Velma's ghost (Pt. II)

Because she deserves a happy ending.

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

~ Hamlet

I wasn’t ready to go back to the scene of the crime. Honestly, it’s so much more than a scene. More like an entire city.

At recovery meetings, they’re always telling you to remove yourself from the scenes and society you knew as an addict.

But there I was one sunny spring day, driving headlong into the heart of darkness: the humble, hard-working city of Hamilton, Ontario.

And what awaited me there, you ask? Ghosts of every stripe. Most of them very dangerous to a man in early recovery. You see, Hamilton was my main milieu over the previous year. It’s home to my hookup — an outdoor superstore called ‘Crack Alley’ — where I’d spent tens of thousands.

There was also the only company I kept — addicts like Cal and Macey, who treated me pretty much the way I thought I deserved to be treated. Miserably.

Besides that, there was even a little bit of undischarged debt to various dealers, and probably a fair amount of ill-will.

So why the fuck was I heading back to that Mecca of misadventure?

Well, you’ve probably already met Velma. She was a Hyundai Veloster, a stunning burnt-orange sunrise on wheels. My first car — and one of my greatest regrets. At my hands, she came to a rather tragic end.

The thing is, when I finally sold Velma for some cash and a piece of dope, I forgot to remove her license plates. The new owner, a dealer named Shannon, did what was expected of most dealers in that situation — give nary a fuck.

In fact, freed from the constraints of traffic law, Shannon proceeded to run red lights, park anywhere at any time and avail herself of toll routes whenever possible.

Consequently, a torrent of tickets followed me into recovery, filling my mom’s mailbox with bad news almost every other day.

Raw, sickly and deeply unhappy about the prospect of never smoking crack again, I didn’t put up much of a fight. I paid for all the tickets. Save for one. It was a big one. Velma had been caught roaring through a red light in the wee morning hours.

On that final ticket, I indicated that I would dispute the fine.

My mom didn’t like the idea at all. But she didn’t hesitate to offer her car.

It was time to tackle this tribulation head-on. It was time for a return to historic Hamilton.

Surprise, surprise the courthouse was on the same street as Crack Alley.

But, while the idea of stopping to smoke crack before meeting the Crown prosecutor to plead for mercy might have seemed sound a few months ago, it just didn’t feel right that day.

There are, however, traffic lights all along Hamilton’s main street. I got caught at one, just outside of a Big Bee convenience store. It was pouring rain. A particularly dishevelled woman caught my eye. She had dyed her mane from red to black, in an effort, I suppose, to evade the warrants for her arrest. But there could be no mistaking Macey.

…though I drive through the valley of the shadow of death…

She was staring right at me. Then I remembered her unbelievably impaired vision — because I pointed to a constellation one night that she couldn’t see. How sad, I remembered thinking. What chance did she have in this life without stars?

Before she could get close enough for a positive ID, the light turned green — Go! Go! GO!

Next stop: The courthouse.

Every shop, apartment, church and street corner on the way reminded me of who I used to be. Velma and I would idle over every inch of downtown Hamilton, meeting dealer after dealer.

Which reminds me, the only good feeling I got from the city that day was the occasional sighting of Velma’s ghost.

You wouldn’t believe it — especially since Velma was likely in a scrap yard — but I kept catching glimpses of the only friend I ever had in this town. I’d see a flash of orange in a parking lot, or her happy grille at the end of an alley. It was almost like a game — she was daring me to find her. Or maybe even, in some strange way, watching over me.

She was adorable. Like, imagine if Nintendo built a car.

Now, before you think these Velma sightings are the product of both my imagination and a keen sense of guilt, you should know that I’m not alone. Weeks before I embarked on this odyssey, my mother and sister experienced the Velma vibe.

They were on a road trip together — on their way to pick up something they bought online. Velma appeared — right beside them!

It really was her too. My mom took pictures.

Now, what were the odds of my family encountering her on the rarest of road trips?

“The chances of her on a highway we rarely drive on at the exact time we were there is insane,” my sister later said. “She wanted to be found.”

My mom came home equally flabbergasted: “That made me believe that car had a soul.”

Before she was impounded — and her driver arrested — Velma was sending signals. And the day I returned to Hamilton, her signals were unmistakable.

When I arrived at the courthouse, there was an unexpected mob on the second-floor lobby. Maybe 50 people! And all of them were there to talk to the Crown prosecutor about their ticket.

Fuck. Maybe I should have just paid it. Or, at least, smoked a bit of crack.

The prosecutor looked like the kind of person who grows up wanting to be a prosecutor. Who am I kidding? She was probably born middle-aged. Wiry, grim-jawed and — was that a perm? I knew that I was well and truly fucked. What a waste of time.

“I’m going to speak to you all at once,” she announced. “I can offer you a reduction of your ticket. Plead guilty, and I’ll take off $100.

“I don’t have the authority to reduce the fine any more than that.”

With a collective shrug and assorted groans, the crowd lined up to declare their guilt to the prosecutor.

When it was my turn, I took my shot.

“Do you think I… Could we —-”

“Do you want to talk to me?” she offered curtly.

“If possible…”

“Wait until I’m done here and we can have a word in my office.”

Moments later, she ushered me into her lair.

She didn’t seem like she wanted a conversation, sitting at the edge of her chair like she really needed to skedaddle.

I just blurted it all out.

I’m an addict. I’m in recovery. But while I was using, I made a really bad mistake. I left the plates on my car when I sold it. I’ve already paid hundreds for tickets and I can’t…

The prosecutor cut me off. Doubtless, done with me.

“Do you have time to wait for the other cases to be dispensed with?”

“Ummm.. sure.”

“Stay in the lobby. I’ll come and get you.”

I might have waited an hour at most before the prosecutor returned. Her brow didn’t seem quite so furrowed.

“I wanted to make sure the courtroom was cleared. Do you mind if I tell the judge your story?”

“My st— yeah… of course!”

We marched into the courtroom together.

The prosecutor wasted no time in explaining my situation: “He’s made mistakes. He’s in a recovery program…”

I must have gotten the kind judge. Because she actually smiled at me and asked me if I’d be all right if she deferred the fine.

“Like, no fine at all?” I murmured, incredulous.

Then she asked the prosecutor if she would be okay with that.

The prosecutor gave a resounding, “Yes!”

I wondered if maybe the three of us might hug. Maye even share an ice cream. We were all so happy for each other.

When I left the court that day, I was beaming. So was the sky. The rain had cleared and everything felt like sunshine. Burnt-orange sunshine. I swear I saw Velma again in the parking lot. Just a trick of the light?

In recovery, I’ve experienced the transformative power of confession — showing vulnerability can change hearts. But a Crown prosecutor’s heart?

It must have been Velma. She turbocharged that confession. My last friend in this accursed town was still looking out for me — in spite of how I had ill-used and abandoned her.

Velma’s ghost was shining, bright as an angel.