The city doesn’t smell right.
All day long it’s been raining with great intensity, but instead of redeeming the city by washing all the filth away, the rain has just provided it with some locomotion. Toronto is now in it’s fourth year of a garbage strike, and with the rain, the place has become a mucky soup with little pieces of hot dogs, dead Pigeons and bits of hair floating on top of it’s complex broth.
Rachelle and I were driving around in town running errands, thankful to be protected from the elements and the rising tide of disease that was filling the city. As we were waiting at the lights at Bathurst and Queen, one of our favourite songs—Bleeding Love by Leona Lewis—came on the radio. We both got kind of excited and turned it up really loud, and undid my window so that everybody could share in our cool music. As we drove toward the stoplights, we accidentally hit a massive puddle. This caused a wave to rise up, as if from a biblical passage and hit a man who was standing on the corner.
Now, I have to say, this man didn’t look quite “right.” I mean, he looked a little bit like he might have been outdoors during the rainstorm, because nobody would let him indoors.
At any rate, before I knew it, the guy had reached through the open window and grabbed my shirt. I noticed that he had a tattoo of a dog getting mauled by a bear on his wrist. Classy. I started to scream. When Rachelle looked over, she started to scream, too. And so, we were both screaming, Leona Lewis blaring, while a soaking wet Meth Freak was screaming demonic phrases at me while trying to punch me with his other hand. Heidi, our miniature Daschund, heroically leapt from the back seat and bit the guy on the wrist. He immediately let go of me, and Rachelle floored it, splashing at least two, perhaps four other people. As we sped away, I heard a kind of metallic clank against the car, later discovering a Chinese Throwing Star stuck in the trunk.