The streets were slow and humid and the lost men of Queen East were in full bloom. Wandering slowly with heavy, droopy moustaches and sloped-shoulders they wore novelty t-shirts that said things like Dog Father or All This Could Be Yours. A bronzed, middle-aged woman who had the look of a heavy drinker still able to hold down a steady job, passed by one of these men and said a few words to him. He shook his head from side to side, made some vague gesture with his hands and not wanting anything to do with her just kept right on going, moving crooked and nowhere in a hurry. The woman continued her journey, a little map of anger and frustration etched into her face. As she passed by my dog and I some 15 yard later, she was still muttering to herself, shaking her head, “waiting there, feeling like a goddamned idiot all that time…”
I’m always amazed at how many men walk down the street singing. Plugged into their iPods, they belt away as if indifferent to the idea that an external world might be unfolding around them. I never see women doing this, just men. It’s as if, through use of their bullying voices, they hope to carve out some sort of tunnel that eliminates the possibility of social interaction. On the south side of the street, in the shade, a heavy aboriginal man with a long ponytail strides down the street like a king. Out of tune, but with unexpected velocity and startling force, he’s singing Shock The Monkey by Peter Gabriel. An elderly Asian woman, wearing gloves and hat so that the the sun doesn’t darken her skin and her peers think she works outdoors, jumps as he yells out “Shock the monkey to life!”
On the south side of the street, as if in competition, a smaller black guy is singing, too. He’s more animated, moving from side to side. In key and in a raspy, almost breathless voice, he’s singing the most ominous Beatles song I’ve eve heard:
You better run for your life if you can, little girl
Hide your head in the sand little girl
Catch you with another man
That’s the end’a little girl
And to add emphasis, he slaps the garbage can he passes as if he was hitting somebody upside of the head.
When the dog and I returned from the park we came across one more guy, this one thin and wearing a cowboy hat and jeans with a little Canadian flag sticking out the back pocket. Probably around 50, he had his shirt undone revealing a bony, hairless chest. He wasn’t singing, but he was fully concentrated on his music. Every once in awhile, he would break into a dance move, spinning, pointing his finger or doing some shockingly fluid move of choreography. At the corner of Broadview and Queen, while waiting at the light, he let out a cry like James Brown, spun in a circle and then exploded into a star shape, as if summoning the powers of the sun into his frail body.