Michael Eddenden
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The courier swivels toward us when he spots The Car. He is lean and unshaven, his bike fixed-gear. A shard of plastic, acting as a fender, sticks out behind. We're trapped in a river of idling cars four lanes wide, blocks long, where the lights turn green without effect.
The courier looms over me. Sitting in the driver's seat, I can place the palm of my hand on the pavement, the car is so low. It helps that there isn't a top, or doors. "You've the coolest car in town," he says, grinning with approval.
In Toronto, where the way you get about – car, bike, streetcar or subway – brands you as a member of a political caste, this was a wayward statement. Yet his reaction wasn't so unusual. Seeing the car, many people get worked up – even gush. Puppies have a similar effect. Even people behind darkened windows, isolated in vehicles bulked up to imposing dimensions, want to connect when they see this simple, small, open, inviting roadster that appears to have escaped from a race track in 1957. A sports car, its bare metal polished, not painted. Memorable, rare.
"What is it?" people ask, but the car and the town after which it is named are so obscure, I just say: "It's English."
My usual commute – walking-streetcar-subway – is anonymous. But I'm driving today as a treat, and The Car attracts attention. It begins atop the Gardiner Expressway. Nothing is moving, so it's lively up there. To my right, a BMW driver strains to see the car's nose-cone badge. "What the hell is it?" his frown says. In the minivan to the left, a cellphone is taking pictures. Ahead, kids wave. The Gardiner is a great place to meet people and make friends, especially in rush hour. The pace is leisurely, no one's going anywhere and everyone's looking for something to pass the time.
The minivan window rolls down and a pleasant face appears. "Do you take it on the highway?" the woman asks.
Traffic picks up. As a muscular SUV speeds past, the driver lowers his window but not his cellphone. "Sweet work!" he shouts, then snaps a shot. At the off-ramp, in the abandoned shadows of the Gardiner, a careworn man on the median gives me a silent thumbs-up. His hand-scrawled sign reads: Got Work? Schoolgirls cluster at the next light, a giggle of plaid skirts. "Is that a real car?" asks one, louder than necessary. They'd be disappointed if it was fake. "It's real." Pubescent squeals erupt. At Strachan Avenue, a police officer ushering me past roadwork beams with pleasure. No one looks that happy directing traffic.
I park out front of my wife Donna's office. Her Friday ride home is our excuse for the trip. A knot of onlookers come and go, stopping for photos. A young man stands nearby, straight and still. His eyes never leave the car. "That is beautiful, sir," he says solemnly, hands clasped in front.
Donna slides into the cockpit. "How was the drive?"
"Usual."
King Street is a scrum of streetcars, jaywalkers, cars, bicycles, taxis, skateboards and e-bikes. We wait while a streetcar loads up, then slip forward, stopping opposite the driver. The doors jerk open again. The driver looks down at us. Uh-oh, what have I done wrong? "Nice car," she says and closes the doors.
Old women zip by on three-wheeled scooters, a cavalcade of floppy hats, bags and bonhomie. Their leader spots me. "Wanta trade!?" Nodding to the car she shouts behind her: "Hey, Debbie – eat your heart out!"
Condo construction now blocks several lanes. Adelaide Street is an enormous queue.
"Awesome car!" I crane around to see a young woman on a bike, pretty and punk, with an open-mouthed smile. Her shaved head sets off various piercings effectively. "It's so quiet!" Her compliment mocks the two big carburetors protruding through the hood. A skateboarder glides by. "Very nice," he pronounces over his shoulder. A detoured TTC bus rumbles by, driver's arm out the window, thumbs up.
Donna is talking to the taxi driver beside us. "How much! How much you want?" shouts the driver. Donna laughs evasively. His eyes run back and forth along the body. "How fast does it go?" he asks, lechery in his voice. Not all taxi drivers are like this. A few weeks earlier, a Sikh driver leaned out his window and asked politely: "Excuse me, sir, is that a Bentley?"
Soon after, we are home. It's been a fairly typical trip. Not everyone was drawn to the car, but those who were were representatives of all sides of the transit battles: cyclists, drivers, streetcar and subway riders, taxi drivers.
Why an idiosyncratic, impractical roadster designed 60 years ago appeals to them all, and at rush hour, when people are generally grumpy, I cannot explain. The Car existed in a bubble, outside present concerns and entrenched opinions – a temporary, quick-acting congestion reliever.
And yet, if the roads had been clear and traffic had flowed freely, most of these fleeting exchanges could not have happened. It would have been just another anonymous commute.
Michael Eddenden lives in Toronto.