Road Warrior, page 2
With the newspaper unavailable except for the one page, I was spared most of the bad front-page news. The back page, when I stopped taking in the ambience and finally decided to actually read it, had the end of an article about the ever-fluctuating price of oil, which neglected to reflect on the overconsumption of the stuff—a topic I was already well aware of. There was also a short summary of the ongoing rise in the number of cases where the abuse and neglect of children was being reported much too late in the province. Police were asking daycare workers, teachers, and other caregivers to be vigilant about the wellbeing of children in their care and to report if there were any possible problems.
“How sad,” I said, musing to myself. I was unaware that I was speaking aloud until an Adonis emerged from behind the paper. Surprised, I almost spewed froth at him from the cup I was holding to my lips. He raised an eyebrow at me quizzically and said, amused, “I hope you’re not referring to me?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, my heart going pit-a-pat. “I didn’t realize I was speaking aloud. I was just reacting to that article about abused and neglected children. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” I was silently very glad that I’d spoken though, because my outburst gave me an opportunity to view this bit of eye candy.
His brow furrowed attractively. “Yes, it’s very upsetting,” he said. “I’m glad you interrupted me, though. Sometimes I get so involved in what I’m reading that I lose track of time and—” he looked at the time on his phone—“I’m late! Have to push off.” As he folded the paper he handed it to me. “You can have this if you like.” He picked up a bicycle helmet and a snazzy looking digital camera with a large lens that had been hiding with him behind his paper, smiled, and strode out. As he passed the counter, he gave a little wave to Mario, who called out, “See you later Dave.”
Bonus, I thought as the god walked out, Mario knows him. Sometimes it’s a beautiful, small world. Here was a gorgeous man who carried a bicycle helmet! And with that fancy camera, he was probably a professional photographer, too. But, he might be gay or bi, I cautioned myself, as he seemed to be on good terms with Mario and he wasn’t from the neighbourhood, as far as I knew.
I glanced at my watch and noticed that I, too, was in danger of being late for my first job. As I picked up the paper to put it on the rack of shared reading material, a folded piece of paper fell out. I leaned over to pick it up and absently opened it to see if it was something special that Dave might want back. It contained a small dog-eared, old-fashioned snapshot. Holding the snapshot in one hand, I looked at the folded paper, which was a computer-printed black and white photo—it looked like a candid shot of the neighbourhood. Coincidentally, the image showed Maria’s new worker entering her shop. His face was turned toward the camera while he talked with someone beside him who looked a lot like Thomas, Maria’s son.
Now my curiosity about Dave was even more piqued. Why would this handsome man have a picture of Paul and Thomas? I glanced at the snapshot in my other hand. It was faded and worn as if it had been handled often, and showed two boys in hoodies with their arms around each other’s shoulders. The taller and probably older one looked like a younger version of “Dave the dashing,” but I couldn’t make out the other person’s face. I thought it had a haunting, sad feel to it, although I was probably reading way too much into such a little photo.
I gulped the rest of my coffee, got up, and sidled over to Mario to see what I could find out. Casting subtlety aside for speed, my usual modus operandi, I decided to ask outright: “Okay, in three minutes or less tell me who that stunning creature is, Mario.”
He winked at me. “Not crying over lost boyfriends are you, Ab? You’re awfully fast. He hesitated briefly and then continued. “Dave is a cop,” he said brightly. “He’s straight as far as I can tell, and he likes bikes. He has a ‘Naked’ cycle, which got me quite excited when I first saw it. He didn’t ride it today though,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “He had to be in court and didn’t want to leave it parked around too long. Dave moved here from up north, just after you left about three months ago. He worked with the Ontario Provincial Police, I believe, and now he’s with the Toronto boys in blue. And how do I know so much, you may ask?” He arched his eyebrows.
“I’m all ears,” I said and grinned at this wondrous fount of information.
“You and I have similar taste in men, Ab,” he said with mock sadness, head hanging slightly. “Only you seem to have all the luck. I devoted my time to him shamelessly when he started showing delight in my humble café and asked lots of questions about the Market. I hoped it was me but, sadly, no. He was quite forthcoming and chummy though—maybe he’s a bit lonely with only Toronto cops and criminals to talk to. Perhaps you’ll have better luck, but be careful girl, you may get a crick in the neck from the way you practise serial monogamy.”
“Sage advice that I will try hard to ignore, my friend.” I laughed and patted his back. “Maybe a new ‘interest’ will help me get over leaving Sunny.”
“Poor Abby,” he said in a slightly mocking tone.
I showed Mario the picture and the small photograph.
“These fell out of the paper he was reading. I think they’re his.”
“Hmm,” he said as he glanced at the large print. “This looks like Maria’s new worker talking to Thomas. Paul’s an odd guy—kind of creepy—Maria sends him over for matcha tea every so often.” He shook his head as he looked at the small snap. “This looks well used. That looks like Dave of course, but I don’t recognize the other kid. Anyway, it’s likely they are his. Dave is always carrying around that camera and taking pictures. He says it’s a kind of hobby, documenting where he goes.” Mario seemed unconcerned as he took the items from me. “I’ll give these to him next time I see him.”
“Thanks, my friend. Now, I’m afraid I’ll have to banish him and the Market from my mind, as traffic will demand my full attention.” I gave him one more quick hug. “I’ll talk to you at the end of the day if you’re around. And please tell Dave, when you seem him; that I am dying to see his ‘Naked’ … bike! Thanks for the brew—it was worth coming home for.” I waved to Mario as Dave had a few minutes before. “Have a great day making purveyors of caffeine happy.”
Mario waved back and doffed an imaginary hat as I returned to the light of day and the delicious, cool, smoggy, but semi-clear autumn weather.
I’m a part-time bike courier, and work for a quirky outfit called the Call Girl Courier Service run by two charming characters, Jerry and Louis Arbuthnot. They hire only women, and their employees enjoy the non-judgmental climate their employers provide, not that we see the bosses much. We simply get a list of jobs and the occasional text for an impromptu assignment. The dispatcher is usually Jan, an ultra-efficient, super-calm woman. When I called late last week to let her know I was coming back, she seemed delighted to hear of my return and readiness to work, which was gratifying. However, it more likely reflected the fact that many of the younger women had returned to school and that the weather was turning cooler.
The impending winter weather prompted me to think about calling Juaneva Martin, an amazing lawyer friend who was helping me satisfy my naturally curious mind by giving me a little detective work to chew on. I seem to always stumble into situations that require my nosiness, and Juaneva, having witnessed this once before, decided to try to make an honest investigator out of me. So far, the assignments had been pretty mundane: collecting information on botched relationships, business partnerships gone bad, lost loves. At first, stakeouts seemed cool, but they had already become boring. I’m too restless, I guess. The only times I enjoyed “investigating” (snooping really), were when I worked on something I had chanced upon, and where I felt like I was the boss.
To be fair, I hadn’t done much work yet for Juaneva, having taken off out West on a holiday when I received a little windfall. Funnily enough, on that trip I promptly became embroiled in a mystery about a dead logging company owner. There, my paltry attempts at honest detecting and lack of commitment had left me a little frustrated and had me working my way through one boyfriend and on to another. And so I was currently choosing mostly couriering over working for Juaneva. I had to work out some of the kinks in my armour and eventually, maybe, let my guard down long enough to stay in one place.
So, here I was again, careering around town kicking cars, hopping onto sidewalks, and shunting parcels about. When I bumped into a gaggle of courier acquaintances at the corner of York and Adelaide at lunchtime, it was high fives all around. Sighing contentedly, I found myself already feeling comfortably familiar and more whole in my skin.
CHAPTER 3
BY THE END OF THE DAY I had some pocket change from tips and felt wonderfully sweaty from hard work. I headed home for a hot shower, a change of clothes, and an opportunity to commune with my bicycles. I had missed them so much, the line of nine gleaming beauties that hung in my living room, so I was already looking forward to a chance to dust them, oil their chains, and murmur endearments to the lonely crew. My single-minded thoughts were interrupted by a loud honk from a car whose lane I had inadvertently veered into. I collected myself, gave the driver a little wave, and speeded up and out of the way.
Returning to the now bustling Kensington Market, I picked my way carefully around afternoon shoppers and rode slowly to my home above Maria’s shop. As I wheeled my bike in the back door, I could see her in the front of the shop handing a wrapped paper package to a customer. I yelled out, “Hey there, Maria! I’m home!”
She sketched a wave, wiping her hands on her apron as she approached. “How was your first day? I bet you’re tired,” she said.
Nodding but grinning, I said, “Yup, I’m totally exhausted but I feel great too!”
She smiled back, but I could tell she was tired. “Listen Abby, I have to clean up and get out of here, but I wanted to know when you can come over for dinner. There’s something I need to talk to you about. I’m worried about Thomas.”
“Of course. You mentioned the kids are acting up. Are you sure you don’t want to talk now? Is it serious?”
She started to tear up again—so uncharacteristic of the old steadfast Maria. “I hope not, but he is very angry, and once he even ran to a friend’s house. He came back after a couple of hours but oh, Abby, he is becoming so sullen and secretive. I don’t want anything to happen to him.”
“That’s so hard, Maria. I hope it’s just some boy-asserting-manhood thing.” I thought for a minute. “What about the day after tomorrow? I’m going to set the place to rights, visit my bikes, and maybe wander the market this evening, and tomorrow I have the gig at the community centre after another day of couriering. I should be able to slow down by Wednesday. Is that okay with you? Can you wait that long?”
“Great, we can talk in the car on the way, and maybe Frank can put his two cents in after dinner,” she said, smiling. “He’ll be cooking because I’m working late most days, so we’ll have to eat a little later. Just come find me after your work and I’ll get you to help me close shop. Oh, Abby, I’m so happy you’re back,” she said again, giving me one more tight hug and then quickly wiping her eyes before turning back to her customer.
I smiled as I heard her apologizing: “I’m so sorry to have held you up. Now what can I do for you today?”
Maria was right. Although I was still exhilarated to be back in my own hunting ground, I was starting to feel a little tired. Was I trying to fill empty spaces so that I wouldn’t have to think about what or whom I had left behind? It was not like me to dwell on the past. Was I losing my edge, or did I just need to find some more diversions? Mulling over these questions and a renewed sense of worry about Maria, I grabbed my bike and headed upstairs to get cleaned up.
The shower is one of the true loves to which I remain constant. It has to be hot and powerful enough to massage my brain cells. There I can relax enough of myself to let my brain wander and ideas solidify. Today, I didn’t need the brain exercise, just the pleasure of the heat. The one problem with my home shower is that it uses the fish shop’s pint-sized water heater. Perhaps it’s a good thing that I can never commit too wasting too much water in the tiny shower above Neptune’s Nook. Otherwise I might stay in there forever.
Sunny had a very cool “demand supply” water heater at his place—so it heats the water only as it is being used—but the problem out there was the need to pump all the water from his well. It seems like I often find myself saved from my own bad habits. Anyway, I threw myself into my place of refuge and let the knots work themselves out as I relaxed. As the temperature declined, I regretfully shut off the supply and stepped out.
One thing about my extended holiday or love fest with Sunny was that I ate lots of local healthy food and rode my bike daily through woods and on the roads so, looking over my almost forty-year-old frame, I felt pleased with my fitness and health. All my wounds from various encounters with criminals had healed, and I was prepared for the rigours of couriering. And I wasn’t ready yet to complain about traffic, smog, or foolish pedestrians, not to mention suicidal cyclists.
I thought about my good fortune: a cozy apartment, great friends, a fabulous community in quirky Kensington Market, and two varied careers. That, and the titillating appearance of another very handsome man made my return a little more exciting as well as confusing. How could I switch gears so quickly? Humming to myself, I toweled off, climbed into in some old sweats, and sauntered out to the living room to make myself a quick bite and to get to work on the bikes.
Arabella, my mother, had definitely been in my place recently because my tiny fridge was chockablock with smoothie ingredients. I found myself feeling grateful for her kindness and moved that she must have missed me. I’m not always easy on my mother—some defiance from the old days still makes me resistant to her constant suggestions for healthy living. To be fair, she is an excellent role model for what she suggests. The only problem is that she keeps trying something new every month or so, and it’s hard to keep up.
I thought about the last time we spoke on the phone in BC when she gave me her best suggestion yet, the Red Wine Diet, which I assiduously followed after she mentioned it, although I admit that I might have gone a little overboard. Ruefully, I realized I didn’t have any red wine, so I whipped up a green algae, yogurt, and pear shake. Dumping the blender into the sink after pouring the mix into a large, borrowed mug from Overdrive, I carried the opposite of red wine closer to my bikes.
Sitting on a stool, sipping, I gave my beauties a visual onceover, deciding to work first on my two roadies, a Trek 1100 and an oft-repaired Cervélo. I would need them the most over the next few days. When those were done, if I was still feeling up to it, I’d look at the cream-coloured Bianchi.
After quickly washing the few dishes I had used, I pulled out my folding repair stand and started on the trusty blue Trek 1100, my second-best bike. I wiped it down, cleaned and oiled the chain, checked the shifting and the headset, and then decided to true the wheels. They had felt slightly wobbly on the road. I’d left for my trip out West right after two days of hard couriering, and hadn’t had time to give the Trek 1100 a good inspection before my departure. The wheels trued pretty quickly, partly because I was in good practise after more than a month of working in Sunny’s shop.
It was a mistake to start thinking about Sunny again. Although I was happy to be back, I truly enjoyed my time with him and found myself smiling at the thought of his ambling gait, wide smiles, and killer riding style. Shaking my head free of potential remorse, I closed my mind to Sunny and hooked my bike back in its place in the row of bikes on the wall. As my mother would say, I had to stay in the present and, as I would add, there’s no point crying over spilled boyfriends.
The Cervélo was next. It would probably be the last for this evening, I realized, as yawns were starting to overtake me. Jetlag was a distinct possibility. The Cervi, as I had dubbed it, didn’t take as long to tune. It was in nearly perfect condition, having had to visit the bike doctor (my friend Beano) a while back. It’s really too good a bike to leave parked unattended in one spot for any length of time. Before putting it back, I glanced at my watch and grinned.
My mother had a meditation class on Monday evenings, and I’d been waiting to call her until I was sure she was out. It was a bit cheeky, but I wanted to let her know I had landed without getting into a long discussion. Arabella was a marvelous person and an inspiration, but I needed a lot of energy to discuss family, her expectations, and her latest definitive route to great health.
Her cultured voice rang over the answering machine: “Namaste, peace. You have reached Arabella’s voice mail. I am unavailable at the moment. If you would kindly leave a message, I will return your call promptly. Have a blessed day.”
She would add, “and eat your greens too,” if she could maintain poise and get away with it, I thought to myself as I found my voice and responded briefly. “Hi, Mom. It’s me, Abby. I hope you’re well. I’m back and calling to see if we can set up a time to meet and chat. Maybe we could go to The Green Café, unless you’ve found something new you would like me to try. Talk to you soon. Bye.”
Hanging up, I felt satisfied that my daughterly duty was done. I was glad that it would likely take another few days to coordinate a luncheon date, probably for the weekend, which suited me fine. I’d have a good appetite by then and would have the energy required to ponder life with my mother. Feeling like it had been a successful first day back in teeming Toronto, I took myself to bed. It would take a while to get used to sleeping alone, but that night I was too tired to care.
