The Gravely Journal

The Road Trip

The Beck taxi I called arrived in about two minutes. We got into the back seat. My visitor wouldn't elaborate on where we were going or why. When I asked a question, he simply held a finger to his lips and pointed to the driver who had an ear cocked for our dialogue. I was stuck. Except for the directions he gave to the cab driver, the cowboy and I sat silently in the back of the vehicle for the ten-minute ride. The cowboy and I were shoulder to shoulder in the back of the car, but it wasn't a social situation. No names were asked for or exchanged. I wanted the ride to be over with ASAP. The stranger knew he had me cornered when I flinched at the mention of contacting the cops. Lucky for me, he didn't know why I was cop shy, and I wanted to keep it that way. I had to let things play out.

No street address was provided, just directions. The cowboy would say down this street, left at the corner, down two blocks, turn right, that sort of thing. I figured he didn't want the driver to relay our destination to the dispatcher and it become part of any records. To add to the tension, the car's AC was out and I dripped sweat. Tex, not so much. That told me that he was cool and collected, at least on the outside. But he was also pretty lean, body type wise, and guys like him don't tend to perspire. Admirable. A little self-conscious, I snuck a sniff of my pits. My deodorant seemed to be holding up. I couldn't say as much for the driver's hygiene. He was old and fat, but personable, I must say. Most Toronto cabbies have a friendly disposition. That trait often compensates for a little body odor.

Our destination was one of those hidden pieces of muddy, oil-scented industrial lands nobody gives a second thought to until they stray down a dead-end street or get lost. Dozens of gleaming refrigerated meat trucks and trailers were parked row on row on the property. A few rusted hulks and old factory equipment, obviously out of use, littered the fringe of the lot. The cabbie pulled to a stop in front of the main entry gate. He recognized the City Meat sign and the site. Sixty years ago, it was a stockyard where animals were delivered for slaughter. Apparently, some years prior, our cabbie had a summer job in the plant's abattoir, or slaughterhouse as they used to call them.