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It Seamed a Clear Victory for Chivalry Along Victoria One Sunday Morning
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.
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.
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