by Tom O'Brien

Jimmy Williams drove others to teeth grinding frustration. Other drivers and their passengers had to listen to his screeching voice on their radios. After just five weeks of driving a taxi part time, he gave the impression that he and he alone provided the finest taxi service in the two-hundred-and-fifty-nine car fleet servicing Toronto.

Jimmy pulled into traffic St Clair Avenue West and turning North on Yonge Street soon arrived at the home of Miss Wilma Mosscup. He knew the area as he once delivered papers and still remembered names of some of the inhabitants. He brushed branches from his face as he approached Miss Mosscup's half-opened door. The paint around the windows and sills was peeling in large circular bubbles. Without paying heed to the sign in the window asking visitors to be quiet and use the door bells tagged with names, he proclaimed: ' Taxi for Miss Mosscup, Jim Williams, here!'

Instant shuffling of feet and a loud grunt echoed from the front living room. The door opened and a fussed middle-aged woman glowered at him: 'Shshshshsh you dummy.'

She had dark blonde hair with gray roots. She stood about five feet and four inches tall and was dressed in a white blouse with a dark purple skirt. Her rouge and lipstick overreached each other. Her right thumb had deep brown nicotene stain.

His eye caught the five grocery bags sitting upright on the floor. 'Can I take these bags for you Miss?'

Without waiting for a reply he bent down and grabbed three of the bags only to discover they contained empty beer bottles. Miss Mosscup winced while Jimmy clanged his way to the car and dropped all three bags at once on the rim of the spare tire in the trunk.

Slam. It didn't catch. SLAM !

He looked up and saw Miss Mosscup frantically gesturing for him to return.

' Did you see her?' Her watery eyes bulged behind thick lenses.

'See who, Miss?'

'Miss Wallings, my tenant from upstairs.' She placed her index finger in front of her mouth.

' No never saw any --'

'Then take these and quietly put them in the front seat and don't jaggle them. Puleeze, Jimmy.' She placed more large brown groceteria bags in his arms. He took them to the car.

Miss Mosscup peered up the front of her house, trying to see if Miss Wallings saw her. Jimmy signaled with great arm gestures that no-one was about.

'It's OK Miss.'

'Shht, you armpit, stupid, stupid, ASS....' and she caught herself lest she arouse her upstairs tenant.

Once she was inside the car, Jimmy maneuvered the car in a U turn, squealing tires on the soft asphalt. Miss Mosscup attempted to light a home-made cigarette. It slipped out of her mouth. Both ends were not fully packed. It fell on her lap, lipstick running half way up its shaft. Like a thermometer.

She cleared her throat. 'First, you drop me off at the 'Courts of Paul' on Yonge Street,....' Something inside Jimmy made him stop from reminding her it was called 'The Ports Of Call.' She continued: 'and then you go to the beer store and get the money for the empties and then you get a twelve, er...er..eer, a box of Six India Pale Ale and six pack, er er ...., six in, oh, just six Black Horse Lager Beer. That's the one for my appetite. The doctor , you know, dontcha understand, Jimmy?'

He focused the rear view mirror on her and nodded. Her fingers and lips shook again trying to light the same cigarette. Feeling duty a worthy call again, he reached behind while driving slowly and cranked her window down allowing her more fresh air in his non-air-conditioned car. He then caught the first whiff of stale alcohol, like old vinegar, that he only associated with those who lived in the more run-down neighborhoods and certainly not the fashionable and upper-middle class enclaves of prosperous and correct mid-town Toronto.

Southbound on Yonge Street and going through the St. Clair intersection, he was distracted with what sounded like the voice of a well known Hockey broadcaster: 'Hello Canada and hockey fans.... the score is tied one all.' Jimmy looked over his right shoulder and saw the cherubic grin of innocence all over her wrinkled face. Miss Mosscup's lower jaw sat propped on the window tracking and her mouth was twisted wide open as she gulped at the inrushing air.

Pedestrians stole second looks only when confident they they too were not watched for watching was condoning such shameful behavior in the City of Churches.

'Are we there yet, sonny?'

'No, just another few --'

'OK, OK, wake me when we arrive, sonny jim,' she mumbled and gurgled. Jimmy glanced at the metre. He smelled big money. Maybe fifteen bucks he said to himself going through the traffic signals at Walker Street, and U-turning in front of the Ports of Call.

With the two right wheels placed on the sidewalk, he exited his door and assisted the drowsey Miss Mosscup onto the sidewalk.

'Is the game over yet?' She seemed to shrink a little in the July sun's glare. Remembering her mission, she burbled an order to Jimmy: 'Just wait here in the car, you don't have to come in, dear, you're too young, dear.'

Jimmy did his duty and bought Miss Mosscup's beer, feeling quite sure of himself completing the sale and not having reached the full age of twenty-one years of age. He also felt good, watching the clerk, who wore the t-shirt of a well known Boy's Private School, removing the empties from the ash clogged bags. He smirked watching him peel the soggy cigarette butts from the bottoms and the soggy tissues plop on the clean counter. At one minute before the appointed pick up pick-up time, he returned, this time placing the right front and rear wheels a little closer to the front doors of the establishment. It was rush hour and he didn't want a ticket for parking.

Fifteen minutes ticked by on his wrist watch and she had not appeared. Twenty-five minutes and Jimmy was moved to action. For the very first time he entered a cocktail lounge, not just another beer saloon, but a sophisticated place where they served mixed alcoholic beverages. No sunlight penetrated the darkened theme rooms. At the Pickwick Room, which resembled a university reading room, he paused and peered, not having the full bravery to put his whole body beyond the threshold.

No Miss Mosscup.

Likewise in the second room which had bamboo and rattan and had the name The Banyan Room The third den was called The Paddock Lounge and was festooned with racing gear and pictures of great horses winning famous races. At the moment he thought all was lost, the bouncer arrived and mutteed an unpleasantness about this being the very last time 'the live one' was to ever get near the establishment.

They found Miss Mosscup curled up on the floor, her head resting on her outstretched arms and snoring. Another unlit cigarette with lots of moisture lay stuck in a corner of her mouth. Her left foot wore a slipper and her right, a blue half laced oxford. With the straightest face Jimmy asked 'Did you call an ambulance?' He somehow got the impression the question was not appropriate.

He later recalled seeing a very young secretary (' I no like dis shit') summoned from the front cashiers counter to officially witness her cousins, uncles, and brothers assist the exiting with meaty hands under Miss Mosscup's shoulders. One inquired if the bill had been paid. 'Shut up and move quick.'

The white-aproned sous chef opened the Ports and car doors as they approached and he too was unhappy because his broccoli soup needed attention.

As they approached the car, they didn't see anything amusing as she sang a merry little song about Canada's Navy. Jimmy was somehow reminded of a curt conversation he had the year before with a psychology student in the student's lounge at University. She barked at him and said something like he had a dose of superiority, an unfettered ego and a minus grade of maturity not normally seen....

Car 1479 came to a nice clean stop outside Miss Mosscup's residence. A light suddenly shone in Jimmy's conscious brain. He quietly walked around to the right rear door and open it gently and offered his arm to the awakening. With his right hand, he carried the bag of sixers without a 'clink' and with outstretched arm, escorted her up the walk and past the hedges to her front door.

'How mush?'

'Sixteen-fifty, please, Miss Mosscup,' he said hardly audible.

'Here'sh twenny. Keep it.'

He placed her purchases gently on the floor.

' Ish any one here,' she enquired.

He leaned his face into her left ear and very subdued and nephew-like informed: 'No, Miss Mosscup. We're all alone.'

Tom is a classless chemistry teacher living quietly in his hometown, Toronto, where he is busy writing his fourth novel under the watchful eye of Humber College. Several frustrated fiction critics in the universe wish he would stop avoiding what he was meant for, trapping wild blonde mink in Yorkville or growing Siberian Yams. His writing career has suddenly blossomed in the inaugural issue of The Danforth Review, with publication of The Live One, a remnant of a true experience that happened to Tom in the summer of 1959. Tom's waiting of forty years for manhood status is not really unusual as he just learned to read and write.