CONFESSIONS

Story 7: NOT A TAXI

I'm about to defy my own best judgment. I know it's a bad idea: A coffee and a blueberry bagel toasted with butter beckon from the nearby Tim Hortons. They're as ubiquitous as the churches of Detroit with almost as much saving power. But the mic interrupts: "What's your ETA to base?" asks the dispatcher.

One eye is on the road, the other on the doughnut shop across the street. "Fifteen minutes," I reply.

"A lady has waited for over an hour," interjects the service manager in his deep voice. "Somehow she missed the shuttle."

"I'll get her," I assure him.

At the speaker tower of the doughnut shop I change my mind, order a medium Cappuccino, English toffee. I not only love the taste but also the smell, especially in the morning.

"Anything else?" asks the attendant.

I change my mind again, add "Two Boston Creams," and watch the display to make sure she gets it right.

"Base to shuttle," interjects the dispatcher.

"Yes...," I reply.

"There's a lady here with two children and she wants to take them to the Mall. Will you be back soon?"

"Be there shortly."

"So, you'll take them?"

"Yep..."

"Thanks."

A middle-aged woman, wearing jeans and a blue sweatshirt, waits at the front service door. Eye contact identifies customers waiting for the shuttle. People hold eye contact if they seek a ride, much like the working girls on Wyandotte East.

I pull up in front and roll down the window. "Bet you're looking for me," I say.

"Yes, I am," she replies, smiles; doesn't act like someone annoyed about having to wait. "I'm headed for the ninth concession?" she adds.

"Grab a seat in the van while I check for any others who might need a ride," I reply.

"There's an older lady with two young children," she adds, points to a gray-haired woman attempting to coral two lively youngsters: a girl about three and a boy about five.

I assume they're her grandchildren, stop beside the grandmother and ask, "Are you the lady headed for the mall?"

"Yes," she replies, calmly takes the hands of her charges.

"Do you need a baby seat?"

"No, they're fine."

"Okay, just take a seat in the van," I instruct, turn and point; continue toward the lounge.

Many eyes make contact as I stand at the entrance to the lounge. But I still ask, "Does anyone need a ride?" Four adults stand up.

I do the math. Four plus four equals eight in a six-passenger van. "Whoops... We've got a space problem," I announce as four bodies drift toward me. They slow down but don't immediately stop; gather around and wait for a decision. A space problem doesn't deter any of them.

"Where do you live?" I ask a lady of color, interrupt her discussion with an older woman who appears to be her mother; it's a language I don't understand. But from experience, the accent sounds Guyanan. I can't help but notice she's so much taller than the rest of the group.

"Oak," she replies.

"And you?" I ask a young lady standing behind the mother and her daughter; I estimate her age is around twenty.