Introduction

I retired many years ago. It allowed me to pursue other endeavours. One of them was driving a courtesy shuttle for a local auto dealership. Strippers and Crown attorneys, teenagers, and seniors, the rich and the poor and the articulate and uneducated, all related tales – either gloomy, humorous, or inspiring.

Among my initial confessors was the short and stocky Mr. Coscarella. He drew attention to the faults in society. His son, a local dentist, married a girl he dated for five years. She filed for divorce after six months.

Mr. Coscarella was unhappy with the Canadian youth. “Young people now. Men told women what to do. Now, if there is trouble, they leave.”

I listened. “I know. There’s little sense of commitment these days.”

“Well, men are men, women are women. I don’t know. That’s the way it is!” said the old man.

I summarized. “Accept it, correct?”

“Yeah… I don’t understand.”

As a first-generation Italian, Mr. Coscarella was navigating the challenges of immigrant family division. He preferred things to be uncomplicated and unchanged.

Blonde haired and blue eyed Sabella Fearon, another rider on a separate occasion, accepted this. She was once my student. I asked if her high school geography had been of any use.

She didn’t think twice. “I bought and sold a travel agency. It’s tough to make money in the travel business. The internet is stealing clients and reducing prices. In the future, agencies will specialize in geographical areas and charge upfront for their services.”

I found her summary fascinating. “Like the Caribbean…?”

“Places like the Caribbean, Mediterranean, and Europe,” she said.

After a long silence, I asked another question. “Who was in your class?” I didn’t dwell on my time as a high school teacher, but memories came flooding back when I met former students.

Sabella named students. And I remembered them. My career of thirty-one years felt like a distant memory. Can a person forget something they invested a lot of time in? I attributed it to my tendency to look forward to the future instead of dwelling on the past.

We arrived at Sabella’s in-laws’ place on Riverside Drive and she opened the shuttle door, all set to leave. “Well, Sabella, it was wonderful seeing you.”

“It was great to see you. Take Care.”

I watched her entering the code on the garage door’s security pad. And a quote from Mitch Albom’s book, “Tuesdays with Morrie” came to mind. “You live on in the hearts you have touched and nurtured while you were here.”

Confession #1

I appeared at the customer lounge. Three or four clients were relaxing, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper, and watching TV.

“Anyone needing a ride?” 

Three clients followed me. Two got into the van, but one young lady hesitated. “Sir, do I ring a bell?”

I executed my signature return. “The face looks familiar, but the name escapes me.”

“Cecille. I had you as my geography teacher.”

I recalled her from my grade twelve class. “What did you pursue after high school? You were an outstanding student. Did you go to university?”

One could adopt this cop out with most senior students. It was fortunate that she had provided her name.

“Yes. I earned a degree in marine biology at Simon Fraser University.”

“But… I’m taking you to work in Harrow.” I paused, appearing bewildered. “You ought to be near the whales.”

“There’s a job available at Harrow Research Station. Plus, my boyfriend is from here. You know sir,” 

Her smile activated my brain. I remembered her. “So, you’re not researching whales?”

“I’m not, but I’m taking scuba diving lessons. Last weekend, we went to a quarry in Ohio.”

“Is it more effortless diving in a quarry?” I asked. But I knew the answer. It was a wise idea: the water in a quarry is free of waves and a current, and cloudless.

She agreed. “The lake is challenging because of the unpredictable winds.”

The mention of the lake reminded me of class field trips. “Did you take part in our Peche Island field trips?” I asked.

Peche Island sits at the head of the Detroit River at Lake St. Clair. The only way to get there is by boat. I ferried my geography students across with Zodiacs. They climbed trees and conducted simple field studies, but never in that order.

“Yes, I loved it,” she said. “It’s a neat place. I’ve revisited it with friends since then.”

I posed other questions: her job, her diving instructions, and old times at school. That’s where my thoughts had gone. During Cecille’s attendance, Bill Oliver was the principal. He had an enormous ego, despised confrontation, and we clashed. There was an instance when I thought my senior geography class needed to take an early exam, not on the last day before the grades were due. My course required essays, not a Scantron card. 

Bill declined to change the scheduled day. “The computer produces the schedule. Geography is a one-of-a-kind subject and produces conflicts if it starts the schedule.”

I exited Bill’s office and used the Jones Method of marking.

“Cecille, I need to share something with you.” I related the story of the exam incident.

“So, you gave the class their grades and then marked the paper? That’s hilarious. The things you discover after you leave school.”

Confession #2

”Base to shuttle.”

I grabbed the walkie-talkie. Showers pelted the windshield. I had to pay attention. “Go ahead, Connie.”

There’s a pickup downtown at the Canada Building. Robert Hopper is his name.”
“Roger. I got it.”

I recognized the name Robert Hopper. Years ago, I coached the chess club and Rob was a member.

As I neared the pickup spot, the sun came out, and I spotted my tall, heavy-set client waiting outside the exit with a black umbrella.

The customer boarded the van and recognized me. “Mr. Jones?”
I watched the man. “Rob Hopper, how are you?”

“I’m good. It’s been a while. Do the names Erica Weinstein and Jeff Christie sound familiar to you?”

“They belonged to the chess club. Have you come across them?”

“Last month, I crossed paths with Erica. During her visit from Toronto, she stayed at her dad’s place. Sir, you couldn’t recognize her. She’s no longer heavy.”

I pondered. “What is she doing?”

She and her spouse enrolled in a physics doctoral program, but now they both work in software development. So is Jeff. He is part of a company in Toronto.”

“What have you been doing? Do you work at the Canada building?”

“A software development company is co-owned by me.”

“Gees, so all of you do software design?”

I reminisced. “Who could have imagined, as we drove around the county in my old Volkswagen to chess matches, that you’d end up pursuing this as a career? But chess and computer software development need both logic and creativity. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“By any chance, do you remember when we were going to Belle River High School for a game, but we ended up at Lake Erie?” Rob asked with a mischievous smile. “How inaccurate was that?”

The memory brought a smile to my face. “Fifty kilometers. That moment keeps replaying in my mind. But we ended up where we needed to be.”

“Those were fun days,” Rob says.

“Yes, they were.”

“You’re retired and doing this today?” asks Rob?

“I’ve driven for two years. Do you remember John Perkins?”

“I think so. Wasn’t he a student when I was?”

“I don’t think you were a student at the time. John is Janet Michaels’ brother-in-law. Do you remember Janet Michaels?”

“I’m not positive.”

“Well, John became the parts manager at the dealership. He called me because he had heard I was bored. Then, he inquired if I was interested in driving a shuttle. I started the following day.”

“Do you miss teaching?”

I was direct. “I miss the students, but not the politics or the parents.”

Confession #3

George hurled a massive black bag onto the floor behind the front seat. “There’s likely to be rocks, Playboy magazines… you name it, it’s in this gear, so when my wife cleans it out…,” he said, but didn’t complete the thought.

I smiled, awaiting my former student, George Torrance, to adjust his equipment bag on the small space. “You gotta be tough if you’re a fireman… or a policeman.”

George chuckled. “They’re ruthless… if they see any weakness…” He clambered into the front passenger seat.

“Well… you have Dave Bender.”

“Oh, yeah… Dave…? He’s a nice guy! They call him the loser because he got silver and not gold at the Olympics?”

I knew George didn’t get the joke.

George changed the subject. “A house caught fire on Drouillard. It amazes me how people live. Turn right. Maybe we can spot it… or is it left…? It was dark.”

I turned right. “Married?” I asked.

“Yeah, two kids… one is twelve… the boy.”

“Ahh… soon to be a teenager…”

“Yeah, I know… those crazy years.”

Confession #4

I walked into the lounge. There were two rides and three waiters. “Are we good to go?” I announced.

A young man with a sheared skull, and many earrings laid down his newspaper and stood up.

I acknowledged him. After that, I looked at an old man rising from his seat, followed his green eyes, behind thick lenses as they moved to the young man and suspected he was hard of hearing, hadn’t heard the question. I signaled with my hand for the rides to follow. The old man, using the hand holder above the shuttle’s door, clambered into the front seat. Once seated in the driver’s seat, I adjusted the mirrors, put on his seat belt, and turned my head to face the old man.

The senior citizen relaxed a few seconds, drained from the ordeal of taking his seat. He turned his head and looked peaceful. He didn’t hear the question.

I established eye contact, pointed to the log sheet, then took up a pen. I could detect by the man’s body language and a certain concentration in his eyes that he understood there was something he wasn’t hearing.

The old vet was conscious of his hearing difficulties. The war had inflicted damage, he explained, as he turned and lowered his head to the left to catch the question with his right ear.

I repeated the question. “Where are you going?” 

This time he got the question, told me the street and number. “And my name is Duchette, a good Irish name. Yep, an eighty-five-year-old vet.”

I piloted out of the lot and headed towards the west and then the north. I was far down the road before realizing I hadn’t recorded the young man’s exact address and last name.

“Forgot one.”

I whispered “Kruench” to myself, while taking up the log clipboard and balancing it on my right knee before retrieving a pen from the empty coffee cup I employed as a holder.

“I guessed you did. Kruench on Shingle Lane… do you recognize me? I studied geography in your class. I can remember us watching ‘Pole to Pole’.

“Michael Palin… the Monty Python guy.”

I employed movies to provide uninspired students with a world view through humour. “Grade ten?” I asked.

“Grade ten,” said the young man.

A lengthy pause devoured the silence in the van before my subconscious fed me the name.

“Mickey Kruench!”

Whenever I worried about the Alzheimer’s gene, and I did, I recalled my uncanny ability to recall names. If I focused, I could pull them out, even if it took time.

It startled Mickey. But it made him happy to be remembered. “That’s right!”

“So, what are you up to these days?” I asked.

“Um… odd jobs.”

I kept it light. “We need to pay the bills, right?”

“Right… Well, I took communications,” Mickey said.

“Where…? At the U of W…?”

“Yes.”

“Meaning to do what…?”

“Oh… Venturing into film and writing. I wouldn’t object to traveling and doing what Michael Palin did.”

The walkie-talkie interrupted the conversation. “Base to shuttle. Cam. Could I have an ETA?”

“Um… let’s see.”

It was tough to give exact times, and customers got anxious after a set time was up, so I gave myself more time than required. “I’ve got three drop offs so… give me thirty to forty-five minutes.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I checked the mirror for traffic, then turned and headed south on Drouillard, glancing at the people and buildings populating this once thriving but now derelict neighbourhood. Two plant employees in overalls emerged from an alleyway leading to a bootlegger’s establishment. A skinny drug addict stood in a corner and smoked a cigarette, eyed every vehicle that passed. A group of muscular, tattooed men in leather vests stood talking outside a bar. An elderly lady dressed in black stepped down from the porch of a white bungalow, opened the gate of a white picket fence; Eastern European immigrants settled this region, and several churches and ethnic halls stood as a testament.

The old vet spoke up. “This is a tough area. Every corner has a bar. I bet there’s stuff going on.”

I was willing to talk. “I’m not sure I’d go to any of these places. They’re…”

The vet disrupted, as if he’d caught nothing. “I’ll stick to the Legion.”

He didn’t say a word while turning left. Then he continued. “The Legion has few veterans left. Two died last month. There’s just me and Dan MacFarlane, the old Scotsman.”

I worked on the math. Over half a century ago, the old man went to war, confirmed it just in case. “Were you in the Second World War?” I asked.

The elderly vet rotated his head. He assumed I’d spoken but wasn’t certain what I’d said.

I repeated the question. “Were you in the second world war?” This time, I sensed the veteran was trying to read my lips.

“Allied invasion…” the old vet said.

I’d read of the casualties on the shores of Europe during the allied invasion. “So… you’re lucky to be here.”

The veteran raised his eyes as though visualising the scene. “Have you ever seen the cliffs?”

I shook my head. “No.”

The veteran lifted his hand in a vertical motion to show height. “They sat up there and picked us off like flies. The king’s brother or something. Monbatten. He did not know what he was doing.”

“You’re lucky to be here,” I said, not knowing how else to respond.

Sunlight left the road like a breaking wave, leaving a beach, and a black cloud took over. I thought I spotted lightning and listened for the thunder. Seconds later, I heard a muted rumbling.

We had reached the service road near the Devonshire Mall when I heard Mickey’s voice. “Turn right.”

“Oh, okay. You’re just off to the left.”

We arrived in Mickey’s driveway within minutes. It was a decent place for someone who works odd jobs to live. And I thought, he must still live with his parents.

Mickey clambered out of the van, said goodbye, and strolled to the front door. His pace of motion had changed little from his high school days. Then I looked at the vet.

The vet glanced back. “You’re near to my place.”

I nodded, didn’t bother speaking.

But Mr. Duchette continued. “I’ve lived there for over sixty years. My kids are out west. One lives in Abbotsford and the other in Winnipeg… Two blocks ahead, turn right.”

“Yeah, okay,” I said, but knew the veteran couldn’t hear me.

The vet’s little house with a white frame sat near the back of a deep, narrow, easy maintenance lot devoid of flowers or shrubs. From the street to the side carport, there was a paved path.

I stopped in front of the car port and looked into the veteran’s eyes. “A lot of grass to cut.”

The vet understood. “My wife used to do it, but she died nine years ago. Now I pay someone to do it.”

He opened the door and stepped out. 

I watched him and cautioned, understanding he wouldn’t hear me: it was a customary practice. “Be careful now. Take your time.” I sat back as the old man followed my advice. Then I remembered I’d forgotten to record this customer’s name and exact address. I opted to get them from his service advisor.

Copyright: James Gibson

To be continued…