The cab driver had a hooked nose, unnaturally black hair and was wearing a NYC hoodie. He drove quick and easy down Queen Street, when suddenly he detonated into a fury.
“Did you see that?!”, he yelled, pointing excitedly out the window, “did you see that?! That police car there was just waiting for me, waiting for me to pass the streetcar when it stopped, and then the bastard was going to ticket me! The bastard! It is six points! It would break me!”
He banged his fist on the wheel, “the fuckers!” He drove the rest of the way in a state of rage and suspicion, his eyes, searching for enemies, darting back and forth in the rearview mirror.
As I walked the dog later that afternoon, I came upon a rudderless looking woman who was sitting on the bench in front of Rasputin’s vodka bar. She looked sad and unwell and her face, which seemed on the verge of tears, was resting in her hands. I asked her if she was okay and she did not answer. I asked again, louder this time, and she yelled out at me, “You don’t want to know!” before waving me off and looking away, reclaiming her private sorrow. I walked on, unsure if I wanted to know what had brought her to that bench or not.
At Gerrard and Broadview an ancient Asian man served as crossing guard. He stood on the corner, his face impassive as he counted the seconds down on his fingers. Five, four, three, two, one– and then he stepped out into the busy street, his stop sign out– the swirl of pedestrian traffic around him oblivious to his efforts.
The dog and I dawdled back down Bolton on our way home. At 1:45, waves of elderly, Asian women heading south from Gerrard to Nellie’s food bank on Queen, suddenly began passing through us. Some wore knapsacks, while others were pushing carts or holding bags. They moved surprisingly quickly, each one speaking loudly, as if to herself, unconscious to the listening world around her.