Green Taxi From Oakland (Part 1)

Green Taxi From Oakland Part 1

Copyright 2012 by
Bill Rayburn

The man slithered through the trees, no longer concerned with how much noise his feet made in the half foot of leaves he was plowing through. He’d heard the cab door on the driver’s side slam shut and knew he would not be heard. He reached the passenger side of the vehicle, quickly yanked on the back door and slid in and slammed it in one fluid motion.

“What the bloody hell?” were the last words uttered by his mark as he raised his pistol and shot him in the back of the head. He carefully returned the pistol to its shoulder holster and got back out of the car. He was wearing gloves, so there would be no fingerprints.

Unfortunately, the stupid fat sod had decided to die while face-planting forward onto the car horn, which now was bleating non-stop. He opened the front door, reached in with his left arm and repositioned the dead man back to an upright pose. The horn stopped immediately. Blood and viscera coated the front window and the steering wheel.

Within seconds, he was gone, quickly picking his way through his pre-determined escape route in the opposite direction from which he’d entered the park.

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North London is home to some serious quid. In particular, the Winchmore Hill neighborhood, a ward of the Borough of Enfield. It’s a leafy little burgh that has a low crime rate and other than the flow of pounds through the town, it flies well under the London radar.

Until this year. Two murders within 30 days. Scotland Yard has been called in as the local authorities are simply not equipped, manpower or technology-wise, for a multiple murder investigation. Police are convinced the two killings are related, but have very little to go on.
My name is Eric, and I am that ‘very little to go on’.

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Grovelands Park in north London’s Winchmore Hill neighborhood is an oasis plopped right down in the middle of million-dollar homes and broad, tree-lined streets. If you’ve driven much in London, then you know that ‘broad’ streets are in evidence only where there are million dollar homes and maybe also in central London where limousines need to move about. The rest of us navigate the one-lane-wide streets, which are legally designated to accommodate two-way vehicular traffic. Replacing shattered side-view mirrors is a burgeoning business in London.

So, when my trusting, loving and energetic four-legged mate Waldo and I make our daily jaunt to Grovelands, we park my rusty, banged up black jeep on a mansion–lined street, enjoying that incongruity, and then stroll into the park through the prettiest of its five separate entrances,. All gateways into Groveland are very nicely appointed and patrolled by huge wrought iron gates. Each entry has a distinctive look. The entrance on Broad Walk has an ornate double-gated opening into an almost lightless tree-canopied corridor. When you stop and gaze in before passing through the impressive gates, it feels almost sepulchral in its reverent and silent salute to nature. This dark lane, about 300 yards long, feels like you are going up (down?) the fallopian tube, especially when you get to the end and turn left to where a wide expanse of grass amiably greets the eye as it runs down a gradual slope; then the sudden infusion of light, as if the sky was taking a flash photo, and in the distance the gorgeous vista of the lake sits serenely, waiting, supporting a wide variety of wildlife.

In fact, all of the houses on Broad Walk near the park are fronted with very similar gate apparatuses. Somehow, these wealthy Londoners manage to avoid having their yard, driveway or the imposing face of their multi-story house appear fortress-like. It seems that the ones who desire to fortify, those whose design sense is more exclusionary than inclusive, tend to surround their estates with walls, not gates and fences through which the unwashed might peak. To each his own. Walls can evoke as much thought as do gates and are often equally as appealing visually.

Watching the well-heeled drivers of Mercedes and BMWs pause while their electronic gates open slowly like a horizontal drawbridge, is an image I find soothing. I am a capitalist. Most people earn their wealth. I want to be them one day. I simply won’t begrudge them their affluence, earned or otherwise.

This street scene is overshadowed, however, once we enter the park proper, with the large lake centered in the park’s bucolic 91 acres like a liquid jewel, with a wide variety of water and air fowl dotting its surface, floating on the water like feathery supporting-cast diamond chips. They are also waiting on the good blokes and birds of north London, dog owners who are giving their house-bound-for-days canines an exercise session. These Londoners bring and fling hunks of bread from the bed of rocks set aside on the lake’s edge for such activity. The variety of ducks, geese, swans, moorhens, coots and the peskier and aggressive airborne seagulls can turn any feeding session into a visual and audible display of splashing and darting through the air that it is often mesmerizing. I would bring a loaf of bread whenever I could, as Waldo was fascinated by the ensuing display and feeding frenzy. He’d become a little too familiar with one huge, rather cantankerous white swan who lingered closest to the rocky shore and would hiss at Waldo like a cobra whenever he ventured too close to the water. Waldo thought it was a form of play, but I knew better. That swan could lop one of his ears off with little or no effort.

Waldo was a rather fascinating combination of Staffordshire bull terrier and Dachshund. It is a conjoining of breeds that has resulted in a stunningly attractive dog in a mid-sized body that blatantly defies all genealogical predictions such a pairing might prompt. Though his features are incongruous when taken individually, when looked at obliquely or in my case, lovingly, he is symmetrical and a beautiful amalgamation of snout, head, ears, neck, torso and muscular haunches all supported by strong-looking stubby legs on which he surprises many a smaller dog by simply outracing it. People stop and stare at him occasionally and invariably ask his breeding story. I tell them and am rewarded almost always with a pleasant yelp of surprise and wide-eyed appreciation of the originality at the two breeds involved. Drily, I follow such queries with, ”Well, I’ve tried not to envision the actual consummation process, as it likely broke a law of nature or three.”
I stand a shade over six feet, having remained in fairly decent shape into my late 40s, and feel a silly sense of superiority as I notice so many similarly-aged London men have lost their hair, while my thick Irish thatch of blond straw, though untamable, remains flourishing and roams rogue-like wherever the ubiquitous London wind blows it. My dark blue eyes are supported by a small, unobtrusive nose and the goatee I have steadfastly maintained since I started growing it on my 35th birthday has chosen to become speckled with grey, which I happen to enjoy.

I have what women tend to refer to as a ‘welcoming’ face. I prefer ‘disarming’, but we are merely engaging in a silent battle of semantics. Women tend to like and trust me and are rarely wary. I enjoy the effect mainly because there is not an ounce of contrivance in the look. I’ve heard men say that there are equally effective benefits to looking sinister and threatening, though a lady who is drawn to that countenance would not like the quiet evenings Waldo and I spend in front of the fire listening to Ben Webster and Coleman Hawkins.

The park seems equally populated by men and women, with a very liberal sprinkling of young and old; solitary hooded walkers and couples in love; and as stated earlier, most are not only dog owners and lovers, but the unspoken rule is if your hound is affable, letting him off the leash is encouraged. The mad dashes that ensue between the trustworthy, leash-free dogs can be comical. Waldo will bait any dog, large or small, in order to lure it into a circular, top speed pursuit that is like watching eight legs, instead of eight wheels, swapping paint around Talladega.
And with that reference, I reveal and cement the fact that I am indeed a Yank who has moved from California to this rather tony, posh little enclave in north London. Winchmore Hill smells like money, to put it simply. There appears to be many affluent couples in their 30s and 40s with the wives usually pushing a stroller during the days, after the husband has tooled the Mercedes through the byzantine streets into central London, where most serious commerce is proposed and acted upon. The more established (older) women of Winchmore Hill are quite well preserved, sporting fashions that take a degree of confidence, not to mention an ability to defy gravity. They have survived the stroller era of their womanhood and now can relearn the art of being selfish and self-indulgent. Many combine manicures, pedicures and visits to the hair salon with sharing a magnum of champagne with friends at The Kings Head to end the afternoon.

The youth of the U.K. does not go unrepresented on the Hill. At early morning intervals, one can view from a strategic perch on a bench in the Green the young legs of the still idealistic, sprinting up the hill from down where the rentals are and around the square and the Green and then down the block to the rail station. Young men and women, stern faces creased in concentration, dreams of working in central London already under way, hurry to catch the express as the subsequent trains stop at dozens of stations along the way, and will surely delay them on their road to capitalistic greatness.

The train station is a stone’s throw from the Green and is, as with most train stations, a fascinating venue from which to observe humanity.
When I hear the screech of train brakes as the 7:04am southbound pulls in, I imagine this happening all over London, and am often awarded a front row seat as to the different ways people respond when one’s train is pulling into the station. From panicked full sprints in hard-soled shoes along the perpetually wet and slippery pavement; to the sudden applying of the brakes and slowing to a walk, shoulders slumped in resignation, the decision to visit the newsstand and maybe the little coffee kiosk having been made for them, since they now had ten minutes to kill. I find it intriguing as I watch this phenomenon each morning. It appears quite stressful and a lousy way to begin one’s day.

Even the newsagent’s shop is unique. Situated 100 feet from the station on a corner, inside this tiny store run by Pakistani immigrants one can find the usual accoutrements available at such an establishment, but there is not a single wasted inch of space, and simple stroll through the two aisles will often surprise you with the oddity of some of the merchandise. A mouse trap? Right over here, sir. All-day, one-time-only London bus and rail pass? Certainly, sir, 10 quid. Office supplies? Right in this corner. Ice cream bar? What flavor? Dog whistle? For a small or large dog, sir?

On my very first visit the proprietor, a nervous, thin Pakistani man with pock marks from an apparent aggressive battle with acne, was quite friendly and helpful, and more than a bit curious about my moving from California to London. In exchange for a truncated version of my recent journey, he explained patiently the different denominations of British money, how the England lottery system functioned and finally introducing me to his mother; a short, shuffling older woman with a scarf around her head and a slanted, suspicious look for Waldo.

I remember my initial trip to the little train station because it provided me with a rare instance of a British logistical faux paus. Given the paranoia inhabiting the smoky back rooms of most British minds, how this station has green-lighted an uncovered, concrete, 30-step cement stairway as the only access to the downstairs platform from where one boards a train, is a mystery. It rains almost every day. Women in heels prance down these stairs to try and catch their train each morning. It is almost chilling to watch, and though I’ve not seen anyone take a spill yet, the scenario practically screams out for litigation. Yet this architectural oversight is an exception in London, as I am often left shaking my head at little pragmatic yet unique innovations here and there all over the city that make me think, “they think of everything over here”. One example is a grocery store in central London that has flat-surfaced electric walkways, like in the airport, which go up and down as well as over horizontal surfaces, and as people are usually pushing shopping carts, they have equipped the wheels of the carts and the moving walkways themselves with magnets so that the cart will not roll once its wheels hit the rubber matting. Brilliant in its simplicity.

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