I ask the Lyft guy about his car. I always do. It’s a reflex at this point. I know the rough prices, the dealer choreography, the creative interpretations of larceny politely marketed as financing. But this one tells me he rents the car. I know cab drivers rent, it’s like job gear, like steel-toed boots. But in three years of Lyft rides, they’ve all been owners, proud of their modest empires of debt. This man shakes his head. “Everyone rents.”
“Everyone?” I repeat. He nods, like someone who studied the matter and has a degree on this subject. Then he delivers the reason like a revelation,
“My religion forbids owning property.”
I recognize the sales pitch. “Islam?”
“Yes,” he says, softly. “I am spiritual.”
Renting is protection he says. If he dies, his family inherits no debt. No mess. No financial ghost-demons. I tell him about the insurance most loans carry, the safety nets tucked into contracts. If a borrower dies, the bank still gets paid and the family doesn’t go to jail. Mortgages too. Sometimes built-in, sometimes it costs ten dollars a month. A small toll to shield the fam from catasta-fam. He absorbs in silence. He is glad to have met me. I can almost hear him revising his philosophy. A strange thing to witness, like watching someone calculate an answer to a problem that no longer needs solving, only sympathy. And I realize most convictions are drafts, we edit them when new evidence enters.
“What do you do?” he asks. He is appreciative of my company. When I say I’m a musician he smiles knowingly. He asks if I play for people. Yes I do. He says music is prayer. I agree, though for some it’s only the hallway where their worries pace.
“I came from Somalia. What do you think about immigration? Do you think immigration is good or bad?”
I’m good with immigration. We talk about the different Canadian news stories regarding immigration. He asks me to explain the political parties. I try my best. He says Canadians are stupid for letting people into Canada including him. He thinks we are unaware of people with an agenda to destroy Canada he says. He also admires the United Arab Emirates and their anti-immigrant policies. They do not allow immigrants full citizenship. This is smarter he says. What do you think Mr. Music? I think it’s unfair to spend your life in another country without being entitled to citizenship. He wants to know why I think Canada allows immigration in the way that it does. I say it probably stems from i) low population, and ii) a sincere belief if you move here you are entitled to be a full citizen, but I add politicians have to be mindful there is enough money to make it all work. I can see problems with increasing debt if the means to pay is absent.
He thinks “someone” is manipulating this situation in order to bring down Canada. He smiles again, then in new tone, “can I ask you something?”
I recognize this sound. I’ve met men before who ask me this, precisely like this. I am after all a musician. I could be wrong but after all I am in the business of listening and remembering. A man one time spoke like this just before telling me Jews run the world and they are at fault for all the sinister things…didn’t you know? Another time, not long ago while I was teaching at Seneca – a student sounded like this just before telling me Israel kills Palestinians if they write music…didn’t you know? And once on Bloor street a Mr. Submarine employee complained about the sales tax and after I concurred, leaned in and confided in me, it’s actually the Jews…the Canadian government is owned by Jews, didn’t you know? I am counting backwards from ten, guessing he will say didn’t you know it’s Goldberg or Cohen.
“Sure, ask away.”
Scoops of suspicion, fear, conspiracy, swirled together in a lyft milkshake. This is as close to taking LSD as I can recall. He starts by explaining the government of Canada needs an enemy. Needs to keep people docile and stupid and he knows who is behind them. He’s getting very excited. I interrupt “That could be true, but what government doesn’t do that? Iran? Russia? China? Somalia?” He nods in slow-motion, realizing the check mate foiled but the game is still on. He wants to enlighten me. We’ve also arrived at Babar’s, the mechanic who is repairing my car. I have to leave but first it occurs to me to ask a new question, “have you ever met a Jewish person?” And his face lifts, startled. A new expression like a cat hearing a violin the first time. “No I never have met one.” Well now you have, I say and he breaks into a big smile and gives me a fist bump. I have a new idea for a song.