I spent a long time on the streets in downtown Toronto ducking and diving in various states of underemployment, homelessness and squalor. Now, I almost wish I could say there was a very good reason for it all. If you asked me then, it was a journey of living as radically as possible, questioning everything and meeting as many people on the fringes of society that I could. Does that constitute a defense of squatting, all-night boozecan parties, promiscuity, general carelessness about my health, welfare and appearance? Maybe, maybe not.
I'll never forget the summer, autumn and winter I worked for Faye Couillard in the Vienna Home Bakery on Queen West. I'd bunked up with a few mates down on Niagara near Tecumseth. The summer was groaning on, I had found a punk girl I liked who liked me back and who would come over to stare with me out the window at the abattoir down the road while we played cards and talked about philosophy. Something about J's crooked smile made me want to do a job that year that might play out a bit longer than panhandling, drugdealing or stealing.
***
The time was November, late afternoon, and there were gloppy raindrops clinging to the frontage of Cafe Schmaltz on Queen West. Sun peeked in flashes through the big pane. Beams of light flew up cream-coloured walls lined with stubby coffee cups. Painted cabinets held pecan pie, milkshake paraphernalia. A ubiquitous grainy mirror confronted patrons opposite the swivel seats at the bar. I was there. Nobody else was in the place so I lolled and looked over the road. It was my break and I rested my chin on my elbow on the Formica counter top in fake depression, like all smokers do. Behind, the kitchen throbbed.
It would not be so hellish busy tonight on a wet Thursday, I thought. The usuals would come in, say hi to Faye. They'd shriek at how good her pastries are and hover over her coffee in some playing-out of a ritual of home. Who were these people? I knew a few of them and would give a little chat sometimes - smirking, being unnecessarily clattery with the dishes. Gawky, scrawny dishwasher. It didn't bug me, but these weren't my types, old gallery owners and writers. They looked at me knowingly, which I hated. I felt like a spy among them. Their nice slices of pie and refined tastes overlaid my street as I knew it and which they were so oblivious to. If they thought they were the directors and screenplay writers of the film we were all watching, I had them there, because I had my own more real version going on behind as I watched them.
Tonight, I'd score some blow for sure after work; I had a solid connection and the money carefully folded in my front pocket. I span round on the stool as I thought about it. If I played my cards right, I could convince Cheri (Cheri, pronounced "sherry", the hot pin-up type who ran the vintage furniture business across the street and came in for takeaway soup every day, Cheri. THAT Cheri!) to come and meet me for a drink. She was way out of my league, but didn't she always reserve a cheeky smile for me on her way out? and man, she had those Japanese heart-shaped cheekbones and brocade dresses that showed off her hourglass figure. I was smitten. I'd even forgo the coke to have a date with her, I told myself. She was mature and dangerous, like opium, or bikers.
Faye unlocked the door and came in carrying a box full of bread and stuff. "Help me, John. Can you put all this away?". My reverie snapped and I jumped up to help. The great thing about manual labour jobs, you can do them in your sleep. Everything is kind of automatic. Seven o'clock melted into nine o'clock and the floor had already been mopped, which of course is the very last job, and you're out. We weren't busy, I scarfed a piece of chocolate cake for dinner - one that was crushed and left over. My man was due at 9:30 and I was wired from necking three coffees throughout the shift. The bone china cup rested on the top lip of my dish pit - I filled it with warm water from the long tap and drained it in two sips.
The drizzle hadn't let up. Faye locked the door behind us both and looked at me quizzically. Maybe unsure whether to ask what I was doing, as I was not walking off, just hanging about with a floppy cigarette in my hand. "Good night, then!", "Good night. See you tomorrow Faye. Thanks.", "Are you alright?", "Yeah. No worries. See you tomorrow." I huddled under the awning as the roar of the evening took over from the sighing of the daytime traffic and trade.
I could see Cheri clearly through the window of her shop, doing the daily receipts from the day, looking vacantly at a blotter paper. It was so interesting to see people when they didn't know you were staring at them, with their natural serious faces.
She looked up and I waved. I was hopping from foot to foot in my thin hoodie, and she smiled and waved back. Where the hell was this guy, my coke guy? I didn't want to stand here like a tool all day. Five minutes to go, why hadn't I said somewhere that wasn't my work?
"Eric?" The dude's lumber only changed once in my direction to acknowledge.
"Walk with me." He had dreadlocks and a put-on deep voice. Classic, I thought and smiled to myself. Whatever, here goes.
We trudged along to the next corner. Queen and much of Toronto has a wide network of alley by-ways in behind the streets. I knew we were making for one of them.
"What's up?"
"It is what it is, homey."
"Yeah. Fuckin' weather, man."
"You cool?"
"Yeah. Let's go."
We ambled over near where there was an ice fridge in front of a convenience store and feigned doing an elaborate fist bump greeting to do the deal. I don't know if it was him or me that botched it - the money safely changed hands but the baggy with the cocaine somehow landed on the ground. Not breaking the nonchalance of the second, I stepped on it firmly and pivoted on that foot.
"Well, nice seeing you."
He sucked his teeth and made a stupid laugh as he stepped backwards in his raggedy denim, "Yeah, gimme a buzz whenever, whatever."
Jesus, I needed a beer. What about Cheri? I didn't even know if she did drugs or not. Fuck it. I needed to eat some real food. I shivered and bent over real slow like I was gonna tie my shoe and palmed the grit-covered packet. I looked up and down the street to make sure there was nobody watching me, and slinked back to Queen.
Cheri was locking up the shop and I jogged across to catch her at the right moment. She was fumbling around with keys and it ended up awkward.
"Alright?"
"Hey John. How are you?" She spun around keeping one hand on the door.
"Hey. Yeah. Good. How's things?"
She wrestled with the iron grill shutter thing and I was too awkward to try and help. She seemed to be an alien from another planet and my hands were buried deep in my hoodie pockets.
"Oh. Here." I made a feeble attempt to hold her bag.
"No. That's fine. I got it. It's good for my muscles. Ha!" The gate slammed down and she was figuring out the padlock.
"Anyway, see you tomorrow!" she said before I could do or say anything else.
I tried, even though I was 100% in Loserville at this point.
"You want to get a beer with me or something?"
She answered too fast, "Oh.. you know, I'm so tired. But maybe some other time."
I walked off too fast. "Okay, good night!", I almost yelled it over my shoulder. I'm not sure if I felt relief. I was desperately hungry and down to my last five bucks. Shit, how could I have paid for a beer with that? There were two more cigarettes banging together in my pack, and I could always roll butts if I had to. The coke would last me the night if my roommate could front the beer while we watched TV. Actually, we did audio overdubbings of Star Trek episodes and played them back while we were getting stoned.
Mr.Pong's fast food Chinese was open. I bought a jumbo egg roll, asked for extra chili sauce and ate it right there standing up looking at the drizzle outside. The food sustained me enough to feel alive again. Noise of sirens and people got flatter as I trailed through them.
All around, people had purpose. They were flitting to meetings with friends, drinking beer or coffee and talking so uninhibitedly. Yuppie scum - I really hated all those people. Why do people need to have their jobs, and buttony jackets and dogs and things? Why did we have to have things?
I'd postpone smoking until I got home and dry, enjoy it more in the comfort of a chair, I thought. The light reflected up from the puddles was as bleary as my eyes on the walk home. The dirty sidewalk guiding me, leading down to the muck of the Bathurst Street bridge.
