Читать книгу Eavesdroppings - Bob Green - Страница 21

13 Taxi

If, when you hopped from a passenger train in those steamy days of yesterday, you hailed a Deluxe Cab, your driver might have been Willis Toles who, if he had jazz on the radio, would sit in the driver’s seat, stomping his foot, and leave you to open the door yourself. “Heave your suitcase in the trunk,” he would holler, “and slam the lid because the lock sticks.”

If you hailed a Galt cab, your driver might have been George Goshgarian, a slim, soft-spoken philosopher who, if it was a nice day and you weren’t burdened with suitcases, would try to talk you into walking home. He would turn in the driver’s seat, fix you with dark Armenian eyes, and say, “People should walk more,” as if he had just carried the message down from Mount Ararat. “Are you sure you want this ride?”

If you insisted, he would start the engine, but it was a philosophy lesson all the way home. “I don’t mind driving farmers home,” he would say, “because I know they are going to be pitching hay. But city people are getting too fat. Look at that big slob standing on the corner. How many years do you think he has left?”

As a young adult commuting to Toronto, I always looked for George when I got off the train. One beautiful Saturday morning I lugged a large suitcase over to his cab. He hopped out, opened the rear door, and put the suitcase on the seat. “Ride to 16 Lowrey, eh!” he said, giving the blue sky an appreciative glance. “That’s about two miles. When I was in the army, we’d consider it a treat to march only two miles on a sunny day.” He had been a corporal in the Royal Engineers in World War II. His brother, James, died as an air gunner with the Royal Canadian Air Force. “Why don’t I drop your suitcase off on your front porch while you walk it? I won’t charge the fare.”

I told him I wanted to get home right away to walk a dog who was waiting for me. He smiled so that I knew he didn’t believe me and opened the other door.

George always smoked when he was driving, but blew it out the draftless vent so that it didn’t bother you. “I’d offer you a cigarette,” he’d say, “but people smoke too much for their own good.”

One morning I got off the 10:20 from Toronto and shared George’s cab with three dapper businessmen carrying briefcases and assorted luggage. It was customary to share cabs even when you were jammed in. Nowhere was far to go, and the fare was a straight 50 cents a head. The businessmen wanted to check into the Iroquois Hotel. I merely wanted a ride downtown. They asked George to wait outside the hotel while they checked in their luggage and then drive them to the Gore Insurance office on Dundas Street.

“Shame you’ve got that luggage,” George said. “It’s such a nice day to walk.” And then he turned those hypnotic dark eyes on them. “But you could walk from the hotel to the Gore. If you did that, you could stop in at my sister’s restaurant on Shade Street for a bite to eat. It’s called Palvetzian’s. She might even whip you up an Armenian dish. And after that you could walk past our arena gardens, home of the Allan Cup champion Galt Terriers, and see Soper Park, which is full of children playing baseball. Lovely walk.”

We piled out at the Iroquois. George winked at me to indicate that I didn’t have to pay, then helped the men carry in their bags. I waited to see what would happen when they came out. I couldn’t hear what was said as they conferred beside the cab, but apparently George won out. He pointed across the Canadian National Railways tracks towards Shade Street and waved the three goodbye as they set off, smiling, on foot.

I always imagined that George, with his stress-free approach to life, would be with us promoting fitness into his nineties. But he was buried on his seventieth birthday. According to his niece, Nevi Palvetzian, his chain-smoking did him in. That and a lack of exercise. Stuck in his cab all day he didn’t walk enough.