by Hans Wienhold
One slow afternoon, I was given a delivery order. The instructions were to pick up a prepaid order from The Love Shop on Parkdale Ave. N. The bag they handed me contained some lubricant and a red wig. It was to be delivered to a motel in Stoney Creek.
At the motel, I found the unit number and knocked on the door. That something weird followed was a bit weird, even for the cab business. A short dude opened the door. Like the other Man of Hamilton, he was shirtless, covered in tattoos, and his hair was buzzed. I thought it was Charles Manson.
He left the door ajar as he went to get the money. As I waited, I noticed a ratty-looking attaché case on a table or counter. It was full of rusty tools and cutlery.
The trip was, otherwise, uneventful. I don’t know about the wig, but the lubricant must have been for the tools. Maybe he was going to barber school or something.
On my way back to Hamilton, the dispatcher called me again, asking me if I would like to fulfill another order for Mr. Manson.
Ordinarily, dispatchers hate it when drivers reject orders without good reason. Over the years, I had assembled a toolbox full of convenient lies for use in such situations, but this time, I told the truth. I told them I would rather not go back there because the guy gave me the creeps. The response was, “I know what you mean.”
And that was that.
Nothing I saw over the years is particularly unique. Cops, paramedics, firemen, telephone and TV installation guys, and coroners all have similar stories to tell.
Wienhold identifies as a Welfare Recipient at Senior’s Welfare; Self-Employed; and also, a Climate Scientist at BS Detective Services.