Radio Jet Lag, page 4
“Watch where you’re going,” she pouted, and Noah started to cry.
“Coming through,” interrupted the stout tour guide. “Make way, please, there are twenty-three of us. Mustn’t delay.”
“Well, you must wait for a second!” Steve snapped, completing the three-hundred-sixty-degree turn, squeezing by the pouting hipster, and completing the awkward procession to the end of Fan Tan Alley. With the tour guide breathing down his neck, and Noah’s wail prodding the slowpokes in front of him, they made it to the end of the passageway and emerged onto Pandora Avenue. Noah had worked himself back up into a full-force storm by the time they did. Steve angled them out of the foot traffic, stomped on the brake, and repeated the second emergency exit of the last hour. Once again, Noah started to calm down. But when Steve tried to put him back in the stroller, the baby was having none of it. Finally admitting defeat, Steve dug out the cloth baby carrier that he hated using and struggled to strap the boy to the front of his torso. When he was done, Noah was happy to face forward as father and son walked in the summer sun. Steve put on Noah’s sun hat and headed back towards the office to get his car, but as soon as he imagined trying to strap Noah into the car seat he decided to walk home instead and turned back in the direction of the Johnson Street Bridge.
Trudging along the busy sidewalk, Steve felt shattered. But the boy was thrilled to be taking in the view on the long walk home. He watched construction crews working on the new protected bike lanes and the new bridge over the inner harbour. Noah delighted at each and every passing cyclist on the other side of the bridge. Half an hour later, as they turned onto Alderman Road, Steve was drenched in sweat and his mouth was dry. He grunted up the driveway towards the steps at the back of the triplex and thrust the empty stroller towards the side fence before tackling the ascent of the stairs. Once inside, he walked straight to Noah’s bedroom, unstrapped his son, and laid him down in the crib, under a colourful baby mobile. Then he collapsed face-first on the floor beside him and listened briefly to the baby’s cooing as he drifted in and out of sleep.
Steve was soon awakened by Noah’s insistence that he be picked up. He held his son in front of him and bounced slowly around the apartment while singing incoherently. His singing was interrupted by a knock on the door, and Steve realized his afternoon was about to become even more chaotic; the dog was back! As he walked wearily to the door, he could hear Rosie whining with excitement and her tail thumping the outside wall.
“We’re back,” the friendly retired teacher who lived next door enthused. “I took her down to the Gorge, so she had a good swim.”
“Thank you, Sandy. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“No problem,” she smiled and turned to Noah. “When you’re a little older, I can babysit for short spells so your parents can go out on a date.”
“That would be amazing. Thanks again, Sandy.”
The hours that followed were a blur to Steve: Carole came home and started cooking dinner, Rosie dragged a chunk of mouldy cheese out of the compost and started choking, the compost was taken outside, laundry was taken down to the basement, Rosie was fed, Carole and Steve sat down for a frequently interrupted dinner, Noah’s diaper was changed, the dishes were done, Rosie was walked again, the recycling was taken out, Noah had a bath, the laundry was transferred to the dryer, Noah had another explosive poop, then another bath, Rosie finally settled down and went to sleep, Steve had a quick shower, bedtime stories were read, Noah nursed, and finally the apartment was quiet.
“Why haven’t human beings gone extinct?” Steve whispered as he and Carole lay on opposite sides of the unmade queen bed, staring at the ceiling, with the baby lying spread-eagle between them.
“I don’t know,” Carole replied. “Do you think everyone finds it this hard?”
“Probably not. If our parents or our sisters lived here, we’d have some help, and we could at least have a bit of a break now and then. And if we didn’t have a dog, we could …”
“Now don’t start that again,” Carole said. “Rosie is family.”
“Oh, no!” Steve gasped. “The car! I left it at work!”
“You mean you walked home?”
“I didn’t want to put Noah in the car seat.”
“Oh, well.” Carole yawned. “Just leave it, and walk to work in the morning. It’s only thirty minutes. If you leave a little early.”
“Dammit!” Steve was more frustrated than he should have been. He really could just walk, but the thought of a double-double and a muffin from Tims in the morning made him want the car. “I think I better go and get it now.”
Carole said nothing.
“I know it’s a pain,” Steve continued. “But I’d rather keep to my routine. If I go now, I’ll be back in half an hour.”
Carole said nothing.
Steve turned and saw she was sound asleep. He closed his eyes briefly and almost nodded off too. But then he imagined himself waking up at six the next morning and the awful feeling that would come if he missed the first hour of his show. Would they fire me? He hauled himself out of bed slowly and looked at his bedside radio alarm: 08:18. He walked to the door, pulled on his Blundstone boots, and stepped out into the cool evening air. He walked briskly down the driveway, feeling reinvigorated. He turned onto Craigflower Road and heard a bus approaching from behind. He’d wanted to walk but now wondered if the bus might be quicker. When he turned and saw it was a double-decker, he decided to hop on. He waved at the driver who pulled up to the stop. The British bus was one of several superficial similarities Victoria bore to London that brought tourists to the city, and to some extent, had attracted Steve too.
He stepped on board, fished out a toonie and two quarters from his wallet for the fare, and stumbled up the narrow stairs. He bumped his head on the low ceiling and lurched towards the front of the bus. Both front-row seats were free, and Steve collapsed onto the hard plastic with the enthusiasm of a six-year-old. He felt like he’d just been transported to London. When the bus stopped at a traffic light, he was amazed at how close it came to the identical double-decker immediately in front of it. But the novelty soon faded, and in the seconds it took to drive across the Johnson Street Bridge, Steve’s eyes closed. The driver braked abruptly on Wharf Street, startling Steve awake briefly. But a light foot on the accelerator and the hum of the engine, coupled with the hour, lulled Steve back to sleep. This time he was down for the count. Steve slept through all the stops through the downtown core and on Richmond Road. He was snoring loudly by the time the bus rolled into the UVic bus loop. A dozen students stepped off before the driver climbed the stairs to check for stragglers and found Steve slumped against the side window.
“Hey Buddy, you fell asleep.”
Steve shot up straight, stunned and silent, looking around the bus. “Where are we?”
“UVic. You have to get off.”
“I’m going to Johnson Street …”
“You missed it. You can catch the next bus going back downtown in fifteen minutes, but you have to get off now.”
Steve shuffled down the stairs and out into the soft rain. He stood on the sidewalk, staring into the headlights of an oncoming bus, before shaking his head and looking for the next Number 14. When he found it, the door was closed and the middle-aged woman reading in the driver’s seat didn’t look like she was ready to open it. Steve tapped on the door timidly to catch her attention. She held up all five fingers on her right hand to indicate how long he’d have to wait, then went back to her paperback novel. Steve waited while she read a few more pages and eventually opened the door. He fumbled for his wallet, then pieced through the small change he could find. He found a loonie, which he dropped in the slot, then started to make up the rest with nickels and dimes. His slippery fingers were as sluggish as his brain, and the offering was slow in coming. She looked increasingly agitated with each coin and snapped at Steve before he paid the full fare. “That’s fine, sit down!”
The sun had just set when the driver closed the door and pulled away from the bus loop. Steve checked the time on his phone. 09:09 p.m. The bus turned into the slow, counter-clockwise orbit of the university Ring Road, rolling through an alternating pattern of warm, yellow, sodium-vapour street lights and the creeping dark of civil twilight. Steve sat on the edge of his seat, trying to stay awake. Once again, the sense of fatigue was overpowering. Within minutes he was asleep. As if in a dream, the Number 14 floated through downtown and back over the bridge before reaching its terminus shortly before ten o’clock. This driver was far more patient than the last as she tapped him on the shoulder gently. “Long night?”
“Where are we?”
“Vic General,” she said. “Were you supposed to get off somewhere else?”
“Ugh …” Steve groaned, rising unsteadily to his feet. “I was going downtown! Just like the time before!”
“You mean this was the second time you slept past your stop?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” she said as if talking to a confused child. “I’m going to give you a transfer so you can get back on this bus when the next driver gets here in ten minutes. And then you’re going to tell that driver exactly where you’re going, and sit up near the front in case you fall asleep again. Okay?”
Steve thanked the woman and stepped out onto the sidewalk to wait for the next driver, who arrived soon after. He was a tall man who looked to be in his early sixties with long white hair and a thick white beard. He said nothing to Steve as he got settled behind the wheel, but smiled when he finally looked up at him.
“Can I come on now?” Steve asked.
“Of course.”
He handed the driver his transfer and started to walk past him before stopping. “I need to get off at Government Street, but I’m worried I might fall asleep before we get there. If it isn’t too much to ask, could you holler at me when we get there?”
“No problem,” the driver said amiably. “I’m wide awake tonight, but I know what it’s like to be too tired.”
Steve sat down on the empty front bench just opposite and a little behind the driver. “Long hours driving bus?”
“Nah,” the man said, looking at his watch and closing the door to start driving. “I only work this shift a few times a week to top up my bank account. But I worked at the dairy for thirty-five years, and in all that time I never felt well rested unless I was on holiday. Even then I usually spent the first week catching up on sleep.”
“Wow!” Steve leaned forward, desperate for the wisdom of the sleep-deprived. “What shift did you work?”
“I worked them all,” the driver chuckled, as he turned the bus onto the Old Island Highway. “Late night, early morning, overnight, you name it. I worked every permutation and combination over the years, but all of them involved at least a few hours in the middle of the night, and I never got used to it. Not entirely.”
“What was your worst shift?”
“Most people think it would be the overnight,” the driver responded. “And to a certain extent they’re right. It isn’t easy, especially when you’ve got young kids at home! But the one that really killed me was the two a.m. start when I was driving a delivery truck. I just couldn’t get used to that one. I felt tired all the time. Day, night, work, home, it didn’t matter. I’d come home before noon and sleep for a few hours before the kids came home from school. They tell me I was like a zombie, but I barely remember it.”
“And you did that for thirty-five years?”
“I worked at the dairy for thirty-five years, but I only did the two a.m. shift for a few years, then I got transferred to the four o’clock start. I did that for the last fifteen years.”
“Fifteen years,” Steve repeated. “I can’t imagine.”
“What about you?” the driver asked. “You work the night shift?”
“Not really,” Steve said. “I start at four-thirty in the morning. I know it’s not as early as you worked, but …”
“Oh, it’s early,” the driver sympathized. “So now I know why you were worried about falling asleep before we got downtown!” The driver pulled over at the bus stop near Steve’s house to pick up a passenger. Then he pulled back into traffic, and resumed the conversation. “Do you mind my asking? What do you do at four-thirty?”
“I work in radio,” Steve said. “It’s a great job but, as you know, the hours leave a lot to be desired.”
“Which station?”
“CIFU. I’m the new morning -“
“Stephen Millburn!” the driver shouted. “I thought your voice was familiar!”
“That’s me,” Steve said. “It’s good to know someone’s listening.”
“Oh, I listen every morning. You’re doing a great job!”
“Thank you. I need to hear that right now.”
“Hey, I know how difficult it can be. But I appreciate you getting up so early, Stephen. I listen every morning! We’re almost at your stop.”
“What’s your name?” Steve asked.
“Peter McFettridge,” the driver replied as he pulled up to the stop. “Great to meet you, Stephen!”
“You, too!” Steve stepped off the bus and was momentarily caught off guard by the giant bus ad sporting his own face that screamed in all caps:
A NEW MAN IN THE MORNING!
STEPHEN MILLBURN & THE CIFU MORNING EDITION.
WEEKDAYS 5–9
Steve vaguely recalled George Caulfeild talking about a big ad campaign to promote the station’s new morning man, but this was the first time he’d seen it. He watched his smiling image fade out of sight and wondered why he wasn’t more excited to see himself plastered on the side of a bus. Then he walked a few minutes to the parkade, climbed into the canoe-topped Volvo, and drove home.
By the time he tiptoed back into the bedroom, it was nearly eleven o’clock. Great, he thought. Four-and-a-half hours to sleep. Maybe. He drifted off quickly and eventually slipped into a hazy dream in which he drove a giant stainless steel milk tanker truck through a residential neighbourhood, nodding off behind the wheel and worrying he might run over a child.
Noah’s real-life cry cut quickly through the fog of the dream.
“Sweetie,” Carole mumbled. “Would you go get Noah? I can feed him if you bring him here.”
Steve grunted and got up out of bed, shuffled to Noah’s room in the dark, and resumed the nightly sleep roller coaster. More crying, nursing, rocking, and changing preceded the eventual return of silence a little after two a.m. For the next ninety minutes there was no sound in the room except for Steve’s occasional snoring.
The silence was shattered by Steve’s alarm clock. His arm sprang out to shut off the alarm within seconds, and he held his breath wondering if either Noah or Carole would wake up. When neither of them did, he sat up and stared at the soft red digital time glow. Holy shit, he thought, it’s only Tuesday!
Chapter 2
September 2015
Steve woke up ten minutes before the 03:30 a.m. alarm with a desperate need to pee. He turned off the clock and shuffled to the bathroom. His coffee consumption had doubled in the six months he’d been working in radio, but Steve guessed his trips to the toilet had tripled. There was no point going back to bed for the last few minutes, so he stayed sitting on the toilet in the dark with his eyes closed for another fifteen minutes before finally mustering the energy to get in the shower. The hot water always helped him wake up, and this morning was no different. When he reluctantly turned off the tap, he felt considerably more awake. He wiped the steam off the mirror before shaving and brushing his teeth. Although more alert than he’d been when he stepped into the shower, the water’s effect was fading, and Steve felt the fatigue washing over him. He reached for the pile of clothes he’d left beside the sink the night before and dressed absent-mindedly. What should have taken two minutes took closer to ten, but he emerged eventually, shuffling quietly to the front door to put on his shoes and jacket. For a big man, Steve was good at making little noise. He turned the door handle and swung it open slowly. Then he slipped past it, closed it silently, and locked it without making a peep.
Behind the wheel of the Volvo, he turned on the radio and listened to a scratchy traffic report from the Vancouver all-news station. Then he switched from AM to FM and found the Victoria CBC Radio station, which was re-broadcasting a Deutsche Welle English-language news program from Germany. Two people with thick accents were discussing the ongoing arrival of Syrian migrants in countries across Europe. Steve listened with interest before turning onto Gorge Road and parking in front of Tim Hortons. He bought his usual extra-large double-double with a chocolate chip muffin. The Germans were still discussing Syrian refugees when he got back in the car. He drove through Rock Bay, past the same homeless shelter he saw every morning and a small group of people pushing shopping carts out front. He saw two people lying in sleeping bags in a small alcove and a young man huddled under cardboard next to his dog. On the next corner he saw two prostitutes, both of whom looked in his direction. He stared at the road ahead with a vague sense of shame as he drove past. Rock Bay refugees?
