The Card

Perhaps it was a coincidence that Robert got pulled over and asked for his licence, insurance and ownership. Perhaps not. At first, Robert was surprised because he lived in Rosedale and had graduated from Osgood Hall with his law degree and his second-hand BMW shone like a polished opal on a white beach. His father, John, had worked as a clerk at a grocery store for thirty years and had put him through De La Salle and York University by perseverance and disciplined savings. His mom and dad met at the Cabbage Town grocery store where John worked for decades without promotion. Robert came alone when his mom was seventeen and he had no sibling rivals all his life.
Good morning, officer
Your licence, insurance and ownership, please.
Robert handed over the sacred documents and noted the Toronto police badge and the stink of sweat seeping into his open window. He knew he was not breaking the forty limit on Mount Pleasant Road and he also knew his tail light wasn’t broken. He waited.,
Everything is OK, Mr. Barker. How long have you owned this car?
A strange question but now is not the time to get snotty. Eleven years.
Where do you work?
Philips and Philips on King and University. Do you want my business card?
Yes, thanks.
Robert took a card from the back lip of his wallet and handed it to Officer P. Sullivan, as his badge read.
Have a good day.
Robert toggled up the power window without a word of response and watched the glass barrier lift like a drawbridge between himself and the street noise around his shiny safe castle. He felt the stress dissipate as the distance between him and the cop increased.
Mount Pleasant was always busy with caterpillar-like chain-links of cars at this time in the morning but the sound of the siren still shrilled in his mind as he joined the automotive gridlock. It wasn’t the sound that bothered him because he heard similar fire, ambulance and first responder alarms throughout the city. He’s heard them all his life. Why am I still bothered by this incident? Why do I feel bad?
He pushed the green button with his long thin index finger and the garage parking meter stuck out its long white bar-coded tongue. He snatched the ticket, slid it smoothly into his pin-striped left breast shirt pocket and parked in his reserved space. The express elevator ride to the thirty-second floor seemed like a split second because his mind was preoccupied with the mornings’ incident that happens in rare occasions.
Good morning Gloria
Good morning Robert. The affidavits are on your desk and your ten am court case has been delayed. Judge Bruser had an emergency family matter last night and Judge Johnson will take your case on his docket.
You’re wonderful, Gloria
I’ll bet you say that to everyone, she chided
I’d be lying if I did, he deadpanned.
Robert hung up his designer overcoat and tailored Zegna suit jacket that he was still paying for. He walked to his office corner glass alcove and looked out toward Lake Ontario and the CN Tower.
The first time Robert had been stopped by police was when he and his buddies, the bad boys of Bleeker Street were having a party down by the Don River in Cabbage Town, when he was ten. Two police officers walked up to the foursome and, with Billy-sticks defensively outreached as if they were being attacked, asked the youngsters for their names and what they were doing. One officer took notes while the other menacingly approached with fact-gathering intent.
We ain't done nothin, Robert blurted
Did I ask you to talk?
When the names, addresses, phone numbers and ages were duly noted the cops vanished, for a while.
The feelings of wonder, guilt, shame, embarrassment, and humiliation crept into the boy’s lives along with the fear of police. The bad boys were often stopped and questioned until the day arrived when they designated a gawker to watch for the cops and give a whistle when they were spotted. Shame and guilt became embedded into their little lives as a coating on top of their feeling of inferiority at being poor, isolated and insignificant.
No, it wasn’t bad boys of Bleeker Street, he mumbled to himself. That was what we called ourselves. We were known as the black boys because we were the only black kids in Cabbage town.