My day began early, too early, but this is the way it had to be if I was to make it in time for my bus. I sat up in bed still half dazed and very much asleep. Seven-oh-one eh-em is what my alarm clock indicated, which meant I got off work only hours ago. I got up, skipped the morning shower routine, quickly dressed myself, and picked up my knapsack that I had packed last night before going to work. I intended on thumbing it to the terminal because cash flow is always a problem, but there are never enough people around to give you a lift on a gloomy grey Saturday morning. I walked over to Jane and Finch mall and picked up a cab because there are always cabs there willing to give you lift at reasonably extortionate fare.
“Take me to Younge and Queen,” I instructed he cabbie.
“Yes sirrrr,” he immediately replies in his deep and rich East Indian accent.
The cab ride was rather uneventful, but I was entertained listening to the best of contemporary music from the East Indian motherland. The cabbie turns around to throw me a look and asks if the music bothers me. I shake my head and say that it’s okay, and again he inquires, “Okay?”
I got a little bit annoyed, it being so early and me not being an early morning person so I replied again saying, “Yes, it’s okay, you horse beating bastard.”
I remember laughing at that point, almost cackling for no apparent reason. My heart began beating faster, and my breathing became laborious as beads of sweat dribbled down my forehead, and a new unexplained sensation of euphoric energy swept over me. No longer laughing, but realising though the rear view mirror that I’m wearing the most sinister of smirks, I notice that my chauffer looks agitated. I sensed that my behaviour was definitely making the cabbie feel awkward towards having me ride in the back so I felt it necessary to strike up a conversation with him. Try and get him feeling relaxed and comfortable.
“What’s your name?” I asked faking the interest.
“Me? I’m Ahmed Singa…” (I was only able to catch the first part of his last name for it was too long and said too quickly,) “And I am not a horse beating bastard as you so suggest.” (I reckoned that I hit a nerve with that comment.)
In continuing with the small talk I asked a variety of commonly asked questions that someone would ask when making small talk. “Where you from? Have you been here long? Do you like it here? Do you like driving a cab? What was your job back home?” Ahmed happily answered all my questions in great detail. It turns out that our friend here was originally from Sri Lanka, but moved to India with his family at a tender young age and lived there until he completed a biology degree at the University of New Delhi. He was studying to become a doctor, but fell short of completing the medical degree for reasons that remain unexplained. He now lives in Mississauga with his family. He likes Canada but complains about the long cold winters and unfortunately but not surprisingly dislikes his current job. More questions and answers followed but there’s no need to go into such depth. Ahmed was once again feeling relaxed and comfortable.I began on instructing him on where to drop me off, “See that corner over there? Yes, yes that’ll be fine.” Leaning forward on the edge of the backseat pulling a couple of ten dollar bills out of my pocket; I jolted the door open and swung out, ran a fifty metre dash, flew down a set of stairs that lead to the Queen subway station, leaped over the turn stile and stealthily edged my way between the closing doors of the northbound train all before the taxi came to a complete stop. I got off at Dundas station at which point I made my way to the greyhound bus terminal using the city’s underground path system in order to keep out of sight. I purchased a one way ticket to Timmins.
