An Inventory of Friendly People

NOTE: Trigger warning of suggested sexual abuse.

The rain is falling hard as the cab pulls to the curb, the driver careful not to splash his next fare. The man jumps in and busies himself putting away his umbrella.

“Thanks, man. Jeez, it’s really coming down out th…,” the man says, stopping suddenly as he looks into the front seat.

“Oh, and who’s this?”

On the front seat is the driver – that much to be expected – and beside him a small boy.

“That’s my son. Can’t stay home alone, so he’s here with me.”

“Hi,” says the boy, turning around half way to wave, his face barely reaching over the seat.

The man nods to the boy and tells the driver where he wants to go, another address the boy does not recognize.

When this summer in his Dad’s cab began, the boy imagined taking interesting people to exciting places. But mostly it was picking people up at boring office buildings or the train station or the bus station and taking them to neighbourhoods he didn’t recognize, but all looked the same.

He would have thought the people getting off trains or buses would be excited about the places they’d been, but mostly they just seemed tired. He guessed that trains and buses didn’t go anywhere interesting, any way. Not like airplanes, but Kingston didn’t have a real airport. Him and his Dad never did pickups there.

Attempts at talking to his father had been more like defining his father’s boundaries. “What’s war like?” “It’s bad.” “Did you like it?” “Of course not.” That seemed to get him mad. Boundary reached. “Why is Steve moving out?” “School.” “What school?” “In Belleville.” Well, that’s where, but nevermind. “He’s studying something about kids.” “But I thought you said all us boys should get a trade.” “None of you listen.” You never say anything, the boy thought, but didn’t say. “What’s a trade?” No answer. Another boundary.

“And how old are you, young man,” the man in the back asks.

“Seven,” the boy says.

The father was watching the man in the rearview mirror. The boy knew that look. It was a warning. Watch your step. Don’t piss me off.

“And what’s your name?”

“Ar…”

“You don’t have to answer that,” the father jumps in.

“No problem, Bob,” the man says, leaning back in his seat and raising his hands in surrender.

Bob looks at the man in the rearview, a mix of alarm, of wondering if he knows the man in the back and how this guy knows his name.

“It’s on you cab license,” the man says, recognizing the look and pointing at the back of the seat. “Look, I’m fine to ride in silence. Just trying to be friendly.”

They ride in silence.

The two men exchange repeated glances in the rearview. It reminds Arty of the time their cat Jason stared down a stray on the front lawn – both their tails flicking like whips. It all ended when Arty picked up Jason, giving the other cat an excuse to turn and run. Jason protested, but Arty thought that maybe he was glad to have it over, too.

“I’m Arty,” the boy says.

His father’s head snaps around to look at his son as Arty pushes himself against the passenger door, knees pulled to his chest. The man in the back looks back and forth between the two.

“Nice to meet you,” he says curtly, and then goes back to looking out the window, watching the old city go by until he gets home.

The silence returned, Arty thinks that maybe he understands cats better than people. Better than grown ups, anyway.

Arty’s Dad pulls the cab to the curb at the man’s house and announces the fare. Kingston has a zone system for cabs. The city is divided into zones, and every time you cross a zone line, the fare goes up. No one understands it, except maybe cab drivers. Arty tried to figure it out, even rode for a while with the zone map on his lap, but could never make sense of it.

Sometimes if felt like his father was just making it all up. If his father didn’t like the passenger, the fare seemed to be higher, and then he’d complain about not getting a tip.

The man in the back pauses a second after hearing his fare. Then grumbles something to himself, counts out the money and leaves the cab.

Arty could tell there was no tip.

“What the hell was that all about?”

Dad is mad at him. Arty has no idea why. No idea what boundary he’d breached.

“What? What’d I do?”

“You know what you did.”

Dad always said that. Arty never knew what he’d done.

“Don’t talk to people. It’s not safe.”

But you’re right here, how dangerous could it be, Arty thought, but didn’t say.

They fall back into silence. When the next fare gets in the back, Arty slips down his seat and pretends to sleep, in case this new guy wants to talk, too. His eyes closed, the smells of the cab, smoke and the sticky odour of something spilled in the back, grow stronger.

Riding in the cab was supposed to be fun. That’s what his mom said when she told him how he’d be spending the summer. He wouldn’t be in the cab every day, just when no one was home to watch him. Mom had her work, and his sister had got her first summer job.

Mom and Dad tried to arrange their schedules so someone would always be home, but it wasn’t always possible. So, a few days a week, Arty was in the cab.

His friends were spending the summer swimming.

When they get home, Arty’s father looks out the front windshield, the engine still running and his eyes fixed on the shed he’d built at the end of the drive, its carefully painted doors pocked with tennis ball marks. Arty is thinking about how mad his father had been after he and his friend Ralph used the shed for hockey practise.

“Look,” his Dad says, his voice shaky, struggling to push out each word. “There’s bad people out there. Okay?”

His father turns to look at him, his lips pursed together. Arty thinks his Dad might cry, and it scares him.

“They start out friendly, then get bad. You need to be careful. Do you understand?”

Arty is leaning against the passenger door again, both legs stretched out in front of him. He studies his father’s face, an inventory of friendly people running through his head. His father wasn’t always one of them, but he seemed to be working on it.

Arty thought about Mr. Carlson around the corner. He was friendly. No children of his own, he always let any kids in the neighbourhood swim in his pool. Ralph had told him about it.

Arty asked his Mom if he could go, but she wasn’t sure. She’d always hated the water, watching Arty so carefully every time they went to the beach. But Ralph really pushed the idea. “No, no, it’s fun. And safe. Mr. Carlson’s like a lifeguard, or something. He’s always watching. It’s safe,” Ralph reassured Arty’s Mom.

With all the cab rides, Arty only got there a couple of times. Mr. Carlson said Arty could get changed in the house, but he never did. He wore his bathing suit over, and then wore it home. His mother’s fear of water always in the back of his mind. He never stayed long.

Then about a week ago, it was like Mr. Carlson moved away. The house was always dark, except when those men were taking boxes out of the house and putting them in cars.

When Arty and his family moved to the neighbourhood, they had a big truck, so this seemed like a silly way to move. Maybe Mr. Carlson had lots of valuable stuff. Maybe that’s why there was always seemed to be a police car in the driveway.

Arty hadn’t seen Ralph since Mr. Carlson moved away.