep the shiny quarter young man" tip on a $4.70 or less of a fare... You know, my father just got himself a walker... I guess why I do so love 'em is that these little old ladies quite nicely remind me to do unto others as I have them do unto my father and his walker. And... I can use all the shiney nice quarters and friendly easy little conversations I can get in this little nickle n' dime business I've found myself driving into... toot toot n' toot sweet little old ladies, you do make me smile.

Unlike the most of you, Saturday is quickly becoming my very own hump-day. The very middle of my week... the completion of 33+ plus hours "behind the wheel of a large automobile", with 22 or so left to go. It's shown itself to be the day I just fold up and collapse in order to catch up with the sleep I've stolen from the last three nights in order to maintain some form of existence in... your world.

Last night I pushed my exhaustion through a meeting with friends, then another get together with another, then a bit too far beyond and into getting a few things I needed doing done; leaving a grocery shop to the very last minute before wolfing down four frozen burgers while trying desperately to simply drop into bed before nine-thirty... an accidental, almost ghostly too totally real n' unreal image haunted me all through the night. A silhouetted couple in a brightly lit doorway ate away at the good sleep I so wanted, no, needed... Upon waking I was faced with an uneasy feeling an unusually uncomfortable CAR 29 and... leftovers.

I had been wondering these last few weekends just when would the remnants of just another wild Saturday night begin to appear as my early Sunday morning fares. I got these first ever leftovers from last evenings today... the first just after five-thirty AM. A young fella and two, young ladies all dressed in black. All giggling and bubbling with an energy I once had when I was much younger and then had once, twice then three times again, when I was on something while much older. 

Me and this giggling, bubbling gang made three separate stops to drop each of them off separately across the top of town. The last drop, the fella all by his lonesome but still laughing at himself and his situation. I reminded him, she'll likely be happy that you left it where it was left last night, where we dropped her. And tried to persuade him that she'd likely accept the call that I suggested he make bit later this evening.

More leftovers...an older still tipsy, not yet hung-over fella... I picked up this older man in town from the county to deliver him from the Heights to the truck he'd left downtown near the Lone Star. He'd just finished up a long morning, running right through to a some might say a successful yet frustrating POF date that ended in a plea for commitment he'd no intention of accepting. He was shaking his head in my direction as he described  how he was off home to work with his son on some rooftop. Maybe to fend off a bitter disappointment of not yet becoming comfortably positioned between his old life and this one... and all the yet to come long running into the morning POF date evenings.

Then yet another pickup n' delivery to a truck left somewhere in the evening. Another lost lonely pickup left ever so smartly behind down on Princess. A player all dressed up for golfing, a now scramble-brained fella admittedly regretting having made this obligation for such an early morning tee off. On our way down Division, he spent most of his time reviewing his txt'ngs to find all the stupid things he'd texted to other players late into last evening. A hurried call leaving one of those oh too familiar next morning regretful apologies, all the time hoping we'd find the pick up just where he'd left it. We did, and I left him right where he'd left off... and onto the fairway... 

Then... a break from these leftovers when I accepted a call from my good n' humbling buddy, ol' Bob.

I spoke with Bob briefly, mentioning how ...near the end of yesterday, in my state of exhaustion while speaking with good friends I'd presented the suggestion, most likely more even to remind myself...  a notion that accepting is not synonymous with ignoring or avoiding, forgetting nor denying or letting things fester in hiding on one's old dusty n' dirty back shelf. Accepting seems to me more of the facing, constantly reviewing how little control over what others around me may be thinking or doing... how little my problems and worries may mean to most others. Accepting is hard workings, grasping the understanding that it's just not about me, my impact n' inputs... it's a striving to get out from underneath one's truly deceiving and ego driven self.

So, I worked through this all throughout my new hump day, slept with uneasy visions of silhouettes in doorways bringing back vividly some old painful memories of calamities I've have consistently over some time found so utterly useful. This morning as I rode along with and drove these folks I'll call Saturday's Leftovers to their now sun lit in varied different destinations... CAR 29 remained unusually uncomfortable until Bob's call when I was able to drop off that last and unsteadiest of fares... that no longer young fella uneasily reminding me of one's foolish self pity... this older guy apparently from time to time still holding, reviewing, reflecting and facing all those now olden ill feelings towards my own gloriously useful and treasured... leftover feelings.