‘Seventy nine, grab the Moss in the slum,’ snarled taxi dispatcher Darryl Hertzberg over the two way radio on that slow, warm, Tuesday afternoon of July, 1959.

‘Roger, over and out,’ snapped the self-appointed Commander in Chief and all important chauffeur of car 1479, a very worn Chevrolet sedan, built earlier in the decade. He had heard much, overhearing other taxi drivers, about Miss Mosscup in coffee shops throughout the city, and really felt obligated to give his finest service to those needing his assistence. He was twenty years and very young, six feet of bone and gristle and self importance were topped off with a short brush cut with no sideburns. He was Toronto born and educated in the best of Irish-Catholic traditions with sacred middle class values that some believed prevented him from thinking on his own. A two button golf shirt, originally white and emblazoned with the words ‘Rosedale Golf Club’ over the breast pocket, maintained ring around the collar any Laundromat would incinerate. From a distance he appeared good looking but his yellow socks clashed with brown loafers and blue jeans. The way others measured him had no effect on his all too important inner self.

Jimmy Williams had that air about him that drove others to teeth grinding frustration. Other drivers and their passengers had to listen to his screeching voice on all their radios. After just five weeks of driving a taxi part time, he gave one and all the most lucid impression that he, and he alone, provided the finest taxi service in the two hundred and fifty-nine car fleet servicing Toronto. No one had better credentials. With him on the job, all problems vanished. Seasoned veterans of the city’s taxi corps had thought they’d seen them all which meant literally, ‘this air-head ain’t no different than any other other suck-hole college boy.’ However, Jimmy soon proved to the most astute judges of human nature that he was indeed a class all to himself in the ‘irksomness category of infamity.’

Benjamin Oyoeguisen, who formerly drove his brother’s cab in Tel Aviv, expressed the sentiments so well while musing one day, ‘We really don’t hate the jerk, we just dislike him immensely.’

With the self assured composure of a Conductor at his Podium, he pulled away from the restaurant on St Clair Avenue West and, turning North at Yonge Street, arrived soon 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. Her once elegant three story brick Victorian style home seemed part of a horror movie. The top layer of bricks on the leaning chimney were loose and required cement between them. Big gaps in the wooden shingle roof spelled trouble. Sheets of plywood forming the ceiling of the front verandah had lost nails and threatened collisions with those underneath as did the waving evestroughs on the roof. Steps leading up to the front verandah hissed rather than squeaked when used, indicating rot. Paint around the windows and sills was peeling in large circular bubbles. The bushes, that were still alive, needed pruning. He brushed branches from his face on approaching the half-opened front door. Without paying heed to the sign in the window asking visitors for quiet and using the door bells tagged with names, he proclaimed.

‘Taxi for Miss Mosscup, Jim Williams, here!’

Instant shuffling of feet and a certain loud grunt were heard from the front living room.

‘Shshshshsh you dummy,’ and a fussed middle aged spinster glowered from within, the whites of her eyes mapped with blood vessels. She had dark blonde hair with gray roots. She stood about five feet and four inches with white blouse and a dark purple skirt. On close examination, her blouse and skirt still clung to several big crumbs of brown toast from her breakfast. Coffee stains, some recent, smeared her appearance. Her rouge and lipstick overreached each other. Her upper lip had a smudge of butter extending to the nose septum. Her front teeth had screened too much smoke from home-made cigarettes. An empty tin of tobacco and Vogue Papers package lay strewn on the dry splintery hardwood floor just inside the door. Her right thumb had a deep brown nicotene stain.

It never dawned on Jimmy that Miss Mosscup’s tenant in the upper two floors was a necessary intruder whose rent allowed her the luxury of living in her late parents’ domicile. Miss Wallings had woken Miss Mosscup out of a very deep slumber one late evening and on viewing the disheveled and groggy landlady, smelling of spirits, threatened to abandon her lease and payments immediately. Of course, Miss Mosscup’s rapid reply had never seen print. Miss Wallings, very rattled with what she thought was an ideal landlady, really didn’t wish to move again as her Church was nearby. Both ladies had since kept a wary distance from each other, neither wanting any more unpleasantness.

His eye caught the five grocery bags sitting upright on the floor.

‘Can I take these bags for you Miss?’

He didn’t wait for a reply and missed her moving to her left, his right.

Down he bent and grabbed three of the bags which contained empty beer bottles. Without thinking again, he yanked the bags through the space too small between her ankles and knees. She yelped. He couldn’t believe he heard her say ‘ass HOLE.’

The unforgettable ‘ting-clink’ of old soldiers was just the sound effect she least desired. She winced helplessly while he self assuredly clanged his way to the car and dropped all three at once on the rim of the spare tire in the trunk.

Slam.

It didn’t catch.

SLAM!

Happy with his performance, he glanced at his watch and looked up and down on the tree lined street searching approvals for his efforts.

‘Come here . . . pssst, psssst’ and he looked up and saw Miss Mosscup frantically gesturing him to return. Miss Wilma appeared out of sorts, confused, and for no apparent reason, quite upset with him. He never fathomed how he could upset anyone.

‘Did you see her?’ her watery eyes bulging from behind thick lenses.

‘See who, Miss . . . ?’ and she squirmed with his ascending voice pitch, rolling her eyes skyward hoping for some kind of quiet from this wildman.

‘Miss Wallings, my tenant from upstairs,’ and she placed her index finger in front of her mouth.

Jimmy started getting the idea he spoke a little loud at times.

‘NO never saw any . . .’

‘Then take these and quietly put them in the front seat and don’t jaggle them. Sh . . . sh . . . sh . . . puleeze, Jimmy,’ and she carefully placed more large brown groceteria bags in his waiting arms. Wing Commander Williams remained calm never having thought he was a little unsettling at times. He only saw himself as a most competent, industrious and certainly the right person for any job or task.

He only remembered the request for quiet, after shutting the car’s right side door with loose window and looser side panels.

Miss Mosscup reappeared at her open door with hat and gloves. She 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 Moss . . .’

Just in time he remembered, and did not inform the street the coast was clear.

‘Shht, you armpit, stupid . . . stupid . . . ASS . . .’ and she caught her own self lest she arouse her upstairs tenant.

How cruel life was, she thought walking with head down, when a person had to ‘sneak’ out of her own home just to return some empties.

Getting closer, she looked him in the eye and sincerely asked if he would ‘refrain from slamming any door, AGAIN.’

Maneuvering the car in a U turn as the street ended at a ravine, he apologized for the squealing tires on the soft asphalt.

‘You’ll squeal too if she sees me,’ and clearing her throat she attempted lighting 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.

Again she cleared her throat, but more abruptly, trying to sound more confident. ‘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.’

‘. . . 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 appatite. The doctor, you know . . . dontcha . . . er, don’t you, understand, Jimmy?’

He focused the rear view mirror on her again and saw a confused Miss Wilma Mosscup. His mind started thinking that maybe she was one of those older people who liked her drinking too much, just like those who were seldom mentioned when families got together.

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 . . .’ and wondering if the door was tightly shut, he looked around his right shoulder and shocked, saw the cherubic grin of innocence all over her wrinkled face. Her concerns were far away. With her lower jaw propped on the window tracking and her mouth twisted wide open, she gulped at the inrushing air. Pedestrians stole second looks only when confident they too were not watched for watching was condoning such shameful behavior in the City of Churches.

‘Are we there yet, sonny . . . hic . . . hic . . . cup?’

‘No, just another few . . .’

‘OK . . . OK, wake me when we arrive, sh . . . sh sonny . . . jimmy . . . jim . . .’ and she mumbled and gurgled.

Jimmy glanced at the metre. He smelled big money. ‘Maybe fifteen bucks,’ he said to himself in Big Time satisfaction. Going through the green traffic signals at Walker Street, and U- turning in front of the Ports of Call, he felt a certain satisfaction a livery driver must get all the time when a driving job is so well done.

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’s education had of a sudden excelerated. He noticed how smoothly she strode to the doors and opened them in one motion. He never thought she was an undesirable.

He did his duty and purchased the exact quantities feeling quite sure of himself completing the sale and not having reached the full age of twenty one years. He also felt good, watching the clerk, who wore the tee 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 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 drastic action.

Getting more confident and brave, 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.

In he charged like some great vice regal dignatary visiting a local municipal office. 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 Wilma.

Likewise the second which had bamboo and rattan and named the Banyan Room. Into the third den, The Paddock Lounge, festooned with racing gear and pictures of great horses winning famous races, he bravely trod. With heart heavy, he then confided, with valor, to himself, that he was lost, and then saved, only through pure chance, by Louis, the maitre d’s nephew with new plastic name badge. He could not understand why he wore that very determined look which seemed to say, ‘find the goddamned no good son of a bitch college boy and get this drunken broad out of here.’

The Bouncer arrived and muttered unpleasantness about this being the very last time ‘the live one’ was to ever get near the establishment.

Louis lead him into the deep confines where he had not checked at first. With hands on hips, he surveyed the situation. Miss Wilma was curled up on the floor with her head resting on her outstretched arms and snored. 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 he asked of the just arrived manager, ‘Did you call an ambulance?’

He somehow got the impression that was not the appropriate.

He didn’t remember much about the departure. He later recalled seeing a very young secretary (‘I no like dis shit.’) summoned from the front cashier's counter to officially witness her cousins, uncles, and brothers assist the exiting with meaty hands under Miss Wilma’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. (‘awawaway . . . a way . . . a . . . way . . . with fife and rum, here we come full of . . . hic . . . drum rrum . . .’ ) One of Toronto’s finest constables saw much humor in the situation and ceased completing a parking ticket.

Going up the hill on Yonge St just South of St Clair Ave and serenaded the pedestrian filled sidewalk with more quaint and obscene ditties from various mess halls.

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 without so much as a whimper of sound at Miss Wilma’s residence. A light suddenly shone in Jimmy’s conscious brain. A tiny ghost like voice uttered deep the meanings for . . . presumptuous . . . and self centered and . . . and . . . self seeking and wouldn’t it be nice to think of someone else . . . for a change.

He quietly walked around to the right rear door and opened it gently and offered his arm to the awakening. With his right hand, he carried the bag of sixers without ‘clink’ and with outstretched arm, escorted her up the walk and past the hedges to her front door.

He tried to think of something to say.

‘How mush?’ and she seemed very pleasant and not the least upset with him or any thing or person.

‘Sixteen fifty, please, Miss Mosscup,’ he said hardly audible.

‘Here’sh twenny . . . keep it,’ and she leaned on his arm moreso negotiating her entrance way.

‘Geeze, thanks . . .’

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, but I think I saw Miss Wallings in the Banyan Rooms.’