4. Clark #2
I decided on my flight back to Montréal that I would rent a U-Haul to make the journey east with my stuff and my dog.
I know I could’ve flown and had my junk shipped, but Becky was terrified of flying—the one time I had flown with her had been a disaster.
Besides, I loved road trips—going off the highways for some stretches to see the sights and finding funky diners or greasy spoons that served up the best burgers and other staples, though they probably made my bad cholesterol numbers weep.
I listened to classic rock or opera, and Becky howled along to some of it when she wasn’t sticking her nose out the top of the passenger side window or curled up on her favorite blanket on the passenger seat, using my thigh like a pillow.
When I finally arrived at the apartment block and entered the underground parking garage, I had to practically lift my jaw from my kneecap.
Rows of slick black Mercedes were lined up, and I wondered if I should have pushed harder for a company car.
I mean, I didn’t really need one given the location, the bus routes, and the potential for carpooling, but still.
Those vehicles made my old junker truck I sold back in Montréal for this slightly less junker truck embarrassing.
Hell, I had the money. Why didn’t I invest in a new hybrid?
I let out a little laugh, which made Becky bark, and it hit me that we were home.
It didn’t take long for me to begin falling in love with my new digs.
Every day, I took Becky to a dog park, which was just a nice walk or a short jog away, and threw a tennis ball for her as she ran, always smiling her goofy smile.
It was early autumn, my favorite time of year, and Nova Scotia didn’t disappoint with its emerging vibrant trees of yellow, orange, and red.
The air was salty and fresh, smelling of the last lingering of wild roses and brine, with that edge of cold that made you appreciate every day of sunshine before the long winter set in.
Being a bit of a foodie and not having my kitchen unpacked right away lent itself to me trying all the Maritime dishes I wanted.
Imagine my surprise to find that the city’s food scene was far more diverse than I had thought—which was fish, fish, and more fish—and I found myself surrounded by a plethora of delicious Asian food, my general cuisine of choice.
So far, I’d found plenty of Japanese and Thai restaurants, and a tiny spot in a mall that sold the best Korean food I’d ever had outside of South Korea: their rice perfect, and chicken that was like crack, honestly.
I kept wanting to go back for more. And of course there was everything from pubs to pizza shops, but again, I was surprised by both the number and quality of them.
And one night, I majorly had the munchies, so I took a stroll uphill until I reached an intersection with competing food shops on three corners.
That was when I discovered it—the succulent beauty that was Halifax’s official food—the Donair.
All of this added up to a lot of days exploring the city on foot with Becky, and nights in my apartment, eating takeout and bingeing shows from Apple TV+ or Netflix.
When I was walking through the sketchy parking garage—and why was the parking garage sketchy in such a nice, modern building?
—after forgetting my phone in the dash of the hybrid I did wind up splurging on, I saw a red car come peeling into the lot.
I stopped by my car’s front door, prepared to give the driver a piece of my mind for taking the corner recklessly.
I mean, what if I’d had Becky with me, and had she been just two feet farther out, it would have been the end of her.
But then, they practically burst out of their vehicle, a few reusable shopping bags in hand and singing a verse of “Defying Gravity” from the show Wicked.
It was evident that this woman thought she was alone, or had an epic sense of self-confidence, because the volume of her off-key rendition rose as she advanced toward the elevator, adding uncoordinated and most definitely unique dance moves.
She had reached the bit when she really started to belt before I realized she was Olive McLeod, my frequently sick new boss who I never would guess—from the entire hour we spent together—had way-off-Broadway aspirations.
It looked like those bags were a bit heavy, and the least I could do was carry them for her, considering I had discovered the day before yesterday that we were neighbours.
One of the local pizza joints had tried to deliver to my door, and when I confirmed there was no one named Olly here, they turned the receipt around and mumbled an apology while they moved down the hall.
They stopped at the next door down, and I heard Olive’s calm demeanor greet them.
I called, “Hold the elevator, please!”
Olive stopped in the exact position she’d been in her dance, which meant one leg was raised in front of her, bent at the knee, and both hands, still holding the bags, were raised in the air in a “Y.” Suddenly I got it, after The Karate Kid popped to mind.
“Hey, The Crane!” I shouted, locked my car with my fob, and jogged over to take her bags if she would let me.
When I reached her, she turned on me, and with a wild banshee shriek, she kicked me firmly in the balls.
“Fucking fuck!” The words flew out of my mouth, as my hands instinctively went to cover whatever was left of my testicles.
I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me, and I was in the throes of some of the sharpest pain I had ever felt.
The bitch of it was, it was the type of pain that lingered.
It would settle into terrible cramping, and I’d probably be pissing blood for a week, all because I wanted to help this obviously not helpless woman carry her bags.
I was still wheezing by the time I realized I was bent over and still within her reach, so I backed up slowly, one hand in front of me and making eye contact the whole time, like that hand gesture that could hold back a velociraptor.
At least she didn’t look psychopathic. She simply looked victorious.
She had faced a potential enemy on the field of battle and emerged triumphant, and like hell I was going to take that win from her.
At least, not when she was still armed with what smelled like delicious takeout.
“Yeah, that’s right. You back off, parking garage creeper! Don’t you dare come near me, or I’ll smash in that face of yours, and you can try to explain that to your boss Monday morn—”
I stood the whole way and lifted both hands, trying to project an image of a regular guy, not some “creeper” who haunted parking garages.
Though I still had to give her all the props for braving this place when it looked like she had about as terrible a parking spot as I did, near the garbage room where I’d seen at least one rat yesterday, and quite far from the elevators.
It took a moment to realize she had stopped her tirade as the lights above blinked on a bit brighter, and I could now see that she was panting.
But the fear had left her squinting eyes, and the threat had left her voice as she said disbelievingly,
“Evans?”
“Hey, boss,” I wheezed, and I was sure that sweat was pouring down my face. I managed to say, “I think, given the circumstances, you can just call me Clark.”
“Clark,” she started, lowering her arms and with both legs planted firmly on the floor, she flushed a shade of red that almost matched her hair and continued, “I’m sorry.
It’s just, I’m usually aware of my surroundings, especially in a place like this, and I let you get so close before I even knew you were there.
Maybe it’s just my hormones in overdrive, but I felt that I had to protect my baby.
Besides, what did you think would happen, approaching a distracted woman in a dark parking garage? ”
Aha, I was right. She knew how sketchy this place was.
I made the decision right there that tomorrow at lunchtime when I had to come back and take out Becky, I would stop by the rental office and get Olly a better parking space.
Most of them weren’t in use, and there were some always free right next to the elevator.
That was when it hit me like a frying pan to the head what she had actually said, and when I looked at her, I immediately understood her reason for looking sick and for her brusqueness with me on my final interview here in the city.
She was wearing a long, button-up shirt, and while it hugged her quite lovely and bangin’ curves, I couldn’t see even the barest hint of a baby bump.
She coughed, and my eyes darted up to her face, which was some odd combination of annoyance and amusement.
“Don’t feel bad. Everyone is keeping an eye on my tummy these days.
It’s too early for an actual bump that everyone can touch unsolicited,” she said, matter-of-factly.
That was when I looked at her, like really looked, like I was seeing her for the first time.
She had her red hair up in a messy bun with a pencil through it, and those wide, doe eyes that were also a shade of brown.
She wore severe cat’s-eye eyeglasses, and her full lips were chapped, probably from throwing up often.