A Writer's Life:
Limo Service
by Joanne Arnott
“Your
life isn’t boring!” Theo protests, as I
push him on the swing. I am doing this as a
personal favour: he is far too big and capable to
actually need my assistance with this.
Isidore chimes
in, “You’re an Author!”
Jules wanders
too close to the arc of the swing. Shouted
warnings, attempts to stop the swing, all to no
avail. He is thrust to the dust with the helpless
prod of his elder brother’s foot. No serious
injury.
I am reminded
how exciting my life really is...
My plan had
been to put the kids to work, helping me to clean
the apartment. I would then return the key to the
manager, and ask him to call a taxi for us. As
things turned out, however, the kids weren’t
a great deal of help, and they inadvertently
knocked a closet door off its moorings, in the
bedroom with only three walls. I really
didn’t feel like engaging with the manager
at all. After cleaning the apartment to the best
of my ability, I slipped the key through his mail
slot, and skulked away in not-very-good humour. I
carried the vacuum, mop, broom, the bucket of
rags and cleaning agents, down to the street. I
instructed my young sons to watch for a taxi,
reminding them what a taxi looks like, and asked
that they let me know when they saw one.
We watched the
stream of traffic pass, pause for the nearby
lights, and pass some more– buses, trucks,
cars. No taxis. My tension, already high because
of an ongoing custody struggle and the usual
turmoil of moving house, was mounting: the
boys’ father, my ex-partner, had agreed to
watch the baby while I did the cleaning, and we
were running late.
My son Harper
noticed a long, white limousine gliding through
the traffic. He began energetically waving at the
driver.
“Harper!”
I snapped. “That is not a taxi!”
The traffic
lights changed, and the limo slowed to a stop
across the street. The driver looked over at the
three of us, standing at curbside, mops and
bucket in hand. He unrolled his window and
shouted to us.
“Hey, if
I pull around there, will you clean my car?”
“No,”
I responded, tired and embarrassed. “But you
can give us a ride home, if you like.”
“Where’s
home?”
We were moving
into a subsidized apartment, provided by the
Vancouver Native Housing Society. “Not far,”
I said, and shouted the particulars to him.
“Just a
second,” he said.
The lights
changed and we watched as the limo pulled through
the intersection. One of my sons asked, “Is
he really going to give us a ride?”
No better
informed than he was, I said, “I don’t
know. We’ll see.”
The driver
pulled his long sleek vehicle around, half a
block down, and slowly approached us again, on
our side of the road this time.
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