Queen Street East, Monday, 6:00 PM
Ninja-black in Spandex, fit, unsmiling mothers with perfect blonde hair hurry their strollers down the sidewalk. From behind expensive and unfriendly sunglasses, they seem like Cyborgs from the future. With mathematical precision, they cut around clusters of elderly Asian women, all standing beneath colourful umbrellas, protecting themselves from the late afternoon sun.
Blonde waitresses from the Comrade start slowly. Sitting outside smoking, they pose and shift like advertisements for the bar, before heading off to get some ice for the evenings shift.
An immense couple, each one riding their own mobility scooter, inch down the street, pausing every ten yards or so to inspect the garbage that’s been placed out on the sidewalk.
“This fan looks good,” she says.
“It’s a piece of junk!” he shouts back.
“You haven’t even looked at it, Harold! Jesus H. Christ! If I say black, you say white!”
And then, with some authority she slams the fan into the basket on her scooter, shooting Harold a vicious and hateful scowl from over her shoulder.
Bonjour Brioche, which closes after lunch, has a semi-enclosed patio bordering Queen Street. It’s here where ironic hipsters wearing Run DMC t-shirts and Adidas sneaks take up residence. In the dark, they might smoke a joint, but during the early evening they sip traveling beers brought from their patio-less apartments, enjoying a middle-class alternative to the more sincere street culture that does the same thing in Jimmy Simpson Park just a block away.
In the park, black kids with some hop in their game, play basketball at one hoop, while surrounding them at the other baskets are the Asian boys. Always passing, the Asians keep their eyes on the other, more stylish and accomplished game– the one they hope to play in one day.
On a bench sits a man wearing a sleeveless, black t-shirt. His bicycle lies flopped on the ground beside him, and behind his sunglasses and greased hair he has a glazy, drug smile on his face. Leaning back, he has his arms outstretched, as if he imagined them encircling two hot babes.
On a bench perpendicular to him, are two old men wearing hats that are as old as their grown children. Everyday at this time, they meet. Speaking together in their native tongue they never smile, seemingly unhappy with the world they find themselves in.
At Rowe Farms a woman stands at the cash speaking into her Bluetooth. It’s business, and she’s making a point of being efficient and crisp in her dialogue, but still, although she’s playing to the audience of customers in the store, she never once stoops to make eye contact.
A man in a vivid, gingham shirt and skinny jeans holds hands with a pretty woman in a sun dress. With her free arm, which displays a sleeve of colourful tattoos, she reaches over and holds out her ice cream cone for him to taste.