Free The Other Side of Midnight by Mike Heffernan Page A

my arm; I got repetitive strain. You can tell because I have to hold it up. It happened while I was working on an assembly line doing the same thing over and over again 5,000 times a day. For five and a half years, I did everything Workers’ Compensation wanted me to do. Most people go down to the Miller Centre for six weeks. My treatments ended up lasting six months. I went down every day doing foolish stuff like walking up and down the hall with a wooden box in my arms. I took injections of cortisone and did hydrotherapy. Compensation classified me with what’s called “permanent functional impairment.” That got me $5,500 out of them. They give you the money because you’re stuck with the injury for the rest of your life. But five grand is nothing. Then they offered me a taxi. I was like, “No, I don’t want to go taxiing. I don’t want to drive people around. Give me a little van for couriering.”
    â€œNo, you can’t do that,” they said, “because you have to lift stuff.”
    I said, “That’s not lifting. That’s envelopes and small parcels.”
    It seemed to be the thing back then. People would say, “Go down and tell them you want a taxi. They’ll buy you a car, or a van. Whatever you want.” I guess it depends on how long you’re on compensation and what your injury is. If you lost both of your legs, it’s no good giving you a taxi.
    Then they told me to get a job as a meter reader. She said, “You got ten weeks to get a job at it, or you’re cut off.”
    I said, “A job with Newfoundland Power?”
    â€œYes, you got ten weeks.”
    I said, “My ducky, you need a letter from God to get a job with Newfoundland Power. I haven’t worked in five and a half years. I wouldn’t even hire me.”
    â€œIf you think a letter from God will help, maybe you should get one.” Those were her exact words.
    I sold everything off, and me and the missus and the four kids moved to Ontario. I had no reason to go to Ontario. We were fine here; I was getting enough on compensation. I was Mr. Mom, and she was working. At least we had two incomes coming in. Then my wife had a nervous breakdown and came back to Newfoundland out of it. She never came back to me. I went painting cars for a little while. Then I went detailing cars—fancy cars. But you don’t make a living at that when your rent is $1,200 a month. You’re only getting $15 an hour. I said, “I got to get out of here. I don’t care if I’m flipping burgers.”
    I phoned my buddy, and he said, “I’ll get you a job taxiing.”
    I came back home, and I started at this. At first, I loved it. Then I liked it. Then I didn’t mind it. Now I hate it. In a half an hour, I’ll have eight hours punched in. As it is now, since four o’clock this morning, I haven’t made fifty bucks, and that’s everything on the meter. I’m working for about $3 an hour. Since four o’clock, I think I’ve had five jobs. That’s it. I wouldn’t recommend taxiing to an enemy, to be honest. It’s the only job I know where you don’t get stamps, you don’t get compensation, and you don’t get holidays, or sick leave. If you don’t work, you don’t get paid. I’m in a bind now. My rent was due last week. I had $120 for him yesterday, and the only reason I came up with that is because I went to Placentia for $285. I only have the use of one arm, and I can’t do anything else. I’m stuck at this.
    Just a Girl Driving a Taxi
    Sandra, driving for four years
    I used to work for an old answering service here in the city, the ones where you’d have to use the cord boards. If you called your oil company after ten o’clock at night you got one of us girls. Then we would call the oil man: “You got to deliver oil to old Mrs. Brown because she’s froze down there.” I