sight the driver slowed.
“You always do that,” said the driver in a slight accent. “He called for the taxi.”
“Hey, Mahmud,” I said, shocked. “I didn’t recognize you.”
“Yeah, sure,” replied Mahmud Hanif .
Mahmud always wore a Blue Jays baseball cap, even though he’s not a baseball fan, and below that a plaid shirt and a sports jacket. He once tried to explain to me the similarities between baseball and cricket. Not sure what they were because I don’t know anything about cricket or baseball, for that matter. He’s from Pakistan and he came to our fine land almost three years ago with his wife and four children. Back in his country he was a qualified engineer, but once he arrived here, his experience and education were thrown out the window. He tried desperately to secure a job—any job—in his field, but it always came down to his zero Canadian experience. With a large family, going back to school was not an option. So he started driving a taxi to put roti , so to speak, on the table.
“Mahmud,” I said. “How come I always end up meeting you?”
There are five million people in the Greater Toronto Area and somehow I always managed to run into people I knew. Maybe it was my dashing good looks and sharp intellect—gravitating people toward me. Or maybe it was coincidences that only happened to me. That was the story of my life. Jon Rupret , man of infinite probabilities.
“So where is your car? Towed again?” he said smiling.
“I am ashamed, Mahmud, that you would say that,” I leaned over to the front seat.
“It happened before. Many, many, many times,” he said. “So what are you really doing with no car?” Mahmud asked.
“I’m glad you asked,” I said. “I’m on a case. A covert operation.”
“Covert?”
“Secret, top secret, to be precise. What I tell you must never leave this vehicle.”
“Sure,” he said, humouring me.
“I’m serious. I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Even some people I work with.”
“Then why tell me?”
“You know they have doctor-and-patient relationship? Lawyer-and-client relationship?”
“Yes.”
“You and I have passenger-and-taxi-driver relationship.”
“Yes, that’s very important.”
“So with our special relationship I can trust you. I know what I tell you will never leave this taxi.”
“You are correct.”
“I’m on a mission between good and evil.”
“Which side are you on?” he said. Then started to laugh.
“Very funny.” I said, slightly hurt. “Keep driving. No more of those smart-ass remarks or else our special relationship ends.”
“Sorry,” he said, still smiling.
“Like I was saying. There’s this new evil approaching our city and only one man can stop it—”
“—Sorry, I’m too busy driving taxi. Don’t have time.” Then he exploded.
“That’s it, Mahmud, our relationship ends right here.”
That didn’t bother him. He continued laughing.
“I’m warning you. I’ll find a new taxi driver. Someone who can appreciate our special relationship.”
“No, no. I’m sorry. Special relationship is very important.”
I sat back, crossing my arms. “Man, I was going to tell you everything. Now I’m not.” I pouted.
“No time. We are here,” he said looking at me through the rear-view mirror.
“So how much do I owe you?” I said putting my hand into my pocket.
“Forgot to turn on meter. Maybe next time,” he said.
Mahmud never charged me fare.
It happened eight months ago while I was driving through my usual route. I saw a taxi parked in front of a park with no driver in it. Parking around the park was not allowed. When I approached the vehicle, thinking I might get a tow, I heard a noise coming from the trunk. I pried it open and found the driver in bad shape. His was throat slashed, his palms bleeding, and he’d been
“You always do that,” said the driver in a slight accent. “He called for the taxi.”
“Hey, Mahmud,” I said, shocked. “I didn’t recognize you.”
“Yeah, sure,” replied Mahmud Hanif .
Mahmud always wore a Blue Jays baseball cap, even though he’s not a baseball fan, and below that a plaid shirt and a sports jacket. He once tried to explain to me the similarities between baseball and cricket. Not sure what they were because I don’t know anything about cricket or baseball, for that matter. He’s from Pakistan and he came to our fine land almost three years ago with his wife and four children. Back in his country he was a qualified engineer, but once he arrived here, his experience and education were thrown out the window. He tried desperately to secure a job—any job—in his field, but it always came down to his zero Canadian experience. With a large family, going back to school was not an option. So he started driving a taxi to put roti , so to speak, on the table.
“Mahmud,” I said. “How come I always end up meeting you?”
There are five million people in the Greater Toronto Area and somehow I always managed to run into people I knew. Maybe it was my dashing good looks and sharp intellect—gravitating people toward me. Or maybe it was coincidences that only happened to me. That was the story of my life. Jon Rupret , man of infinite probabilities.
“So where is your car? Towed again?” he said smiling.
“I am ashamed, Mahmud, that you would say that,” I leaned over to the front seat.
“It happened before. Many, many, many times,” he said. “So what are you really doing with no car?” Mahmud asked.
“I’m glad you asked,” I said. “I’m on a case. A covert operation.”
“Covert?”
“Secret, top secret, to be precise. What I tell you must never leave this vehicle.”
“Sure,” he said, humouring me.
“I’m serious. I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Even some people I work with.”
“Then why tell me?”
“You know they have doctor-and-patient relationship? Lawyer-and-client relationship?”
“Yes.”
“You and I have passenger-and-taxi-driver relationship.”
“Yes, that’s very important.”
“So with our special relationship I can trust you. I know what I tell you will never leave this taxi.”
“You are correct.”
“I’m on a mission between good and evil.”
“Which side are you on?” he said. Then started to laugh.
“Very funny.” I said, slightly hurt. “Keep driving. No more of those smart-ass remarks or else our special relationship ends.”
“Sorry,” he said, still smiling.
“Like I was saying. There’s this new evil approaching our city and only one man can stop it—”
“—Sorry, I’m too busy driving taxi. Don’t have time.” Then he exploded.
“That’s it, Mahmud, our relationship ends right here.”
That didn’t bother him. He continued laughing.
“I’m warning you. I’ll find a new taxi driver. Someone who can appreciate our special relationship.”
“No, no. I’m sorry. Special relationship is very important.”
I sat back, crossing my arms. “Man, I was going to tell you everything. Now I’m not.” I pouted.
“No time. We are here,” he said looking at me through the rear-view mirror.
“So how much do I owe you?” I said putting my hand into my pocket.
“Forgot to turn on meter. Maybe next time,” he said.
Mahmud never charged me fare.
It happened eight months ago while I was driving through my usual route. I saw a taxi parked in front of a park with no driver in it. Parking around the park was not allowed. When I approached the vehicle, thinking I might get a tow, I heard a noise coming from the trunk. I pried it open and found the driver in bad shape. His was throat slashed, his palms bleeding, and he’d been
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