Others Are Unsafe
The girl who kidnapped me had a vaguely frog-like voice.
The girl who kidnapped me had a vaguely frog-like voice.
Over the phone, she requested one of my free 30-minute trial driving lessons. On my way to pick her up, Bono was yapping laments in the rear of the hatchback. His presence was due to the dog sitter’s refusal to keep our chronically teary-eyed Bichon Frise past five o’clock. The dog had apparently shat on the bathmat again, causing the dog sitter to hand Bono off like he was handing off a disease. I planned to speak to Patty about this lapse in training as soon as she returned from gallivanting around Paris with the short man. Where my ex-wife found that testosterone-depleted specimen I will never know. (Well, she found him next door to her apartment, but I will never understand it.) Patty was supposed to have picked up the dog three days previous, and had not deigned to call. I understood. It had been made perfectly clear to me that she was not beholden to give updates on every schedule change. What I did not understand was what she thought the short man could offer. The day was blustery and unpleasant. The sedan in front of me swerved as a tumble of leaves fled an unraked lawn. I honked fiercely. Teenagers, the bulk of my students, have the reputation as the worst drivers on the road, but I swear that these pig-tailed thumb suckers are all members of the over-40 crowd. Students don’t have these ninny leanings when I release them on the world. Understand that a good driving instructor is a gatekeeper. It is essential to push personal feelings aside and look only for worthiness. Only ever for worthiness. I, for example, let the redheaded kid from Salman Street graduate despite my hatred for him. He would sit behind the wheel and grin at my every commendation as though he had won the Nobel Prize for Signalling, but I knew, regardless of the spittle he launched from his over-wet mouth, he would pass his road test. The streets in this new girl’s neighbourhood were wide, and no one parked by the curb. Good for a first lesson. I checked the address again and turned onto her crescent. Patty was supposed to be back. Apparently, she and the short man had failed to board their flight in Paris. None of our old friends bothered to call me, though they had discussed it extensively amongst themselves. I was forced to call around until I finally extracted from Patty’s best pal that they had already contacted the airport, the hotel, and checked all social media accounts. No news yet. Outside a classic southern Ontario mock Tudor, a girl sat on the curb hunched over her phone. I rolled down the window and asked if she was Elizabeth. She pushed up round glasses, which immediately slid back down. Trust the perpetual grease of a teenager to turn one’s nose into a Slip n’ Slide. It was obvious to me the type of instruction this girl would require. Speed up. Accelerate through turns. Breathe. “And should I call you Liz, Betty, Beth?” “Just Elizabeth.” She propped her arms on the passenger window sill. A thick line of hair ran down the back of her bare forearms, as though she had leaned on some shedding animal. Her smell also struck me: something like artificial peach and fresh sweat. Bono began growling, but hushed easily.It was obvious to me the type of instruction this girl would require. Speed up. Accelerate through turns. Breathe.Once the girl was in the driver’s seat, I began my spiel. The moment we sit in a vehicle, I told her, we gain power. In many ways, it is like stepping into a suit of armour. Better yet, a superhero’s suit. One of the superheroes without innate abilities—your Batmen, your Iron Men. As pedestrians, we have poor peripheral vision, and must turn our entire person to catch sight of a threat coming from behind. As drivers, we can see in all directions by just moving our eyes. Then, of course, there’s the strength and speed. At night, we can light up the world in front of us. “We can do all this and listen to sweet tunes,” I said. I tapped my hand on the radio dial, as I always do. “Not today of course. With experience.” “So, the thing is,” she said, “all I actually need is some highway practice?” Her voice sounded hampered, as though by an overgrown uvula. Our eyes met through the rear-view mirror. “Elizabeth, these free lessons are meant for newcomers.” Her one hand rested on the door handle, ready to make her escape. The other massaged the steering wheel. I sighed. “Let’s see how it goes.”
I remember the girl was surprisingly adept. Through the one-way streets of St Catharines, passing downtown’s red brick churches and empty businesses, she rounded corners hand-over-hand, made sure to signal two distinct times for double lane changes. I directed her to the QEW. Going up the on-ramp, the Taurus rattled as it got up to speed, and the noise barrier on the right sped by like a backward bullet train. Spit out onto the highway, we landed in the shadow of an eighteen-wheeler. Bono instantly lost his composure, shrieking like a rabbit trapped in a coyote’s jaws. Before I could say a word to the girl, she pushed the accelerator harder and we slipped in front. The dog quieted. Elizabeth folded hair behind her ear and signalled into the fast lane. None of the timidity of other students. “All right,” I told the girl, “Let’s take this next exit and we’ll do it again.” The most challenging part of highway driving, I explained to her, is merging. After that, it is about being a part of the flow. Respect and being respected. The Seventh Street Louth exit approached on the right, so I told her to start signalling. She cradled the level but did not pull up. Her eyes were fixed forward. “Just here,” I said. The exit passed. “Fine. That’s fine. We’ll try the next one.” When the sign for Jordan Road appeared overhead I reminded her to signal. Advertisements for vineyards and roadside restaurants slung past. We stayed steady in the lane. The dual steering wheel tilted between my knees as the girl made small adjustments. I put a tentative hand on it. “Don’t,” she said. She squinted. Her glasses were slipping. They rested on the bridge of her nose, and she tilted her chin to maintain her line of sight. We missed Jordan Road. “You can do it. Just make the decision.” As the wedge of the following exit opened on the right, we were still in the far lane. I took the dual steering wheel in my hands and leaned into it. The girl counteracted. “Let go. I’ll get us over,” I said. The car wobbled, its mechanisms strained. A pick-up in the middle lane honked, and I released my grip. The Taurus screeched and swung out. The outside tires shuddered over the rumble strip, and my teeth rattled in my jaw. The vineyard fence closed in like a garrote wire, while around us a cacophony of car horns sounded. The Taurus fishtailed, struggling to regain its grip on the asphalt, squealing as the tires slid horizontal.
‘I swear to Jesus if you touch that second brake I’m rolling your car into the nearest ditch.’Finally, we righted in the lane. My heart beat against my rib cage. I felt a deep shame. You’re not supposed to touch the dual controls. I know this. Not unless it’s an emergency. “Young lady—“ “I said don’t. Just. Twenty minutes.” She finally pushed up her glasses. “And I swear to Jesus if you touch that second brake I’m rolling your car into the nearest ditch.” I knew that if I were to look in the vanity mirror, I would see patchy red from my neck spreading over my jowls. I looked straight ahead. “You haven’t earned the highway. Get off the highway.” The girl smirked and I had no idea what to do next. The girl kept driving. I gazed out the window, a worthless passenger.
Beyond the residential developments—those tall blocks of town homes with their own systems of streets, their complete lack of trees—the irritated waters of Lake Ontario were visible. From our vantage, it was a checkerboard of grey and white, but I knew the whitecaps were angry and churning out the smell of decaying mussels. No one had ever disobeyed a word of mine in that vehicle. Even Patty, who was quick to give me advice on cutting onions, buying shoes, cleaning the tub, promptly yielded when I’d asked her to no longer sleep with her head cradled on the seatbelt. A strange thing about being kidnapped is pinpointing the moment that it becomes a kidnapping. I wasn’t sure. And I’m not sure now whether that twitch of my left thumb was due to rage or apprehension. We approached the burnt hull of the Grand Hermine ship—the Big Weasel—which sat slumped in the shallow water, its masts jutted sideways like road spikes. I always felt a pang of sympathy for the Grand Hermine. Constructed as a replica of the ship that brought Cartier to the mouth of the St Lawrence, a businessman’s plans of making it a restaurant or gambling destination ended along with his life, leaving the hull for the young arsonists of St Catharines. Now it had to sit humiliated, passed by an endless stream of motorists. A scooter buzzed by on our right and Bono lunged at the window with the intensity of a Mongol horde. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. “God. Sorry. Can you actually shut it up? It’s like a fucking oven timer.” I shot back. “And you sound like a fog horn.” She coughed out a laugh. “If you want the dog to be quiet,” I said, “pull over at the gas station after the old Wet n’ Wild. I’ll fetch the dog from the back.” The girl scratched her arm. “You know the internet says that place is haunted now? Fucking ghost children screaming down abandoned waterslides.” She turned around and barked at Bono. Involuntarily, I grabbed my heart. Wondered if I might scream. But the dog did shut up. “I’m not pulling over. You know that, right?” Out the window, stunted highway-side trees, whipped by wind, blocked sight of the decaying amusement park. After it was Prudhomme’s Landing, where I’d hoped to find my salvation at a gas station or Tim Horton’s. I had to pee. I couldn’t tell her that, though, could I? I pulled out my mobile and dialled 9-1-1, but left it turned over in my lap without pressing send. To keep my mind off things, I imagined Patty in a hotel room now, which was just large enough for a bed and a window looking on the Eiffel Tower, with the neighbour man standing over her with their torn plane tickets cupped in his hands. I cannot let you go home yet, he might say. We have yet to see Versailles. In this contemplation, the neighbour man has a French accent, has a decadently trimmed moustache, though in reality he must be as Canadian as anyone else. Perhaps in this new relationship, she doesn’t want to argue. Her look is one of annoyed relief, though, as I barge into that hotel room. She won’t want to talk about it, but she’ll certainly want to come home. I turned to the girl. “Why are you doing this?” She shrugged. “Needed a ride.” “There are other—” “No money.” “Your parents.” “Parents not home. Friends not home. Bus is four hours. I’m sorry, but.” “Rideshare apps.” She scratched her arm. “I’m … banned.” “All of them?” “Well. Anyway, you’re not allowed to ride alone if you’re under—” “You’re not allowed to steal.“ “Dude. Just. Shut up. Please just shut up.” The car wobbled in the lane again, and I did it. I did shut up. The sign for the Burlington Skyway warned of high winds. This girl, of course, gave it no regard, and instead worked on removing the pine freshener from the rear-view. She cracked the mirror and slid it out. The freshener exited the calm of the car like a butterfly hit by a waterfall, and slapped the windshield of the vehicle behind.
When Stelco was still huffing acrid smoke under the bridge, back when Patty and I shared a ride to work, driving over the Skyway felt like soaring over the Industrial Revolution.As the car climbed over the bridge, the empty steel factories of Hamilton stretched below. Lake Ontario’s whitecaps shrunk to dander on the dark surface. When Stelco was still huffing acrid smoke under the bridge, back when Patty and I shared a ride to work, driving over the Skyway felt like soaring over the Industrial Revolution. Truth was that I loved to see her head cradled by the seatbelt, and I’d adjust the side view mirrors to see how her forehead wrinkles—the ones she developed while making stunning intellectual leaps—were pressed like insects under glass. Near the end of things, she’d stopped arguing and started nodding. That had made me angrier. I hadn’t known it was near the end. She’d said to me, “Then let me recline the seat, Charles.” But, of course, that’d be even less safe. I was not safe. The crosswinds snatched the vehicle and the girl’s hands tightened around the wheel. I looked at her. Ask me how to handle it, I thought. Instead, she glanced at the book I had in the cubby, Greatest Civilizations of History. She gestured at it. “You have a favourite conqueror?” I ignored her, but she patted my forearm. “Come on. Which builder of empire? Incorporator of realms?” The speedometer read 130 km/h. At the apex of the Skyway, we blew by a dump truck, and, leaving its slipstream, the car pulled toward the guard rail. I saw Lake Ontario waiting to claim us. “Slow down.” She glanced at me. “Are we really still doing lessons?” “You’re not safe.” The girl’s foot came off the pedal and the car geared down. The dump truck passed us on the right and the girl screeched in at its tail. My hand shot out for the door handle, a reaction I’d not had since my first teaching days. “We’ll hang out here,” the girl said. The smell of fermented garbage spewed through the vents. Elizabeth’s chest rose and fell. A sheen of sweat covered her upper lip. She was nervous. Grabbing the door handle made things worse. I made her aware of her shortcomings. “Genghis Khan,” I told her. “He was the ruler of—“ “Ew. Yeah, I know.” She pushed up her glasses. “Why is that your favourite?” The car dropped back to a safe distance behind the dump truck, but the smell of liquefied food waste still wound its way through our airspace. “I mean,” she said, “blah, blah, blah, freedom of religion, and making sure the sad little Europeans could get their salt along the Silk Road. Fine. But rape, murder, pillaging, that’s your fave?” It was. It was a part of the times. The dump truck signalled and exited the highway. Besides, they were all like that, the conquerors, were they not? I lowered the window and fresh air hammered in. The girl patted her ear. “Could you shut that, please?” My bladder ached. I shifted in my seat to relieve the pressure from the seatbelt. “Meritocracy,” I told her over the wind. “What?” Keeping her eyes on the road, she ran a hand along the door to find the window controls. The pounding withered and died. “Meritocracy,” I said again. “That’s what I like. You didn’t just get something handed to you.” “Ah. We’re almost there.” “Tell me where we’re going.” “I need to visit a friend.” A long whine carried from the back. The freeway ahead split and Elizabeth stayed to the left, bringing us by squat, windowless commercial buildings on one side, and unscathed farmland to the other. Bono gained decibels as he sensed a nearing destination. Just piss on the carpet. No one would blame you. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “What now?” “He has to urinate.” Finally, she exited Dundas Street West. I expected my anxiety to lessen, but instead it grew as we decelerated. Lampposts and stripped trees gained individual character, became real. I tried to understand this new dread. And, of course she was taking us to Mississauga. Mississauga is what happens when masses of people overflow from cities into farmland, each old block of acreage filled by unproductive loops roads and cul-de-sacs. There’s nowhere a person can drive and expect to get anywhere, all thoroughfares leading out being clogged by Superstore shoppers. A city of claustrophobia. Maybe that was the feeling. Or that, off the highway, the ability to do something was regained. At a red light, tapped her hands on the wheel. “Merit is in the eye of the beholder.” She said it as though convincing herself of the fact. A young student trying intellectual dissent for the first time. “What is that supposed to mean?” “Some people’s merit will always be invisible to a Khan.” She gained confidence in this. “I mean, people who aren’t accustomed to having their merit noticed don’t tend to long for a meritocracy. They know it’s just another excuse to deny them authority.” With a mocking voice, she said, “Ah well, they’d advance if they had the merits! The merits! And then we have to look at who’s allowed to gain merit in that system, you know? Who can get credentials? Who’s allowed? Who’s encouraged?”
‘People who aren’t accustomed to having their merit noticed don’t tend to long for a meritocracy. They know it’s just another excuse to deny them authority.’A blue sedan pulled up in the next lane. A teenage boy in a basketball jersey gazed out the back window and I gave a two-finger wave. The teen frowned and elbowed his brother, who glanced over and shrugged. I mouthed help at the boys. The brother leaned against his seatbelt and inspected Elizabeth in the driver’s seat, and no doubt saw the lesson advertisement on the passenger door. Through the silent glass I saw him laugh big and hard, teeth protruding like a donkey’s. In the driver’s seat, their mother woke from her cellphone reverie and nearly accelerated through the red. Yes, of course. How absurd it would be to call the police. “You see what I’m saying?” Elizabeth asked me. She seemed to really want me to see what she was saying. “So what—I’m denying people authority? Women? Are you talking about women? Other races?” “I’m saying you don’t like to share.” “I have nothing to share.” She scoffed at me, but I sensed a genuine disappointment. “You got all that from the fact that I like meritocracy?” I asked. She shrugged. “The guy who came up with the word would agree with me.” A few intersections later and Elizabeth turned onto one of the cul-de-sacs, lined like the others with brick veneer homes, differentiated only by the side on which their garage was attached. Besides the small whirlwinds of road salt in the gutters and the clouds sliding by above, the wind seemed to make no difference here. Everything was solid. She pulled the car into the driveway of one of these identical homes and we idled there. This is where the theft ended up. I almost couldn’t believe it. Elizabeth gazed at the house’s upper window. In this moment, I saw the briefest hope. The key dangled from the ignition. The Taurus vibrated and hummed as the gas gauge ticked down. As I shifted in my seat to position myself, my back creaked loudly against the seat, but Elizabeth’s sights remained locked on that window. In as swift a motion as I could, I reached out, turned the key and pulled. It slid out easily and I saw it there, for a moment, pinched between my fingers, a tiny sword held up in victory. My attention was so focused on it that I did not see Elizabeth come for me, but her Mack Truck of an elbow connected with my arm. The keys jangled to the floor mat. Our eyes met, and I saw something similar to when Patty and I tried to make Bono swim off a friend’s yacht in Lake Ontario, that muddle of fear and rage, wide eyed pleading and lips curled, the only time my dog drew blood from me. Elizabeth dove into the alcove and my reaction was swift. I kicked at her. Her head bounced off the glove box. “Fuck!” Bono yipped manically as Elizabeth emerged, trophy keys in hand. Her one arm pressed against my throat while with the other hand, she jabbed the key tip in the soft flesh under my chin, and brought her mouth close to my ear. That’s when I felt it. A hot trail spreading over my inner thigh. My pants adhering to my skin. I waited for her to say something. Instead, she only breathed through her nose. Then, simply, released and exited the car. She paced the exterior length of the vehicle. Then, I heard a long scrape as she dragged the keys from rear bumper to headlights. Her fist bounced off the windshield before she walked to the front door and knocked. I rolled down the window. The word hadn’t fully formed in my mind when it took wing. “Cunt.” She bit her thumb at me. She actually bit her thumb. After a moment, a tall girl about the same age as Elizabeth answered. She put her hand to her mouth and shook her head. The tall girl’s eyes looked red. She pulled Elizabeth inside. I rested my head on the dash, listened to the pings and pops as the engine cooled. A man of forty-six sits sodden in a driveway, wide-eyed and flapping his lips, like he’s geriatric in a nursing home, afraid and trying his best to puzzle out how he got here. I’d pissed myself. I’d pissed myself. Patty, of course, could have been attacked too. The neighbour man could have her wrists bound. Bono cried. My skin glowed warm where the girl’s hairy arm pressed my throat. The yard outside was quilted with calcified dog feces. It was no place to let Bono out. He’d make a picnic of it. I couldn’t get out either. This was a cul-de-sac at the end of the Earth. There was no one to call. Nor was I clear on what I’d ask for. In all scenarios, I imagined myself with humiliation. A wet stripe on my pants as I explained in my atonal voice the tale to one of our old friends, and their sympathetic but mortified response. Bono stood on his hind legs and stared at me, his bulbous watering eyes making him appear like a creature from a forgotten lake. At last the door opened and Elizabeth backed out, saying goodbye to her friend. The two hugged. Elizabeth said something and the tall girl laughed and wiped away more tears. Elizabeth got back in the car, in a returning whoosh of peach-fresh-sweat. “Did your dog pee?” I nodded. I refused to look at her. “Good. I hope you watched out for the dog shit. People check the bottom of their shoes every time they walk by this place.” Elizabeth reversed down the driveway and drove back the way we came. Her hands rested slackly on the wheel. “She had a miscarriage,” she said. “She was pregnant.” “I’m sorry.” “No. No.” She slowed the car to a stroll. “It’s really good, actually. She wasn’t going to get an abortion, so. She’s sad, but.” “You wanted it to happen?” “Yes! I really wanted it to happen.” She grimaced. “Fuck. I’m a monster.” The car came to a complete stop halfway down the block. I reached out and put on the four ways so the minivan behind would pass. “Did you make it happen?” I asked. She looked at me. “Make what happen?” “The miscarriage.” The girl’s eyes widened. “Did I make my friend have a miscarriage?” I shrugged. Her expression concentrated into anger. “What, did I poison her iced tea? Did I punch her stomach? Did I secretly kill her baby then console her through her shit show of a miscarriage?” I looked out the window to avoid the girl’s gaze. She slammed the car into drive and peeled around the next corner. “We need gas before we get back on the highway,” I told her. “Well it’s my fucking treat.” Just before the highway, she pulled into a Shell station and fished her bag from the rear seat. “By the way, this Genghis thing. How do you think you’d fare in his meritocracy? I mean, it’s obvious how I’d do, with what’s between my legs, but you really think you’d end up a top advisor?” With that, she was out of the car. Her hair billowed behind her like a cape.
‘By the way, this Genghis thing. How do you think you’d fare in his meritocracy? I mean, it’s obvious how I’d do, with what’s between my legs, but you really think you’d end up a top advisor?’I exited the car with care, allowing my back to straighten vertebra by vertebra. Wind whipped dust around the parking lot, and stole heat from the wet area of my leg. I shuffled to the back to rescue Bono, scooping him under the belly. He’d left a small pile of turds in the corner. His soft, hot weight in my arms felt wonderful. That sack of precious cargo, who was maybe mine again. I sat with the dog on the curb near the coin-powered vacuum. In the garden, Bono had a long, strutting piss. If Patty did happen to return on the coming days, Bono would be wrested from my arms. But, no, I didn’t imagine she was coming back. Both Patty and the neighbour man could be dead. From the bottom of the Seine, their bodies waving at passing tourist boats. Murderers, muggers, rapists, terrorists, kidnappers, hijackers, thieves, abusers, serial killers, assassins, gang members, butchers, cannibals, mass shooters, torturers, manglers, skinheads, extortionists, traffickers, psychopaths, sadists, brutes, sickos. I looked up and Elizabeth was there. “Come on. I have to get home,” she said. “Spaghetti night.” The keys dropped in my lap. “Here. You can drive, OK?” I looked up at the Taurus, the fresh keyed scar marring its length. The sun was lower in the sky, bathing commuters in amber light. The girl crossed and uncrossed her arms. “I’m sorry, all right?” Bono stared up at the girl’s performance, his under bite emerging. Elizabeth rubbed her forehead. “What am I supposed to do?” “I don’t know.” The girl looked out at the thoroughfare as though scanning traffic for a ride. “You’re just going to sit here?” she asked. I inspected the tire in front of me, the tiny cracks appearing in the sidewall. Patty chose to go to Paris. She chose to leave me the dog. “Here.” I held out the keys. “Move it over here, OK? Or just drive yourself home.” “I don’t have a full license. I need a passenger.” This made me laugh. “Just drive me home, dude. I’m sorry.” I rested my head on Bono’s, enjoying the way that the dog’s panting vibrates the flesh under my chin. Somewhere in Paris, on dark streets, someone would be searching for Patty. But not me. She chose to leave me here and get herself killed. Fine. Fine. Fine. “Fine,” I said. “Get in.” As we began to move, the doors auto-locked. The street, as usual, was filled with bad drivers. They were drifting between lanes, never signalling, never checking over their shoulders. I repositioned so the Taurus hummed in the centre of two lanes. A chorus of honks persuaded us forward. The cars behind inch up to our bumper, but they didn’t dare try to pass. “What in the shit are you doing?” Elizabeth asked. I shaped my hand in a simulacrum of a gun, yes I did, and placed the muzzle at her ear.
