A week ago....

        Traffic was busy as always in downtown Toronto since Union Station was undergoing its facelift. The historic building was being revamped and expanded to allow for the meteoric arrival of progress. Several lanes in front were closed off in both directions forcing the taxis, buses, couriers and regular traffic to make do with actually sharing the road. A novel concept on paper but never seems to work in reality. Travellers coming out of the main transportation hub crowded the corners and curbs vying for the best and more importantly quickest avenue to their destination.

        This organized chaos of cabs, pedestrians, buses, trains, subways, construction, and regular traffic amounts to an assault on the mind and body. In the end – it all equals mayhem. Add to the mix a myriad of bike messengers weaving through the near still traffic towards Union Station and York street attempting to make ends meet and you have a picture of my life. Thankfully it was a bright sunny summers day so the trade off was the stench of exhaust, sweat and the odd breeze of rotten garbage instead of rain puddles or 6 foot snowbanks. A trade I would happily make so long as I can still work.

        I’m one of the couriers if you got lost in the sunlight and traffic.

        I’m contracted out to two companies currently although neither one knows about the other. Overlapping of responsibility is frowned upon for loyalty and dependability issues. Personally I don’t care so long as the cheques come in or more to the point, my landlord definitely doesn’t care.

        I’ve been living in the area for a little over 2 years close enough that I could be there in 5 minutes and asleep in 7. The corner of Wellington and John has welcomed my rent cheques for the last 7 months in exchange for a cozy 2 bedroom at the New Dublin Apartments. As such, I’ve been able to use my local knowledge of the area to secure the district for the courier contracts.

        Thanks to this ’insider’ intelligence I was speeding up York Street towards Piper Street a little to the north to avoid the confusion. The shade from the buildings helped to relieve the hammer blow of summer heat bearing down on my back. I prefer to use the back streets when I can although it can just as easily backfire as I found last week. A ’Lost Girl’ film crew had claimed several allies for their trucks and security stopped anyone without staff badges. While I am a fan of the show, more for Kenzi than Bo to be honest, when it keeps me from my paycheck it drops into my ’enemy’ column. Alas: I was forced to circle a city block costing me more time than I would have pent going the long way originally.

        Today I was in luck and found my back routes obstacle free. Piper is a one way street in behind the Prince Albert Hotel which lets me swing past saving time even though it is a slightly longer route. Most people avoid back entrances and allies since that is where the garbage is kept and deliveries made; one means stench and the other means vehicles making frequent stops. A bike courier though, they can slip through easily and avoid both hassles. Except when someone opens their car door as I fly past.

        It was a glancing blow catching the rear tire and basket I use to store odd shaped parcels but it was enough to redirect me into the back of the delivery van. Thankfully it was blessedly soft and freshly laundered linens greeting my flight and not the frozen food catering orders I’ve seen arriving at some hotels. I would have achieved some serious depth except for the cellophane wrapping on the sheets. Thanks to the wee Baby Jesus for cost cutting and only having one layer of plastic. Wrapped any more tightly it might have broken me like a doll.

        “What the fuck is wrong with you? Look at the damage to my door! You’re paying for that and anything else that my mechanic finds wrong with it. I want your name, company name, phone number.. hell you may as well give me your SIN as well. I’m going to own you when I get finished with you!” proclaimed the well dressed youth that got out of the spotless Audi. A bright red tie stood out against the dark grey of his suit and glowing white shirt while his feet made the click clack of shoes made for walking on something other than pavement. His clean shaven face looked too soft and supple to even grow facial hair yet with the only wrinkles being the creases on his temples from his ’Top Gun’ aviators. I hated him on sheer principle alone.

        “Well?? What the fuck is your name? Spechin ze deucht? Tu est parlez vous anglais?”

        “Oi! Fucktard. Give the guy a break. He might be really hurt.” The truck driver said as he began sorting through the bags of linens to extricate me with a minimum of mess. “You should look before you open your door.”

        “Fuck that!! He should look where he is going around parked cars. I still want your name and company” Poised with a small pointer over a phone which was probably just on the market like a reporter awaiting a breaking story he watched me eagerly.

        Yup. I hated him.

        “You ok there amigo?” The deliveryman asked as he stabilized the remaining cargo. He held his hand out to help me up. “Did you hurt yourself? Hit your head? You should be wearing a helmet ya know.”

        Pulling myself out of the remaining tablecloths holding the napkins around my lap trying to keep them from spilling out into the street I accepted his hand up. Handing off the napkins to the driver ’Adrian’ according to his sewn name badge.

        “I was wearing a helmet. It must be buried in there somewhere.” I had escaped major harm since the truck was a low riding van as opposed to the more commercial models. My bike managed to plop me into the back instead of the loading plate of a bigger truck. Small miracles.

        “I’m ok. Thanks. Sorry about the mess. Can I help sort it a bit for ya?” Pointedly ignoring the young man brought a smirk to Adrian and he fell into step almost as if it was all planned. Dropping the napkins atop the closest pallet he began folding the napkins with a practised ease that baffled me. I let gravity fold my clothes for me.

        “Nah. That’s alright. It’s only a bag or two that tore open.” Pointing to a courier shaped hole in the centre column and some small holes where I punctured it as I flailed to get out. “I can organize it so they wont know it was done before it got here.” Reaching into the biggest hole the driver pulled out my helmet with its chin strap dangling longer than it realistically should.

        “Awww. Looks like I need a new helmet.” Taking the red and black bike helm in my hands I turned it over. The strap had pulled from the left side of the helmet leaving tatters of threads as the only evidence of belonging together.

        “HEY! I want your name! NOW!” The businessman was actually red faced with anger. I looked to the driver who coughed quietly to cover a laugh. He swung down easily and continued loading a blue dolly as if we weren’t even there. I watched him enviously for a moment.

        “Dude,” I started in a calm and hopefully reassuring voice, “Toronto bylaw states that in a collision between bike and car, whoever opens the door in is the wrong. Ex OPP officer Cam Wooley doesn’t lie about stuff like that.” I hopped down to the street and felt a sharp jab in my right thigh. The scuff mark on my pants probably meant I would have a bruise where my leg hit the lip of the truck. I’m a bike courier; consequently, I don’t really need to use my legs right?

        “So you’re Cam Wooley?” The office worker started jabbing his phone. “Where do you work?”
        “No.” I replied.

        “What? I told you I want your company name. I’m going to sue you guys for damages.”
        Sighing as if I was having a serious discussion with a youngster I continued: “No. My name is not Cam Wooley.” I paused waiting for the inevitable eruption.

        3... 2...        

        “You said your name was Cam Wooley! I don’t have time for your games asshole! I’m late for a very important meeting for a million dollar deal. I make deals daily that are worth more than you make in 10 years! I’ve made more than you will in a year by the time I’ve had my first coffee.” Oozing self righteousness he stepped forward and poked me in the chest.

        “I. Want. Your. Name.” Each word was accompanied by a harder poke.

        Looking over my shoulder to see if the Adrian the deliveryman was still around or any other witnesses to this behaviour. Nothing. I saw that for the moment we were the only two people around.

        Oh goody!!

        “This is going to hurt you more than me” I muttered to myself, placing my fingertips together and blowing across my fingers. The resulting shimmer of heat across my knuckles and thickening of my fingers went unnoticed since my bike gloves covered the majority of my hands. I would later learn that the brightening of my green eyes were covered by my coloured contact lenses. A trick I had learned from my brother Tony who would make bets in the back a local bar going ’shot for shot’ with drunken bruisers. Watching him egg on a muscle bound college jock trying to look tough for his friends was a thing of beauty; drawing his friends into the debate on whether they should bet as well. Tony would draw out the game holding his own or even losing ground a little before his ’coup de grace’ move and eventual pocket full of cash. He kept telling me he would teach me his other moves but fate decided he was scheduled for a fiery car crash first. In the 7 years since his death I’ve had to teach myself how to bend the rules to my benefit.

        This normal situation of a traffic confrontation had moved up one level now that violence was about to occur. Even so the office douche realized something was suddenly wrong. As it turns out it is simply human nature, a survival technique imbedded in the ’Fight or Flight’ response. Eerily similar to why we jump at things bumping in the night or clench our eyes shut when afraid of the dark. Aren’t closed eyes the darkest of all? People just know when something is wrong or out of place. I’m not sure this well dressed turd was aware enough to think that deeply.

        Perhaps it was the incorrect use of the parental saying every child heard? Why do it if it will hurt me... or the gleam of anticipation in my eyes.         

        He was a little taller than my 6’ with the shoulders of an athlete, probably worked out once in an while and played a sport like baseball or basketball. The suit hid most of this but up close I could see the slight bulge of his arms against the jacket. My build was more like a swimmer, leaner and more dense from the hours of cardio on the bike. The yoga I did each night to stretch out my body from a day of life threatening stress could only help out my physique.

        I turned to my right as if to leave the scene knowing that it would garner a reaction from the businessman. Sure as the sun rises in the morning he reached out with his right hand to grab my shoulder and pull me back. No one was going to turn their back on him; he thought he was much too important for that. Allowing him to start the momentum of turning me to face him again I knocked his arm wide with my left hand and followed through with my right fist. I didn’t want to leave any real lasting damage such as a fractured sternum or crushed trachea so I opted for a blow to his upper chest, bruising his meaty muscle but unfortunately I felt more than heard a crack somewhere around his collarbone. I silently cursed my exuberance.

        He dropped his phone and fell to his knees screaming in pain. Looking around for some semblance of assistance his eyes went wider still, only then finding that we were alone. Fear; clear and visible on his now pale face, he struggled to get up and away adding to the pain as his jerky movements made his arms swing and grind the broken bones together.         

        I reached down and grasped him by the collar of his suit yanking him to his feet. Bending his arm to his chest with his right hand on left shoulder I pressed the arm tight to his body.
        “Hold this tight. Do you understand?” I asked as I guided him to his still open car door and backed him into his seat.

        “I’m.. I’m gonna call.. cops.” A thin sheen of sweat was forming on his forehead and his complexion was turning waxy. Broken bones usually mean shock especially if you are not used to the fast onset of great pain. Since I get hit by cars once a week I’m an old hand at it.

        “Yup. You do that.” Sitting him back it the driver seat I pulled the handle to recline the seat. He hissed the entire way down in agony. Watching his reactions to see just how fucked up he was and realized his extra wide glazed eyes meant he was in real trouble.

        Looking around the interior of his car for a cell phone I was amazed at the complexity of the cockpit in his car. GPS, main console touch screen, stereo, dock for extra devices. It was more advanced than my home theatre system. Spying an On-Call system on the console I stabbed it with my index finger knuckle. My fingerprints are on various legal systems  due to an adventurous youth and I wanted to avoid their attention.

        “Good Morning Mr. Peredur. This is Brenda. How can we be of assistance?” The pleasant female voice asked

        “Hello Brenda, Mr. Peredur has fallen and I think he broke his shoulder. Can you send some assistance? He is by Union Station on Piper Street.” I muttered in what I hoped was a passible italian accent.

        “We have the GPS coordinates and they are being forwarded to the authorities. Mr Peredur? Are you there sir? Do you need us to do anything in the meantime?

        Peredur was shaking his head having a hard time keeping his eyes open.

        “He’s awake for now but he seems to be really pale and about to pass out.” I replied on his behalf.

        “This information will be passed along to the paramedics. Can we have your name for the file?”

        “My name? Uh.. Cam Wooley.”

        I stood and closed his car door as I heard sirens in the distance. Recovering my bike from the street there was very little damage beyond a slightly bent front wheel from where it connected with the truck. Satisfied that I could still ride I bent to pick up the packages spilled onto the road and procured Peredurs’ tablet as well. I’ll need to pay for a new helmet somehow and I knew a few people who could use a new tablet. I also knew some parties who could skim the information on the tablet for tidbits as well. As a courier I meet lots of people on both sides of the legal system and have managed to swing between both sides without their paying any attention to me.

        Mounting the bike I continued my ride up Piper Street and onto Wellington. It seemed like a regular occurrence on a regular day for a bike courier.

        I couldn’t have been more wrong.