StKittsTheatre.com

WRITER'S BLOCK

written by Jason Cadieux

“The eyes are the lamps of the body and if the lamps go out your light will be darkness.
And if your light is darkness how deep will your darkness be?”

* note: scroll further down for previous chapters *

Chapter Five: Watts
posted August 25th, 2009

     Watts wasn’t his real name. His real name was Al Gutman but everybody called him Watts because he looked so much like the Charlie Watts, the drummer from the Stones. It was a nickname that Watts didn’t really care for but didn’t care enough to try and change either. There wasn’t much that could agitate Watts as his constant expression of indifference suggested, but he was dependable, always there for me in a pinch and he was one of the only guys at the 5-0 who I would count among my friends. Besides Jane, he was the only person I felt I could confide in about the evening’s strange events.

     Like me he preferred to work the night shift, opting for the rowdies and the chance of high doe instead of the grind of mid day traffic. As I drove back the way I came along Highway 20, I phoned Watts and asked him to meet me for a drink.

     Ten minutes later, he sat across from me at a booth in Tumbleweed, a wanna be honky-tonk bar halfway between the Falls and the strange farm house. Al ordered a pint and I ordered a diet coke.

     “Weird”, he said as he turned the package over in his hands, inspecting its seamless wrapping and knotless twine. I’d just finished explaining my encounter with the milky eyed dogs, I wasn’t sure if he meant the story of how I came across the package, the package itself, or both. I’d left out the visitation from LaFront, and told him I’d gotten the lump on my head while cleaning out my cab, hitting it on the door.

     “There’s no address, what do you think I should do with it?” I asked.

     “Well you could hand it in to the lost and found at the station but then you might have to explain the situation to
      dispatch.”

     “No thanks” I said.

     “Or you could keep it.”

     “Why would I want to keep it?”

     “So you can open it!”

     “I don’t want to open it.”

     “Aren’t you curious?”

     “Well sure, a little.” I admitted.

     “Bet it’s a book”, Watts said eyeing the package greedily.

     “It feels too light to be a book”, I said

     “Well shit, let’s open it then.” He said.

     “Don’t you think its weird, those dogs just waiting for me and then dropping this at my feet, someone wants it
      somewhere and chances are that someone is a freak. You should’ve seen that place it was like witch’s
      junkyard.”

     “Cool”, he said grinning.

     “You wouldn’t have thought it was cool if you’d been there with those dogs surrounding you.” I said. 

     “No probably not.” He said then took a long pull from his beer. “Well you could always rewrap it, he
      said.”

     “Why are you so interested in unwrapping this fucking thing?” I demanded.

     “Hey you called me dude, you wanted to know what my thoughts are, so I’m telling you. If you want
     some clue as to what this is all about you should open the weird package. If you don’t want to know -
     hand it in to lost-and-found at the office. Maybe someone will call looking for a package, maybe they
     won’t.”

     The Boss belted out ‘Radio Nowhere’ on the jukebox, I sipped my diet coke and stared at the package that now lay between us on the table. It had been a strange evening indeed, the ghost woman from the book on tape, that terrible image of Bill Shaw’s decapitated head in her lap, the dogs with the milky eyes and finally this package. There didn’t seem to be a clear cut path through this mess but at least opening the package was a decisive act, something I could do instead of waiting for this strange evening to push me around some more.

     "Okay", I said and reached over to take Watt's key chain, he kept a swiss army knife attached. I would cut the string and slice an opening in the paper and the act would be done. Suddenly I felt watched, and it wasn’t just by Watts, I turned and scanned the bar for any suspicious characters. A plump old timer in a duffle coat and panama hat sat at the far end of the bar watching the hockey game, an older couple dressed in jeans, matching plaid shirts and cowboy boots huddled over the juke box giggling and flirting like teenagers.

     The bartender who had spotted me leaning out from my seat in the booth raised an eyebrow and said “Nuther round guys?” as she pulled the tap pouring Watts another pint anyway. “Sure”, I said and turned back around to find Watts with his knife placed underneath the string of the package. My breath hitched, caught in an uncoordinated panic trying to breathe in and speak at the same time. The tiny blade sliced through the string with no effort, Watts looked up at me, a devilish grin on his face.

     “You alright there dude?” I took in a deep breath, trying to bring my heart rate down.

     “You – you opened it.” I said stupidly.

     “Well you weren’t going to and I had to see!” he said.

     “You shouldn’t have, we shouldn’t have I don’t think”.

     “What? Come on you just said we should.”

     “I’m pretty sure now that you – we shouldn’t have”. He ignored my bumbling and slipped his knife
      under the brown paper wrapping, creating the packages only opening. 

     “Wow you’re really being a pussy here man, I’m disappointed. You’re not going to get fired or anything,
      I told you if someone calls looking for a package…”

     “Well it doesn’t matter now does it!”,  I said reaching over the table and plucking the package from his
      impatient hands. He held on tight, making me work the thing from his grip, than letting go so suddenly
      I almost threw the package into the booth behind me. The bartender arrived with another round.

     “Now children, play nice.” She chided. She was a big woman, she looked to be in her late 30’s. She
      wore tight acid wash jeans and a sleeveless Rush sweatshirt. Al pulled out a fiver and paid her for the
      drinks.

     “Thanks” I said.

     “Is it your birthday or something?” She said eyeing the package.

     “Actually it is.” Watts lied. “My friend here just turned 40.”

     The bartender whistled and raised her eyebrows. “Wow the big 4-0 huh? Well hun you don’t look a day
     over 38!” she said, hitting my arm and laughing hard. Her breath smelled like cinnamon gum. 
     “Common open up your gift lets see what your friend gotchya.” She barked.

     “Ya”, Watts said “open it up, I think you’re really gunna love it.” I could have slapped that smile off his face I was so angry, but I also felt embarrassed, wanting to have it done with, I slipped my thumbnail under the tiny slit that Al had made with his knife and peeled off a strip of the wrapping. The tear revealed the cover of a box that was black as soot with bright yellow lettering, my stomach dropped and I felt dizzy as I ripped the rest of the brown wrapping off the gift. When I was finished I held up the prize for all too see.

     “Oooh nice” said the bartender. She leaned over, tilted her head and read the cover, “‘Fortune is a
     Woman’ by Jack Lafront. Never heard of him is it a good book?” She asked.

     “It’s not a book”, I said.

     “What is it then?” Watts said as he reached out and grabbed the box from me. I let him take it without
      a fight.

     “It’s a book-on-tape”, I said. Watts opened the cover and revealed a set of four brand new white tapes.

     “Wow boys don’t look so happy”, the bartender said. “How bout a shot birthday boy, on the house!”

     “Crown Royal please”, I said. “And can I get one for my asshole friend here too?”

     You got it, she said with a wink and skipped back towards the bar.

     “I think she likes you” Watts said with smirk, his eyes fixed on the white tapes in the black box.

     If I’d been upfront with Al and told him everything that had happened to me that evening than its possible he would comprehend the significance of the book on tape but I’d kept him in the dark and as a result the mystery, for him at least, had been solved upon opening the package.

     “It’s a book on tape, big deal, listen to it and throw it in the glove box. If anyone asks then say you went to pick up the package and no one answered the door.”

     “Right”, I said.

     “Don’t look so glum chum – could have been worse, could have been some crazy dealer’s stash. He woulda hunted you down like a dog.”

     Watts had accidentally put his finger on the exact word to sum up the anxiety I’d been feeling those tapes gave me. That feeling of being hunted, an acute awareness of being pursued by someone just outside my periphery. I knew that the ‘someone’ was Lafront. What would happen once she caught up with me? Would she cut my head off as she’d done to Bill Shaw? What exactly had happened to Bill anyway? I decided that would be my best bet of getting some insight into the trouble I was in. Whatever had happened to Bill would probably happen to me unless I could figure out exactly what was going on.

     The Crown Royal hit my belly like a firebomb and helped to still my nerves. “You want another one Birthday boy?” The bartender said with a sly smile.

    “No thanks, I’ve got to drive.” I said and brought out my wallet to pay her for the shots. “On the house” she said.
    “Happy birthday”.
Chapter Four: The Package
posted June 28th, 2009

          I’m not sure how long I stood there staring at my cab, if anyone had happened by it would have made an odd tableau; Mexican stand off – man versus car, man versus ghost, if that’s what she was. It was definitely the woman from the book on tape, her mellifluous voice was unmistakable, she’d spoken first on the tape and then, magically from my back seat. But that was impossible, I didn’t believe in ghosts. Wasn’t it more likely that I’d suffered some major fucking electrical storm of the mind while listening to the book on tape, imagined the woman in the back seat, then lost control of the car? Stress can do funny things to a person, especially one who makes their living off of their imagination.

     When I’d gathered the courage to get back into my cab, the back seat was empty and there was no trace of the Lafront or Bill Shaw’s decapitated head. There was still that slight odor of rotting meat but nothing in the cab to explain the source. ‘Maybe that’s what ghosts smell like’, I thought as I searched underneath the seats for some evidence of the smell, “Then again, maybe I’m imagining the smell too”, I countered. I gave up looking for the source of the foul smell. I inspected the bump on my head in the rearview mirror, now a nice goose egg with a slight cut in the center where the skin had torn open. The windshield was cracked just slightly and there was a dab of dried blood that marked the point of impact.

     The white tape was still clutched in the jaws of the car’s tape deck, I reached over and pulled it out, gathered the box that held the other 3 Lafront tapes and got out of the cab. Maybe I had imagined the whole thing but why take chances, I sat on the hood of the cab and, one by one, pulled the ribbon from each tape. The little wheels of the cassettes squealing as the this brown tape uncoiled. I stretched the ribbon until it snapped and then stomped on the tapes for good measure.  When I was done with the tapes I tore up the box the tapes had come in, mat black with bright yellow lettering, the box was old and already torn in places, it came apart easily.

     The mess lay scattered at my feet, tape ribbon strung out along the gravel shoulder of the road fluttered in the slight evening breeze, a shred of the box caught the wind and skipped into the ditch below. I surveyed my work with satisfaction, if I had been visited by the woman from the book on tape, if I had let her out by playing the tape like some strange genie in a lamp, it stood to reason that by destroying the tapes I would have no more unwanted visits.  If the whole thing was in my head, if I’d experienced some sort of ‘psychotic episode’ well than I had bigger problems.

     I got back in the cab and sat there with my hands on the steering wheel staring at the road ahead of me, after a moment I took a deep breath and turned the key in the ignition. The car started without hesitation, the low rumble of the perfectly tuned engine reminded me of Bill Shaw. I didn’t bother to try the radio.

     I picked up my clipboard, under the first entry Michelle had scribbled ‘pick up package by 7pm at 1220 Cream St. Fenwick’. The clock on the dash read 6:38 I was very close to Cream St, there was still enough time to pick up that package before 7:00pm. I shifted into drive and pulled the car back onto Highway 20, making sure I ran over the remains of the book-on-tape for good measure. I checked the rearview mirror every 15 seconds to make sure there weren’t any malevolent spirits hiding out in my back seat, it never hurt to be careful.

     When I reached Cream Street I made a hard left, taking the turn so fast the back tires skidded along the gravel shoulder. A true country road, it could barley accommodate two cars, it was in constant shade due to the thick overhanging canopy of trees. Cream Street was originally used by the Burkout’s in the twenty’s as a delivery route by their milk and cream trucks, the name stuck. The sign for 1220 was a small spray painted board nailed to a tree and I almost missed it was going so fast, I slammed on the breaks and skidded to a stop just past the driveway, which was walled in on either side by evergreens.

     The house wasn’t really a house but a storage bunker, a long steel half cylinder quonset hut with no windows. The yard was littered with the carcasses of old cars, tractors and unidentifiable engines long since seized up and useless. Another home made sign above the door to the bunker read ‘beware of dogs’ – plural, I noted. I backed the car as close to the front door of the place as I could and honked the horn, no response from dogs or whoever lived here. I honked again and again there was no response.

     After scanning the junkyard for junkyard dogs and finding none I got out of the cab and approached the front door. When I got close enough I could hear the soft murmuring of a TV or radio coming from inside the hut. I knocked hard on the steel door there was no answer but the low murmuring stopped, as if whoever were inside had turned down their radio, listening to see if I was really there. I listened to the sound of someone listening to me. Than called out “5-0 Cab company, I’m hear to pick up a package!”

     My heart thumped hard when I heard the low chesty growl a large dog. I turned slowly to find myself flanked by three large Rotties. All three dogs bared their jaws at me, long strings of drool dripping from their jowls. They sat blocking the way back to the cab, their bodies quivered and their coats were dirty and matted from neglect, it gave them a wild, rabid appearance. They had snuck up soundlessly behind me, appearing practically out of thin air. Their eyes were not the affectionate brown black eyes that Rottwielers were known for but milky white cataracts eyes. ‘Blind’, I thought to myself, ‘they’ve got to be’. This didn’t comfort me though, blind or no, dogs had great hearing and at this distance they could charge and have me on the ground in seconds if they were so inclined.

     “Hey guys, I’m just here to pick up a package”, I said, sounding as calm and in control as I could manage.

     The largest of the dogs, the one in the middle barked, then bowed it’s big head. On the ground in front of the animal was a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper, after some maneuvering with his snout the dog managed to clutch the package between its jaws, carry it over to me and drop it at my feet. The dog then returned to his original strategic position in the middle of other two dogs. They’d been waiting for me to pick up the package and now that I’d picked it up they were waiting for me to leave. 

     I bent down and picked up the package, it weighed less than a pound. Very slowly I walked through the dogs line of scrimmage, towards my car keeping my eyes on the dogs in case they changed their minds and decided to charge. I opened the door to the cab and threw the package onto the passenger seat, getting in and quickly slamming the door behind me. I started the engine and drove slowly out of this weird auto graveyard. When the nose of the cab reached the end of the drive I checked my rearview mirror, the dogs were gone.

Chapter Three: untitled
posted May 5th, 2009

     That Friday as I pulled into the employee parking I scanned the lot for Bill’s old F150 but didn’t see it. He worked days and I drove nights so we frequently missed each other on the shift change but he would always leave the tapes I’d lent him, or tapes he was lending me, on the seat of car 66 (my regular car).  Sometimes he would even leave me a note, reviewing the latest selection.  I parked, collected my seat back, and lunch box and headed to the main office to check in with dispatch.

     5-0 was the biggest of the three local cab companies in Niagara with over one hundred cars on the road during tourist season. Drivers however were always in demand, after three years of driving I knew why, it takes a special temperament to drive around the city for eight hours at a stretch.  There’s also the risk being robbed, since I’d been driving two drivers had been seriously injured in robberies, the assholes netting less than two hundred bucks on both occasions. Many of the drivers were new to the area but not the cabby business, which to me said that driving cab was driving cab, there’s always a main street and a bus terminal, a train station, an airport and strip clubs, the rest are just points in between. 

     Michelle piled my clipboard and cab keys into my already full arms.

     “You’ve got package to pick up over in Fenwick before seven tonight the address is on your log. Don’t be late”, she snapped.

     “Sure thing Michelle” I said and headed out to my car. I liked delivering packages, more time alone, more time to listen to my stories. 

     Car 66 waited for me at the far end of lot. It was a miracle I made it to the car without dropping anything. As I approached the car I could see that Bill had left my tapes on the passenger seat, good man Bill, I thought as I piled my stuff onto the hood of the cab and unlocked the driver’s side door.  The site of those tapes filled me with a relief I hadn’t expected to feel, I realized then that I’d been fretting about when I would get those tapes back ever since I’d handed them over to Bill. Not my usual easygoing self, they’re just tapes after all, tapes I’d scored for a deal at a garage sale.  Relax, I told myself, but myself didn’t listen.

     I opened the door to car 66 and caught the first traces of a foul smell, like a mouse left in a trap for a few days, a rotting smell. Bill kept the car’s running smooth but it was the driver’s job to keep his cab clean.  Someone pukes in the back seat, you’re the one who’s got to get the shop-vac and the Pinesol.  My nose quickly adjusted to the foul smell, to the point where I’d almost thought it wasn’t my car at all but something floating on the wind.

     I loaded my gear into the passenger seat, got in and closed the door. I reached over for the tapes and was again hit in the face by that slightly rancid smell. I looked down by my feet, by the foot space of the passenger seat, nothing. I started the car, the clock on the dash read 5:35pm, not enough time to give the car a thorough cleaning before heading out to Fenwick to pick up my package.  I decided I would drop off the package to wherever it needed to go and then hit the 24-hour car wash out on Merrit highway before cruising to the Falls for the rest of my shift. 

     My ritual before really settling in to a night of driving starts with a stop at the Semenuk’s station up the street to refill the car’s propane tank, then a coffee from the drive through Timmy’s (decaf so I don’t have to piss as soon as I hit the road). Once I’m settled in, I pop in a tape and drift into another world – sometimes it’s the world of crime and punishment, sometimes its real life biography, sometimes its thriller or a western. Today it would be the world sex and revenge as told by the beautiful Stephanie Lafront.

     I was well on my way to Fenwick when I put the tape into the tape deck and hit the power button. Instead of the twinkling piano all I heard was the low hiss of blank tape.  I turned up the volume but that just amplified the hissing sound. I tried ejecting the tape and playing the other side, nothing, I tried the radio, nothing – just that empty hissing sound.

     “Fuck” I said to myself “the thing is busted”.

     The cabs 5-0 used were hand me down Christler’s, retired cop cruisers that had reached the standard 150 thousand Km mark and had been retired so to speak.  Cops didn’t use them once they hit that mileage mark, instead they auctioned them off and 5-0 bought them by the fleet. I loved the simplicity of the old Christlers, they had a real sense of less is more.  From the steering wheel to the dashboard, everything was just simple and properly placed –nothing too fancy or overbearing about it. It appealed to my minimalist sensibilities I guess, blue leather interior that was nicely broken in, and an engine that could float at 140 like it was nothing. 

     I’d never had a problem with the tape deck before and now this, what a pisser – I wasn’t looking forward to spending 10 hours on the road in total silence.  I decided I would take the car back into the garage after I dropped the package off to wherever it needed to go. I would just grab another car, one that didn’t smell like dead rat and had a working tape deck.

     I took a long pull of my black and bitter decaf, and pushed the accelerator down a little further. I didn’t like things quiet, silence to me was always oppressive. All through my childhood I had to have the radio on or I wouldn’t, couldn’t fall asleep. The few times my Mother did force me to fall asleep without the aid of late night radio, I awoke in the night, feverish and terrified from the grip of some awful nightmare. She soon decided it would be easier to just let me have the radio on all night. She could get used to the low drone of ‘The Shadow’ or ‘The Sunday Night Funnies’ a lot easier that she could get used to my midnight screaming.

     The November sun was setting over the plowed under cornfields. The distant tree line stood out in stark black contrast against the pink-blue-sky backdrop. I drove with the window down so I wouldn’t have to smell that lingering smell of death, also if I couldn’t have the sound of the radio or a book on tape I’d take the sounds of the smooth 6 cylinder turbo engine cruising along the open country road. I reached over and unzipped my lunch bag. After a moment of feeling around for it I found the mini-tape recorder recently purchased for be by Jane.

     Lately I’d been suffering from a serious case of writer’s block, and Jane had made the suggestion that I try to shake things up by streaming my consciousness into the mini tape recorder. I preferred working on my computer but since that wasn’t working I told her I’d give the little tape deck a try and begun to carry it around with me. So far it was only useful for shopping lists. I held the mini- tape recorder in my hand, my thumb resting against the record button.

     'A way of shaking things up’, I said to myself. I had never been so at a loss for words as I was now, as I had been for the last month. Part of me wanted to just give it a rest for a while. I thought that if I forced it, I might strip the bolt of creativity doing more damage than necessary. Another part of me wanted to believe that it was a matter of course, something to keep writing through. Jane said it was the pressure I was placing on myself, and that I needed to try some new path to creative discovery.

     I depressed the record button on the mini-tape recorder and brought it to my mouth, ‘just say anything’, I told myself, ‘just start to tell a story’. But nothing would come out, all creative thoughts retreated like a kid who chickens out at the last moment before jumping off the high diving board and backs his way down the ladder.

     ‘Fuck it’ I said into the recorder, and hit the stop button, the little red eye on the device flickered out and I tossed it back into the black bag.  I reached out and hit the power button on the dash of the car, hoping that the tape deck might have magically fixed itself. The radio blasted out of the speakers at what seemed like a thousand decibels, without even thinking I stabbed the white tape cassette back into the tape deck. The silent hissing sound of blank tape filled the cab, then to my surprise the piano twinkled, then a muted trumpet sighed a cool breathy solo. I reached out and adjusted the volume to a more comfortable level. I took a deep breath, bringing my heart rate back under control. 

     ‘Double day audio presents’, her voice was low, sexy but still affirmative, like she couldn’t wait to tell me the title of the book she was about to read to me. She said,

     “‘Decapitated head in the backseat’” by Mike Hodge’ She laughed; there was cruelty in that laugh. I reached out and tried to turn the power off, but it didn’t respond.

     “Go ahead Mike look behind you.” She insisted. “Don’t you want to know what that stink is?” Her voice wasn’t coming from the speakers now but from the back seat.

     I reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror, angling it down so that I could scan the back seat. She sat there, the woman in the black silk dress with a black fur wrapped around her neck, she had short blond hair done in that style from the 50’s curly and cute, her lips were blood red and she was so pale. Her green eyes twinkled and she winked at me in the reflection of the mirror. She brought an elegant black gloved hand up to her mouth, she was holding in it one of those long cigarette holders. I heard the ‘tick, ticking’ sound as she clasped the ebony filter between her teeth. The tip of the cigarette glowed a bright orange then she looked down. I followed her gaze and in her lap rested the decapitated head of Bill Shaw. She soothed and petted Bill’s lifeless head with her free head as if it were a lap dog.

     I slammed on the brakes, but they didn’t respond. I was sure that I was screaming but I couldn’t hear myself, the car was filled with the sound of her terrible cruel laughter. The car swerved into the oncoming lane as I fought the wheel for control, it was as if someone were trying to wrestle control away from me. I looked up into the rearview and saw that her blond hair, had grown impossibly long, it filled the entire back seat, so much hair moving, growing out of her head as I watched like a stop motion nature film. Her eyes were no longer green and alluring but milky white, they bulged from her head as if she were reaching for me with her eyes. Her mouth gaped open in a wide toothy smile, she snapped her jaws shut making terrible crunching sound as she chewed up the cigarette holder like it was candy, the sound was like glass being ground into bust by the heel of some heavy boot. 

     I screamed and stomped on the brake but still the car wouldn’t stop. The blond hair crept up and over the back of my seat, the car stunk of death, a rotten smell you could taste.  I had to get out of the car. I pulled at the wheel with all my strength. If I couldn’t stop the car I could at least aim it into the ditch.

     Then as quickly as it had started, the fight for control stopped, the laughing stopped and the car’s brakes responded with shocking accuracy. The tires screeched and I shot forward hitting my head on the windshield leaving a trace of blood and a nice crack in the glass. I was dazed but still knew enough to get out of that car, I pulled onto the shoulder and put it in park. I grabbed for the door handle and with a hard yank, it opened and I fell onto the cold gravel shoulder, my screaming audible now.  I scrambled away from the car, kicking the door shut as I did, shutting the terrible thing in with the head of Bill Shaw.

      Chapter Two: untitled
      posted March 25th, 2009

     There was a good mix of stories in that box and over the next few weeks I listened to lawyers battle corporate corruption, private dicks crack cases and cowboys drive cattle across America. It was on the very last book on tape that I met Stephanie Lafront in a story called ‘Fortune is a Woman’ by Jack Lafront. I wondered if there was any relation, might they be married, brother and sister?  The very short bios of the two Lafronts on the back of the box made no mention of it. Maybe if the story turned out to be any good I’d do some research and find out.

     It was Halloween the night that first night I heard Lafronts voice, I remember because it was Jane’s birthday. Naturally she had been disappointed that I couldn’t be home to celebrate with her, but Halloween was a good night for cabbies and we couldn’t afford to miss the extra infusion of cash.  I brought the box of four tapes with me and popped the first one in as I sat in the line up outside the Sundowner Strip club. Michelle from dispatch squawked through the CB radio, demanding coffee from the next cabbie due in, I turned it down so I could concentrate on the story.

     The hissing sound of the blank tape filled the car and then there was the twinkling of piano keys, a jazzy riff that quickly gave way the voice of Stephanie Lafront. ‘Random House Audio presents ‘Fortune is a Woman’ by Jack Lafront read for you by Stephanie Lafront.’

     Her voice was like a mouthful of scotch, smooth and smoky, it almost made my eyes water just to listen to her. Her voice was so soothing, so relaxing, it was like going under hypnosis, I’ve never been hypnotized but I’d bet it’s just like listening to Lafront. She wove a yarn of murder motivated by revenge. Sex and death mingled constantly throughout the narrative which followed a couple who would slowly seduce other couples than steel their identity’s and murder them by staging fake car accidents.  Eventually they meet their match and are murdered themselves, burned to death in their own car. The book was so steamy I wondered why there wasn’t a warning of the box cover. Some of the sex scenes were so explicit it might have even qualified as erotica.

       I drove my fares as fast as I could so that I could get back the story, a few times that night, I let the story play on while I drove, completely ignoring the customer.  By the time Stephanie Lafront was finished I was left feeling both satisfied and hungry for more, an emotional case of blue balls. I decided that I would have to find everything Jack Lafront had ever written, chances are he would have more books-on-tape and if I were lucky Stephanie Lafront would read them. In the meantime I would wait a few days and give ‘Fortune is a Woman’ another listen. I tucked the box of tapes under my clipboard next to my lunch box in the passenger seat. I didn’t let fares sit up front, I preferred to keep the front half of the cab for myself.
       
     At the end of my shift I dropped the car off in the fleet parking lot and transferred my belongings, lunch box, beaded chair back and clipboard to our old Reliant. After cashing out at the main office, I shuffled back out towards the parking lot. I was very tired, it had been a long shift, the sun was already up, Halloween over for another year.

     Bill Shaw, the head mechanic was just starting his shift. At six feet he easily weighed over three hundred pounds, with a curious fault line in his forehead, which gave him a Frankenstein-ish appearance. I had spent more time than I cared to admit coming up with scenario’s to explain this fault line – a botched brain surgery, an attempt on his life by some crazed axe wielding maniac. One day I would ask him, maybe at the next 5-0 Christmas party.

     Bill Shaw was a wizard with cars and everyone around the shop liked and respected him. His gentle giant personality seemed to bring a peace to the place that hadn’t been there before.  I had been driving a cab with 5-0 for just over three years, Bill had arrived in the fall of the previous year but since then there had been less squabbles over petty things, the staff office was kept clean, even Michelle the dispatcher (who made Danny Devito’s character from taxi look like my favorite kindergarten teacher) had mellowed. Bill didn’t speak much but when he did it was as if you could feel it in the very floor, a rich deep baritone that was both powerful and soothing.

     Bill was especially fond of me because I was a writer. An avid reader himself, when he first started working for 5-0 he’d discovered a book-on-tape I’d accidentally left behind in my cab. Bill played the tape while he worked, transferring the tapes from car to car as he moved on to each repair job. When I arrived for work the next night Bill questioned me about the book-on-tape. We compared notes and then he made me promise that I would leave my favorite selections for him to listen to and he would start to do the same.

       Bill stood just outside the doorway of the cash out office, he ducked his head as I approached and smiled. Although I didn’t want to, I knew the kind thing to do would be to hand over ‘Fortune is a Woman’ but I wasn’t ready to part with it yet. It was irrational but I really didn’t want anyone else listening to her, I was jealous even at the thought.

       “How’s 66 running?”  Bill Shaw asked as I headed back to parking lot.
       “Like a dream Bill.” I said and kept walking, hoping that would be the end of it.
       “Any new books-on-tape Mike?” Bill asked and the innocence in that big voice of
         his poked a hole in my brave coat. I stopped and looked at Bill, he eyed the box
         of tapes under my arm. I motioned for Bill to follow me out to the parking lot,
         he faithfully trotted behind me to my car. As we reached my car I held out the
         box containing the book-on-tape.
       “Listen Bill, this one is real steamy, you know? Not the kind of thing you should
         be listening to at work.”
       “Oh Really?”
       “No shit, you could get in trouble listening to this stuff in the garage.”
       “Is it good though?”
       “Oh its good, its just – well not really appropriate for work.”
       “Okay Mike, you got me all curious now.”
       “You in day after tomorrow?” I asked
       “Ya”
       “Okay. I’m taking tomorrow off, but I’ll be in Friday, you bring it back in then
         okay? I really want to listen to it again while I drive.”
       “Sure I’ll bring her back to you Mike, don’t worry.” Bill said, nodding
         emphatically. He turned and almost skipped back the garage as he examined
         his new book-on-tape. I lingered there in the bleak morning light watching him
         go, a dull ache in my chest. “I’ll bring her back to you” he had said. Not ‘it’ but
         ‘her’. The ache passed. The sky brightened. I drove home.

     Chapter One: The Garage Sale
     posted March 11th, 2009

     My wife Jane was an avid ‘garage-saler’. From May to October her Sundays were a set ritual, up with the sun, breakfast at Kieth’s Diner up the street while she studied the classifieds of the previous day’s paper. Then she would take the old Suburban she’d inherited from her father and spend the entire day combing tables and front lawns for bargains. Brass was her favorite, she would bring home old lamps and candlestick holders black with corrosion and dirt from whatever attic they’d been thrown in and forgotten about. Then she’d shine them up, fix them up and come October she would have a garage sale of her own, selling repaired and functioning items back to those who thought they could live without them. She made a decent profit off of this past time, which helped her to pay for her schooling.

     Jane always invited me along on her Sunday hunting expeditions, most of the time I would decline, I wasn’t an early riser and spending my day off looking for deals wasn’t exactly my idea of fun. But once in a while I would get up and go with her, mostly to make her happy. The Sunday I found the book-on-tape was a beautiful September afternoon, the trees were full and beginning to colorize, blazing yellows and fiery oranges. Living in Niagara means being connected to the seasons in a way that you just can’t experience living in the city. I’d grown up in Torontoand had moved out here four years earlier to be with Jane. At the time I thought it was the best move I’d ever made, didn’t that turn out to be a joke.

     We drove all over Niagara that Sunday, picking through things people thought it was time get rid of. At about four o’clock I was ready to call it a day but Jane had one more garage sale she wanted to check out. 
“It’s on the way home”, she said.

     The sale was at a farmhouse in Jordan, not really on the way home but Jane promised to make it quick. We pulled off the highway and followed Jordan Roadto the number indicated in the paper. There were only a few cars pulled over on the shoulder, fellow bargain hunters, some of them already leaving the sale empty handed, looks of disappointment on their faces. “Looks like a bust”, I said to Jane as we crossed the road and headed towards the driveway. “Let’s just see” she insisted.

     An old man sat in an wooden rocker on the front porch of the house. He wore a dark blue mechanic’s jumper that looked like it hadn’t been washed in years. A row of picnic tables cluttered with all sorts of junk lined the driveway. The old man didn’t say much and bartered even less, if someone held up an item and called out an offer he would simply nod his head and wave his hand towards a bucket where they were to deposit their payment. His eyes were hidden behind eyelids that seemed to drip down his sallow cheeks.

     I trailed behind Jane as she turned over different items on the tables, a set of old wood working tools, handles chipped and broken, a box of rusted fishing tackle. An assortment of old MacLean’s magazines caught my interest and I started to leaf through them. I was half way into an article on the rise of Hockey in Japan when Jane hissed at me to come and see what she’d discovered. She was kneeling and looking at a box under one of the tables.

     “Jackpot” she said, folding the lid of the box open so I could see inside. It was filled with an assortment of books-on-tape, at least twenty titles.

     My writing hadn’t brought in much money as I was yet to be published in anything greater than a few of the local papers. My real job, my pay the bills job, was driving a taxi. Eight to twelve hour shifts driving for the 5-0 taxi company, half of that time spent sitting outside the strip clubs on Lundy’s Lane waiting for fares. It was mind-numbing, ass fattening work. I would bring a book with me always, but sometimes I would also listen to a book-on-tape. Part of a writer’s job is to read, listening to books on tape was a fun way to get my reading in on the road.

     “Well alright. How much”? I whispered to Jane, “Five bucks and they’re all yours” the old man said. He had moved from his old rocker and was standing almost next to me. Jane and I stood up, before I could say anything Jane, who was as much a fan of bartering as she was of the whole hunt for the items she sold at a profit said, “Three dollars”.

     The old man towered over both of us. His bony frame poked and pointed under his grimy oil stained outfit, despite his surprising height he couldn’t have weighed more than 120 pounds. The wind had picked up and was ripping the leaves from the trees, It would surely carry him away, I thought. He pointed to the box of books-on-tape, his drooping eyelids peeled back now to reveal eyes milky white, cataracts so severe that you could barley see his pupils.

     “Five dollars, it’s a good deal”. He said and smiled, revealing a set of comic looking dentures that looked like horse teeth. He spoke to me even though Jane was the one who had clearly taken charge of the bartering.
“She’s the one doing the deals today”, I said. He didn’t even seem to hear me but instead took a step towards me and in a whisper said, “You’ve got to be a good listener to hear what’s on the tape friend. A real good listener.” His breath was putrid, bubbles of spit clung to the corners of his mouth.

     I stepped back and he stared at me with milky white eyes that seemed too big for his old shrunken skull. A strong gust of wind blew across the yard and some the items on the tables rolled off onto the grass. The old man’s hair, he had a thick main of white stuff that matched his eyes, blew up and around his face like flames of a fire fed by the strong breeze. He smiled at me with that stupid horse grin and shouted, “5 Dollars is a fair deal, take it or leave it!” I recoiled from his breath.

     Jane and I looked at each other, she was suppressing a laugh and as always the laughter seemed contagious, I smiled and reached in by back pocket taking out my wallet.
“All I’ve got is a twenty”, I said holding out the bill to the old man. Smiling he plucked the twenty from me and went to the bucket of change that the rest of the bargain hunters had been depositing their funds into. With quick and steady hands he made change for the twenty and brought it back to me. I thanked him but he said nothing, then as if the transaction had sapped him of all his energy he walked back to his chair on the porch of the house and lowered himself into it. I hoisted the box of tapes off the ground and carried them back to the car.

     “What did he say to you anyway”? Jane asked.
     “He said I had to be a good listener”.
     “What do you think that means”?
     “No idea”.
     “Still that works out for you, you’re set for like a month now right”? Jane knew that I liked to listen to
     books-on-tape.
     “Good eye, bargain hunter”. I said, Jane smiled and pecked me on the cheek.
     “See, it was good thing you came today”, she said.
     I nodded and we got into the car. As we drove away from the farmhouse I looked back at the old man and
     saw that he tracked our departure with his eerie white eyes.