BLIZZARD

extract from "Hardcorps", a collection of Toronto courier tales

Moving Target, Spring 1995, vol. 4, #3

It started out to be a fairly average day. I was staying on Gloucester at the time with friends, I didn't have a place to live at the time. I guess it was about the end of November and it had been fairly cold, but I was still wearing cycling gloves, the kind with no fingers. At that time it was fairly common practice for me to wear a rubber motorcycle rain jacket to ride, because it kept my boss Frank happy, and it kept me warm, if a bit sweaty.

The image of me riding out to Yonge Street is still with me in tableau, sort of: a very thin ground cover, and my bike’s tires cutting through it, melting the wet snow. The snow just beginning to collect on the tree branches, everyone all bundled up and smiling at each other, because finally it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas, forgive the pop culture intrusion, and people like that.

When I got to work on Temperance Street, it still wasn't too bad out. I locked my bike, grabbed a coffee at the TSEatery, and went downstairs to grab my overnights. Ten minutes later, when I'd manifested and packed them, all hell had broken loose outside. I stood and watched the snow swirling on the wind in the narrow alley way of Temperance Street. It was beautiful and my heart felt warm in anticipation of a white Christmas, once again forgive me.

Coffee finished, I unlocked my bike and made to embark on the first drop of the day, huge smile on my face. Back then I was still in love with the romantic aspect of being a bike courier, the whole individualist, sorta concrete cowboy - I own the city, type of thing, a phase almost every rookie goes through. I pulled up to 365 Bay and went in.

"Still snowing out there?", the receptionist asked handing the signed waybill back. "Oh yeah," I gave her back her copy, "Worse than ever. Looks like we got a full scale blizzard on our hands today," I smiled full of bravado.

"Keep dry.." I heard as the elevator door closed and I started the trip down, silently scornful of her and her little office job.

The whole morning went much the same way, as I've found, it usually does when it rains or snows; you come into an office dripping wet, shivering, your package is wet, the waybill's soaked, and they always look surprised as they say to you, "Oh is it rayyy-nnning?"

That morning, my first blizzard prompted me to say, contemptuously, "No madam, it's snowing." The feeling of superiority lasted until about noon, when I realised that it just wasn't going to let up. I made my way into the dank basement office where there were wet footprints all over the ground. The air was heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke. The phones were ringing off their hooks, and the office was buzzing with people answering them. I swallowed my superiority, asking John the dispatcher if I could borrow a bit of money to buy some gloves. "Here's a fin. They got'em cheap at Woolworth's on the corner." He threw the five over the counter, and resumed dispatching, lighting another smoke from the butt of the previous one.

New vinyl gloves on, I felt like anew man, and my arrogance returned in force. Now when people told me to stay dry, I would look down at them condescendingly, and usually mutter "Yeah, yeah", on my way out. Every time this happened, I couldn't help myself; "What a moron," I'd find myself thinking, all the time miserable because my brand new $2.99 gloves were already waterlogged and it was only 1:30, and the snow was by now about a foot deep, and the only people out were bike couriers and cab drivers. The latter constantly at war with the former, would have fun at my expense buzzing close to me, or driving through puddles and caused slush to fly at me, eventually seeping down my boots.

My audacity evaporated about two, when I realized for the second time in my career as a bike courier that I probably wouldn't bother coming to work the next morning except to turn in my radio. I had to resort to singing Bob Marley songs at the top of my lungs.

One office I went into, the receptionist asked me if it was wet enough for me. I looked down at her. About sixty, glasses, orange rinse in her hair, friendly smile, really snappy dressed. I just handed her the envelope.

That morning, a comment like that would only have caused me to laugh disdainfully. I only smiled and shivered, dreading to go back out into the cold, wet blizzard, where people were driving like maniacs, the snow felt like poison darts in my face, and my bike was beginning to freeze up. She must have read something in my face. She disappeared a moment, and came back with a jumbo cup of coffee. All my earlier emotions turned to gratitude as she handed me the coffee, and set a pile of newspaper on the couch for me to sit on. As I gratefully drank, I thanked her profusely for the coffee and the hospitality, and she kept on saying "Oh don't worry about it. It's nothing." Well it was something. Without that cup of coffee at 2:30 that afternoon, I wouldn't have had the courage to return to the Hell that my city was right then. She not only gave me coffee that day; she gave me, without knowing it, the determination to face all that winter could throw at me that day.

And four years later, I'm still doing it; plus a little wisdom, minus a little arrogance.

And still see the lady who gave me the coffee that day. About every two weeks, we go out after work to have coffee.

If you have comments or suggestions, email me at messvilleto@yahoo.com