BLIZZARD

extract from "Hardcorps", a collection of Toronto couriertales

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

It started out to be a fairly average day. I was staying on Gloucesterat the time with friends, I didn't have a place to live at the time. Iguess it was about the end of November and it had been fairly cold, butI was still wearing cycling gloves, the kind with no fingers. At that timeit was fairly common practice for me to wear a rubber motorcycle rain jacketto ride, because it kept my boss Frank happy, and it kept me warm, if abit 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 throughit, melting the wet snow. The snow just beginning to collect on the treebranches, everyone all bundled up and smiling at each other, because finallyit was beginning to look a lot like Christmas, forgive the pop cultureintrusion, 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 downstairsto grab my overnights. Ten minutes later, when I'd manifested and packedthem, all hell had broken loose outside. I stood and watched the snow swirlingon the wind in the narrow alley way of Temperance Street. It was beautifuland my heart felt warm in anticipation of a white Christmas, once againforgive me.

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

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

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

The whole morning went much the same way, as I've found, it usuallydoes 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 surprisedas 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 untilabout noon, when I realised that it just wasn't going to let up. I mademy way into the dank basement office where there were wet footprints allover the ground. The air was heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke. Thephones were ringing off their hooks, and the office was buzzing with peopleanswering them. I swallowed my superiority, asking John the dispatcherif 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 fiveover the counter, and resumed dispatching, lighting another smoke fromthe butt of the previous one.

New vinyl gloves on, I felt like anew man, and my arrogance returnedin force. Now when people told me to stay dry, I would look down at themcondescendingly, 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 $2.99gloves were already waterlogged and it was only 1:30, and the snow wasby now about a foot deep, and the only people out were bike couriers andcab drivers. The latter constantly at war with the former, would have funat my expense buzzing close to me, or driving through puddles and causedslush to fly at me, eventually seeping down my boots.

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

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

That morning, a comment like that would only have caused me to laughdisdainfully. I only smiled and shivered, dreading to go back out intothe cold, wet blizzard, where people were driving like maniacs, the snowfelt like poison darts in my face, and my bike was beginning to freezeup. 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 turnedto gratitude as she handed me the coffee, and set a pile of newspaper onthe couch for me to sit on. As I gratefully drank, I thanked her profuselyfor the coffee and the hospitality, and she kept on saying "Oh don'tworry about it. It's nothing." Well it was something. Without thatcup of coffee at 2:30 that afternoon, I wouldn't have had the courage toreturn to the Hell that my city was right then. She not only gave me coffeethat day; she gave me, without knowing it, the determination to face allthat winter could throw at me that day.

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

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

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