Jack in his Element
Jack said he drove for a living. Indeed, a great deal of his time was spent driving around Toronto. And then he’d say: “I fuckin’ love it, right from the first time I sat behind the wheel of a Fiat 110 enroute from Wrocław to Warsaw.”
By the time we met because of my broken fridge, he’d graduated to a burnt orange Honda Element. It was perfect for his repair business — a crossover with removable back seats and a boxy space for large appliances. The Element was also, maybe only in Jack’s view, a bit cool.
“Wait, I’ll clear it,” he said, tossing assorted parts, tools, flyers, and empty DuMaurier packs from the passenger seat into the back. It was my first drive with Jack. I didn’t know it then, but he typically weaved in and out of lanes, brandishing a cigarette with one hand, dialling his phone with the other, and steering with his knee. Not on that first trip though - still on best behaviour. Nervous, I remained as silent as I could, also best behaviour.
“Master of the left lane,” he scoffed as we sped by on the right dodging parked cars and cyclists like we were playing ‘fast and furious’ on the IPad.
“Jack, can you see out OK?” I asked tentatively. He had more sun visors than I’d ever seen or needed.
“Helps me focus.” The dash was littered with cigarette lighters, empty packs, and small appliance parts and the vents were jammed with client invoices so he wouldn’t lose them - it all contributed to blocking the view and overstimulating a passenger who keeps an uncluttered car.
“Reminiscent of Brussels' Mannikin Pis,” I thought to myself as I glanced at the brass doodad hanging from the rear-view mirror, “but with an oversized penis?” In my mind’s ear, I can still hear the quiet creak of the brass hitting the chain from which it hung as this mysterious little talisman succumbed to the centrifugal force of the drive. “It must feel like my stomach feels,” my internal voice continued, a bit queasy with the rocking and rolling of the truck made worse by the gasoline smell from the can in the back. On subsequent trips, that little creak was sometimes drowned out by classic rock or heavy jazz. But not in the early days - we were all about the conversation then.
“We’re going out of town for Easter, Jack,” I announced a few months later. “It’s time you met my family.” The drive is about 90 minutes west.
“Ok we can take your car but let me drive. I’ll be bored otherwise,” he said. I passed him the keys. We got on the highway, speed limit 100, but where most drive 120. For Jack, speed limits were for the other drivers, making his driving thrilling but not always in a good way.
“Jack, you’re doing 150,” I squeaked. That’s the first time I’d ever seen my car go that fast, but not the last.
“Why are you crying,” he asked. “No-one cries when I drive. Totally safe.” In fact, beyond his two ex-wives and four grown children who were all hardened to it, there were many in his circle who wouldn’t drive with him at all.
While roaring down the highway one day, an armchair appeared in the lane immediately in front of us. We darted around it, dancing among cars like we were part of a ballet corps.
“Holy shit, Jack,” I exclaimed, “your reflexes are amazing!” I’d replay that scene from time to time, and gradually gained confidence as his passenger.
Two heads facing forward can be more honest and attentive without the distractions of daily living and we had some of our best conversations in the car. Topic irrelevant: politics, our house, religion, Beetles vs Stones, whether that was a hawk, family, career, what to have for dinner, the state of the world, and the consistency of our dogs’ poo. All this happened whether near home or while touring Ontario, driving to the east coast, and in rental cars in western Canada and in Poland, Portugal, and Ireland. It was tough for Jack to be anywhere without the freedom of a car and driving fast was time for us to be alone together in the loveliest way.
We even talked on the phone when driving alone. One evening, we drove home together but separately, having met for dinner after work. He barrelled up the highway first, expecting me to keep pace.
“Smart cookinski,” his voice through my Bluetooth, as I slipped in ahead of him on a curve.
“Thanks!” Compliments from him - especially about driving - were rare.
“That asshole’s going to get ahead of you,” he warned, as an Audi tried to join our convoy. I closed the gap. Jack made me more confident in so many ways, not least behind the wheel.
While Jack had an astonishing ability to judge speed and space, his antics scared drivers around him, just as they often scared me.
“Jack, get off his bumper,” I beseeched as we got close to the minivan cruising at 120 in the left lane.
“In Europe, if I didn’t push this asshole out of the way, someone else would. I need to teach him,” he retorted. The minivan was steadfast. Jack flashed his lights a few times - still no movement. Frustrated, Jack peeled off to the right, swearing, gesturing, more “masters of the left lane” stuff. As we sped past, he shot the driver a dirty look; head down, I fiddled with my phone.
Once we were on our way to pick up some Polish relatives for a day trip to Niagara Falls, in my car. Someone tried to cut in front of Jack. Jack refused to give way.
“For fuck’s sake, Jack!” I screamed.
Furious, he retorted, “You’ll cause an accident, screaming like that.”
The guy got in ahead of us but now the dispute had moved inside the car. Jack pulled over and jumped out. I moved to the driver’s seat and accelerated into traffic. Tour-guide duty overcame me so I circled the block and inched along beside him as he walked purposefully down the road.
“Get in, Jack.” He walked on. “Get in the car. We’re late.”
He took no notice. I pulled onto the sidewalk where we continued the non-discussion - me imploring, him ignoring. Finally, he agreed to get in the car, but only if he could drive. I had no alternative. Things between us were terse for the day.
Another time, we were in midday highway traffic, heavy but moving fast, with Jack’s visiting Polish sons in the car. Jack overshot our exit. He pulled onto the shoulder and backed up 150 feet to the ramp. The car shook as traffic streaked past.
Jack’s son, no slouch at speed himself, was angry. “That was dangerous.”
“At last, an ally,” I replied, victoriously.
Jack sped up the ramp laughing: “Perfectly safe.”
The orange Element came to a sudden end, colliding with a car turning left across traffic. “Not my fault,” he said defensively. “The other guy was charged.”
We found a replacement Element, a blue one.
“Here are the service records,” the prior owner said, passing me a binder of documents reverentially as though he were handing me the Magna Carta. “There’s a section at the back describing the oil we’ve used,” he went on.
I smiled to myself, correctly guessing the blue model would soon take on the look of its orange predecessor. Maintaining a pristine car was well down Jack’s priority list.
It was the blue Element that took us to many of Jack’s lung cancer treatments.
“Seriously, Jack?” I opened passenger door one morning at 7:00. We were already late for blood-work and now this?
“Hang on,” he replied grinning. He pulled a dirty towel from the back and threw it on top of parts, wrenches, Canadian Tire flyers, and invoices. “Sit!” He commanded, adding, “But not on that!” grabbing an important gauge out just in time. I gingerly placed my feet amid the detritus on the floor.
Those trips downtown were stressful, fighting the clock and traffic to arrive on time, each of us carrying the weight of our new situation. After treatment, we’d find time for fun, exploring bits of the city like the Distillery and stopped for ice cream at Dutch Dreams and pierogi on Roncesvalles, all while laughing and talking in the car. Driving became a central part of our unspoken team approach to this terrible illness.
After the first round of treatment and before the cancer spread, Jack sold his shop, scaled back his service business, and began working from home. The proceeds of the shop afforded him a few luxuries, including a newer Element. Honda had stopped making them and most on the used market didn’t meet Jack’s exacting specs: manual transmission, four wheel drive, and low mileage. After weeks of scouring the ‘net, he found one reasonably priced but on the Magdalen Islands.
“Jack, do you even know where that is?” I asked, incredulously. “I’m not even sure myself. Hang on I’ll Google it. Ah, here we are: ‘The Magdalens are a French speaking archipelago in the Gulf of St. Lawrence.’ No wonder it hasn’t driven far!”
He was excited to find it and decided to fly to the Magdalens with his Canadian son and drive it back. “Are you insane?” I thought, thinking of the November weather, but I said nothing. It was a chance to share an adventure with his youngest.
I drove them to the airport early one Sunday morning. Their route was first to Quebec City and then two more short flights to the final destination. They would stay one night, take the five hour ferry to Prince Edward Island, and drive 18 hours home.
“Jack,” I teased, “for a man who hates planning, you’ve got this all figured out. Next time we travel together, I’m leaving it all to you!” I returned from the drop-off a little sad to miss out on the fun and knowing I’d be lonely without Jack but pleased to be solo for a few days, a rarity in our relationship.
Three hours later, the phone rang. “Hey love, what’s up?” I asked, “how’s Quebec City?”
“Bad news,” he replied, “there’s a storm in New Brunswick. No flight today. We’re standby for tomorrow. What do we do?” Jack asked. “Should we wait? What if the weather doesn’t improve?”
I spent the day on the phone with Jack, Air Canada, the ferry company, Greyhound, and VIA Rail as we problem-solved. If he waited in Quebec City, he’d be away from work longer, always a concern. Better weather was not guaranteed - it was, after all, late November.
“But I’ve paid for the Element, it’s perfect.” He dithered and debated. Hours later, he decided they’d take the train home and ship the Element to Toronto. I drove down to Union Station that evening to meet them. In the car, no-one spoke, a first. They were thoroughly cheesed off with the day and each other; I was annoyed to have lost my Sunday.
Element #3 arrived by truck in early January. It was exciting - champagne coloured and spiffier than the earlier ones and of course, again pristine on the inside. Jack was not yet ready to part with the blue Element. It had life in it yet, despite some mechanical problems. Jack didn’t have the money or the time to deal with it so it sat, decaying and nearly forgotten on the lot where his shop had once been.
The champagne Element was Jack’s new toy. He loved its origin story although deeply regretted not being able to brag about touring it from the Magdalens. He wheeled around town, enjoying its newness coupled with the familiarity of the brass doodad swinging and creaking.
His pleasure was short-lived though. Within months, with cancer now in his brain, came a stern warning from his doctor about driving.
“Are you revoking his licence,” I asked. Jack gave me a ‘don’t ask’ glare.
“No,” was the reply, “but with a brain tumour Jack’s insurance won’t likely cover him.”
Hearing this, for a couple of weeks, I drove him to some service calls and a friend to others. More than any other aspect of his decline though, the loss of automotive independence was too much for him. Jack was most in his element when he was in his Element.
Shortly after the discovery of the brain tumour, he made sure he oversaw me leasing myself a new a Toyota Plug-in Prius, just one of the myriad ways he got his affairs in order that year. While I said nothing when he began to drive the Element again, I couldn’t let him drive my car; the risk was too great. This was one of the many changes to the dynamic of our relationship.
“Jack, which way do you want me to drive home?” I’d ask, on trips back from the hospital, trying to make him feel involved, feeling frustration emanating from the passenger seat. I wept internally the day he suggested I take a street that was on the other side of town, muddled about the thing that had so defined him.
Months later, we learned the cancer had advanced to Jack’s spinal fluid. His projected life span was now measured in weeks. Jack himself realized his cognitive decline and knew driving was no longer safe but he continued to want to work. I was, by then, his full-time caregiver so organizing rides for him or driving him myself became part of my role.
Neither his optimism nor his love for the road failed him, though. In the last weeks of his life, he dreamed about buying a used Harley he’d seen on the Internet. Instead, Jack’s last new wheels were a wheelchair. In our nine years together, he’d driven us so effortlessly anywhere we wanted to go. Now I struggled pushing him down the sidewalk.
Jack regained some control of his life when he chose to die with medical assistance on November 19, 2018, surrounded by those who loved him most. He left, among other things, two Elements. His youngest son has the champagne one, fitting he should enjoy it despite missing the Magdellan adventure. Another son claimed the brass talisman, a fixture in Jack’s cars. But the blue Element sat for a couple of months where Jack left it. By the time I gathered the strength to tackle it, it was fit only for scrap. I visited it one last time, finding many treasures, the most unexpected, perhaps, a set of his old dentures.
“Why here?” I asked myself. "Hell, why not,” I answered and had a good laugh. I continued the excavation, alone with my driving memories.
