Leroy had been driving a route taxi for over fifteen years, navigating the stretch between Gordon Pen and Spanish Town like the back of his hand. Every morning, long before the sun started its climb over the horizon, he would be up, ready to hit the road. His taxi, a beat-up but dependable Toyota Probox, was as much a part of him as his worn leather driver's seat. The engine, although not as quiet as it once was, still had life in it—a testament to Leroy’s meticulous care.
The route between Gordon Pen and Spanish Town was not a long one, just under fifteen miles, but it was a lifeline for many. His passengers depended on him, and in a way, Leroy depended on them too. Over the years, he’d come to know the regulars, their routines, their lives, and even their quirks. But each day also brought new faces, strangers with their own stories, each passenger adding a new chapter to Leroy’s life behind the wheel.
Leroy's day began before dawn, just as the darkness was starting to retreat, leaving the roads bare and quiet. The early morning air was cool, a brief respite before the tropical heat set in. He always started at Gordon Pen, where a few regulars would be waiting. One of them was Miss Blossom, a petite woman in her sixties who had been taking Leroy’s taxi for as long as he could remember.
Miss Blossom was a vendor at the Spanish Town market, selling fruits and vegetables that she grew in her backyard garden. Every morning, she’d be there at the corner, her wicker basket packed with fresh produce. "Morning, Leroy," she’d say as she climbed into the front seat, her basket carefully placed between her feet. She always sat in the front, claiming it was to keep an eye on the road, but Leroy knew it was because she liked to chat.
"Morning, Miss Blossom. How di crops look today?" Leroy would ask, easing the taxi into motion.
"Good, good. Plenty sweet peppers and tomatoes today. And mi papayas dem coming in nice," she’d respond, her voice full of pride. Miss Blossom was one of the few people Leroy allowed to smoke in his taxi, and she’d light up a slim cigarette, cracking the window just a bit to let the smoke escape. The scent of tobacco mixed with the earthy smell of her produce was familiar, comforting even.
The conversation between them was easy, flowing from the latest market gossip to news of family. She’d tell Leroy about her grandchildren, especially the youngest, who had just started school. Leroy would listen, nodding occasionally, throwing in a word or two, but mostly he drove, letting her words fill the car as they made their way to Spanish Town.
By the time they reached the market, Spanish Town was just beginning to wake up. Vendors were setting up their stalls, arranging their goods in neat piles, shouting greetings to one another. Miss Blossom would climb out of the taxi, her basket balanced on her hip. "See yuh later, Leroy," she’d call, waving as she disappeared into the market’s maze.
Not long after Miss Blossom’s stop, the schoolchildren would start to gather. There was always a gaggle of them at the same spot every morning, their uniforms crisp and neatly pressed, their faces still sleepy. They piled into the taxi, chattering excitedly, the quiet of the morning shattered by their noise.
Among them was little Mikey, a shy boy who rarely spoke but always gave Leroy a polite nod when he got in. Mikey was different from the others; while the rest would laugh and joke around, he’d sit quietly, staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts. Leroy knew Mikey’s mother had passed away the year before, and his father worked long hours at the bauxite plant. The boy was often left to fend for himself, and it showed in the slight sadness that clung to him.
Leroy would watch Mikey in the rearview mirror, wondering what went on in his mind. He’d try to engage him sometimes, asking about school or if he needed anything. Mikey would respond politely, but briefly, always returning to his silent observation of the world outside the window. Leroy respected his silence and let him be.
The other children, on the other hand, were full of life. They’d sing songs, tell stories, and sometimes argue over who got to sit where. They brought a kind of chaotic energy to the taxi that Leroy had grown used to over the years. It reminded him of his own childhood, long before the responsibilities of adulthood had settled in.
By the time they reached their school in Spanish Town, the noise level in the taxi had reached a fever pitch. The children would spill out onto the sidewalk, waving goodbye to Leroy as they ran towards the school gate. Mikey, always the last to leave, would give Leroy a small wave before heading inside, his steps slower, more measured.
After dropping off the schoolchildren, Leroy would make his way back towards Gordon Pen, picking up passengers along the way. Around 8:00 a.m., he’d make his first trip of the day with Mr. Clarke, an office worker who commuted daily to Kingston but caught a connecting taxi in Spanish Town.
Mr. Clarke was a man of routine, always dressed in a neatly pressed shirt and tie, his briefcase resting on his lap. He was quiet, only speaking when necessary, and Leroy respected that. Over the years, their exchanges had been minimal, but there was a mutual understanding between them.
"Morning, Mr. Clarke," Leroy would greet him as he opened the door.
"Morning, Leroy," Mr. Clarke would respond, settling into his seat. That was the extent of their conversation most days, and it suited them both just fine. The silence was comfortable, the sound of the road and the hum of the engine filling the void.
Mr. Clarke was a man who valued punctuality, and Leroy always made sure to get him to Spanish Town in time to catch his connecting taxi. He worked in a government office, and though he never spoke much about his job, Leroy knew it was something he took great pride in. There was a certain dignity in the way Mr. Clarke carried himself, a sense of purpose that Leroy admired.
When they reached Spanish Town, Mr. Clarke would nod his thanks, pay his fare, and disappear into the crowd. Leroy would watch him go, wondering what it was like to have a job that demanded such discipline. He couldn’t imagine being tied to a desk all day, but he respected those who did it, who found fulfillment in the structure that Leroy himself had always shied away from.
Around mid-morning, the taxi would often fill with a different kind of passenger. Spanish Town was known for its hustle and bustle, and among the crowd were those who made a living on the streets. One of Leroy's regulars was a man named Cutty, a hustler who always had a scheme or two up his sleeve.
Cutty was a smooth talker, always dressed in the latest fashion, his gold chain glinting in the sunlight. He’d slide into the taxi with a wide grin, greeting Leroy like an old friend. "Wha gwaan, Leroy?" he’d say, his voice full of energy.
"Mi deh yah, Cutty. How yuh stay?" Leroy would reply, knowing that whatever came next was bound to be entertaining.
Cutty was full of stories, most of which Leroy took with a grain of salt. He’d talk about the latest deal he was working on, the new business venture that was sure to make him rich. "This time, mi sure, Leroy. Mi guh be di next big ting," he’d say, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke.
Leroy would chuckle, nodding along as Cutty spun his tales. He knew better than to believe everything he heard, but he enjoyed the stories nonetheless. Cutty was a man who lived on the edge, always chasing the next big score, and though Leroy couldn’t understand that kind of life, he respected Cutty’s determination.
Despite his flashy appearance and big talk, Cutty was a man of his word. He always paid his fare, sometimes even tipping Leroy if he’d had a particularly good day. And though he was constantly hustling, he never seemed to lose his optimism. "One day, Leroy. One day mi guh make it big," he’d say with a wink as he hopped out of the taxi.
As the day wore on, Leroy would often pick up women with their children, heading to or from various errands. One of his regulars was a young mother named Tanisha, who lived in Gordon Pen with her two-year-old daughter, Aaliyah.
Tanisha was barely in her twenties, but life had already handed her more than her fair share of challenges. Her boyfriend had left when Aaliyah was just a baby, and since then, she’d been raising her daughter on her own. Leroy had known Tanisha since she was a little girl, and it pained him to see how hard life had become for her.
"Morning, Leroy," Tanisha would say, her voice tired as she climbed into the taxi, Aaliyah balanced on her hip.
"Morning, Tanisha. How yuh little one?" Leroy would ask, smiling at the child who always looked up at him with big, curious eyes.
"She alright. Full of energy, as usual," Tanisha would reply, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Aaliyah was a lively child, always wriggling in her mother’s arms, eager to explore the world around her. Leroy would sometimes hand her a piece of candy, which she’d accept
with a shy smile before burying her face in her mother’s shoulder.
Tanisha’s life was a constant struggle, juggling work and motherhood with little support. She worked part-time at a hair salon in Spanish Town, and though the pay was meager, it was enough to get by. Leroy admired her strength, the way she kept going despite everything, and he’d often go out of his way to help her, whether it was by giving her a discounted fare or waiting a little longer at her stop if she was running late.
Leroy would watch as Tanisha and Aaliyah made their way through Spanish Town, the young mother’s steps heavy with the weight of her responsibilities. He hoped things would get easier for her, that she’d find a way to make a better life for herself and her daughter. But he knew how tough life could be, and all he could do was offer a ride and a kind word whenever she needed it.
By late afternoon, Leroy would often find himself ferrying the church crowd. Spanish Town was home to numerous churches, and many of the older residents made regular trips for prayer meetings or choir practice. One of his regulars was Sister Marva, a devout Christian who never missed a service.
Sister Marva was a woman of strong faith, always carrying her Bible in her handbag and dressed in her Sunday best, even on a weekday. She’d greet Leroy with a warm smile as she got into the taxi, her voice full of kindness. "Good afternoon, Brother Leroy," she’d say, her tone as soothing as a hymn.
"Good afternoon, Sister Marva. How yuh doing today?" Leroy would ask, genuinely glad to see her.
"Blessed and highly favored," she’d reply, her eyes shining with the conviction of her words.
Sister Marva would often talk about her church, the latest sermon, or the upcoming events. She’d invite Leroy to attend, telling him how much it would mean to her if he’d come. "We have a revival next week, Brother Leroy. Yuh should come and let di Lord work in yuh life," she’d say, her voice full of sincerity.
Leroy would smile and nod, though he rarely had the time to attend church. He appreciated her concern for his spiritual well-being, and he knew she meant well. Sometimes, she’d give him a small pamphlet or a Bible verse written on a piece of paper, which he’d tuck into the glove compartment of his taxi, not wanting to seem ungrateful.
Sister Marva was a source of comfort for Leroy. Her unwavering faith, her kindness, and her gentle nature were a reminder that there was still goodness in the world, even in the midst of all the struggles and hardships. When she’d step out of the taxi, she’d always leave him with a blessing, wishing him safety on the road and peace in his heart.
"God bless yuh, Brother Leroy," she’d say, her words like a prayer as she closed the door behind her.
As evening descended and the shadows grew longer, Leroy’s taxi would take on a different atmosphere. The roads would be quieter, the hustle of the day giving way to the calm of the night. But the passengers kept coming, and some of the most interesting ones often appeared during these late hours.
There were the nightshift workers, tired and ready to head home after a long day. Leroy recognized many of them—the security guards, the nurses, the factory workers—each with their own story, their own routine. They were quieter, more subdued than the daytime crowd, but Leroy didn’t mind. The silence was a welcome change after the noise and chaos of the day
.But there were also those who rode late at night for other reasons. One of them was a young man named Rasheed, a regular who worked as a DJ at a local dancehall. Rasheed was always full of energy, even at the end of the night, his passion for music evident in the way he spoke.
"Wha gwaan, Leroy? Mi just mash up di dancehall, yuh know!" Rasheed would say as he slid into the backseat, the remnants of the night’s beats still echoing in his voice.
"Yuh ting good, Rasheed. Yuh always know how fi get di people dem moving," Leroy would reply, appreciating the young man’s enthusiasm.
Rasheed would often play some of his mixes for Leroy, the taxi filled with the pulsing rhythms of dancehall music. Leroy enjoyed these moments, the music bringing a different kind of life to his taxi. It reminded him of his younger days, when he too had been caught up in the vibrant nightlife of Spanish Town.
As they drove through the quiet streets, Rasheed would talk about his dreams of making it big in the music industry. He wanted to be more than just a local DJ—he wanted to tour the world, to bring his music to the masses. Leroy admired his ambition, even if he knew how tough the road ahead could be.
"Keep at it, Rasheed. Yuh have di talent, yuh just need di right break," Leroy would say, offering what encouragement he could.
By the time Leroy made his last trip of the night, the streets would be almost empty, the town settling into a quiet lull. His final passengers were often the ones who had missed the earlier rides, those who worked late or were returning home after a night out.
One such passenger was Mr. Bennett, an elderly man who worked as a night watchman at a nearby factory. Mr. Bennett was one of Leroy’s oldest regulars, a man of few words who always sat in the same spot, right behind the driver’s seat. Leroy respected Mr. Bennett’s silence, knowing the old man had seen more than his share of life’s hardships."Evening, Mr. Bennett," Leroy would greet him, his voice soft in the quiet of the night.
"Evening, Leroy," Mr. Bennett would reply, his voice gravelly with age
.The ride with Mr. Bennett was always a peaceful one, the two men sharing a comfortable silence as they made their way through the empty streets. Leroy often wondered about Mr. Bennett’s life, what stories lay behind those tired eyes, but he never pried. He knew that some things were better left unspoken, that the quiet between them was its own form of communication.
When they reached Mr. Bennett’s stop, the old man would pay his fare, his hands trembling slightly as he handed over the money. "Goodnight, Leroy. Stay safe on di road," he’d say before slowly making his way to his front door.
"Goodnight, Mr. Bennett," Leroy would reply, watching as the old man disappeared into his house, the door closing softly behind him.
The Road Ahead
As Leroy drove back to Gordon Pen, the streets now completely deserted, he’d reflect on the day’s passengers, each one adding a new layer to his understanding of the world. His taxi was more than just a vehicle; it was a moving tapestry of lives, each ride a story in its own right.
The road between Gordon Pen and Spanish Town was not just a route—it was a journey, one that Leroy had taken thousands of times, yet it never felt old. Each day was different, each passenger unique, and Leroy knew that as long as he kept driving, the stories would keep coming.
As he parked his taxi for the night, Leroy felt a sense of satisfaction. The day had been long, the road rough at times, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything. The lives he touched, the people he met—they were what made the journey worthwhile.
And tomorrow, he knew, the road would call again, and he’d be ready, behind the wheel of his trusty taxi, ready to navigate the twists and turns of life’s journey once more.