While driving along Bloor he started to talk about how much things had changed. This, a safe conversational starter for men past a certain age.
What used to be there.
What’s there now.
All the things we had known and lived.
And so we shared our wonder at the velocity of the world overtaking us, of all the businesses popping up on the blocks passing by and the real estate prices that had long since soared beyond our reach. Each aspect of this conversation revealed an unresolved bitterness in the man, a sense of having missed out, and then a car cut him off. He slammed his fist on the steering wheel, “DID YOU SEE THAT ASSHOLE?!”, he shouted as he accelerated into traffic. I tried to say something neutral yet supportive in tone, and then in an attempt to distract him from his rising fury, I asked where he’d most like to live if there were absolutely no limitations.
After some struggle, he offered up San Diego, but this only served as an entry point for a long, detailed story about being on a cruise ship with his ex-wife, getting ripped-off at the bar, and the fist fight that ensued. “They didn’t know who they were dealing with,” he said to me, his voice a cold, flat hiss.
And then we came to a red light and stopped. It felt like the barometric pressure had changed, that some destructive potential was either gathering or dispersing inside the car. And so we sat there quietly, lonely now in ways that could not be acknowledged. And beside us at the red light a beautiful young woman idled on her bicycle. When her eyes accidentally fell upon us, she quickly averted her gaze, just as we knew she would.
And then the light turned green.
She stood up on her bike and pedalled confidently away, into the future, I guess, and there was something so sad and beautiful in this, that neither the driver nor I even thought to speak for the rest of the ride.
(Photo credit to the great Lincoln Clarkes)
]]>There were a few other people standing around watching the bin.
A woman walking a poodle, a consensus builder, I think, said, “We should call 311!”
Street guy: “You mean 911, lady.”
Woman: “No, 311, it’s the number you call when you have a city related question or see somebody committing graffiti!”
Street guy: “Committing graffiti?”
Woman: “ The garbage bin is city property, they must have a protocol for such an event!”
I decided to show some leadership.
Me: “ No, this isn’t a situation for government intervention, this is a time for us to come together as citizens.”
Woman: “I still think we should call 311.”
Me: “I’m going to put out the goddamn fire.”
( this is the bin that was smoking)
Street guy: “Who made you boss? I think we should just let it burn, man!”
I ignored him, reached into my knapsack and pulled out a bottle of water. I then poured all of it into the burning bin. Nothing happened.
Street Guy: “Nice job, Superman. You just poured your water into the recycling slot instead of the litter slot where the smoke is coming from.”
I put my hands on my hips and sighed.
More smoke was coming out.
Woman: “I’m calling 311.”
I pushed open the litter slot and peered in. I couldn’t see a thing.
Once again I put my hands on my hips and sighed.
Me: “I’m out of water.”
Woman: “I’m taking my dog away, this is becoming a dangerous situation.”
Street guy: “ Dangerous situation? I live on the streets, now that’s a dangerous situation! This is nothing! Somebody flicked a cigarette butt into a fucking garbage can and now you two think the world is about to end!”
The woman quickly walked her dog away.
“Did you call 311?” I shouted after her.
She did not respond– she was gone, like a ghost.
Me: “I’m going to buy another bottle of water.”
Street guy: “Fuck the one percent. You’ll buy water for a pretend fire but not for me, and then you’ll pour that water down the wrong slot again.”
I went into the local corner store and bought two bottles of water, but when I came out the man who was running the food truck parked in front of the smoking garbage bin was spraying it down with a hose. He looked like an older, angry version of one of the Mario Brothers. When he saw me holding the two bottles of water in my hands that I had just bought he gave me a disdainful, pained look. And then he shook his head, rethinking something, “Come, come, I give you a free slushie, you do the best with what God gave you. What flavour you like?”
“Blue,” I said.
“Blue,” he repeated, “on the house.”
