I went a little earlier to the food bank on Wednesday and found the
line-up to be longer than ever. Perhaps it was because this was one of the last
turkey giveaway days. The second guy behind me started smoking, so I made sure
the one in front of him knew where I was and stepped out to read Elizabeth
Wein’s “Codename Verity” and make notes for next Tuesday’s exam.
They had moved one
of the blue two-wheeled garbage bins over in front of the door and tied a
bright yellow nylon rope around its handle, the other end of which was attached
to maybe one of the support bars of the fire escape, serving as a barricade for
crowd control. I’ve never seen anything close to the food bank clients being
out of control, so the barrier just seemed like more overkill to me.
An elderly woman
apparently had gone inside and tied up the desk for twenty minutes with
something for which they couldn’t help her. Her friend had to come and call her
back out in her native language.
Someone mentioned
that the Second Harvest truck would be there anytime, which would mean the line
shifting and there being an even longer wait for a number.
As the line moved
and I got closer to the door, I heard the doorkeeper say that he’d seen some
guys already trying to sell their turkeys on Queen Street in exchange for
enough for a six-pack.
The door guy was
asking Joe, the manager, if he could ask the administrative people at the desk
if it would be a good idea to come out with a clipboard and process the
remaining thirteen people in line if the truck arrives. Joe just said tensely,
“No! They’ll have to wait!” The door guy said diplomatically, “I’m not saying
that’s what they should do. I just want to know if they think it might be a
good idea!” Joe said something about how slow the people that were at the desk
that day were.
I was six people
away from the door and heard that the truck was just around the corner. They
let in the next five people, bringing me up to the barricade at the front of
the line. Joe complained that he should have only let in three people. I leaned
forward and looked inside, commenting, “It doesn’t look all that crowded in
there to me!” The door guy responded, “It doesn’t look crowded to me either,
dude!” Both him and Joe were lighting up cigarettes while standing beside the
door. I was going to say something but the truck rolled up to the driveway. I
groaned. It would have been pointless to complain at that moment when they were
dealing with the crowd and the truck. Suddenly one of the people that work the
reception desk came out with a clipboard. She already knew my name but had me
tell her my birth date again. She wrote it down and gave me number 40.
I rode over to the
No Frills at King and Jameson to buy 3.25% milk for coffee and some toothpaste,
and then went home.
I
came back to the food bank a little after 13:30, so they’d already started
calling the low numbers. I tried to find a smoke free place to stand and finally
figured out that the wind was blowing from the east and walked upwind of
everyone. I walked further in the driveway than I’ve walked before to where the
concrete is so unmaintained and cracked and dirty that grass has started to
return. Against the back of the building across the driveway is a dirty bed of
almost powdered dead leaves, a long red pillow and strewn empty food packages
that look like they were left by someone who’s been sleeping back there. On the
east end of the building that houses the food bank there are some interesting
and colourful tags. I heard the numbers go past thirty-five, so I headed back closer to
the door, but still upwind from most of the smoke. A tense looking guy in a
brown leather jacket from Danier came across the roof of the eastern end of the
building with his black, bob-tailed mastiff. He led his dog down the steps of
the fire escape and then back to the area I’d just explored. I was watching to
see if he would let the dog take a crap and then just leave it there, but the
dog peed a couple of times, sniffed around and then the guy led it back to the
fire escape, climbed the stairs in his expensive looking neon red running shoes
and they disappeared together on the roof. What? Just a quick piss in the alley
for Attila or Juno, but no joyful run in a nearby park? I don’t think that anyone has the right to
claim to be an animal lover if they keep a dog in the city.
Finally my number
was called, and then called again shortly after that. I had the same nervous
volunteer as last time. As I shopped the first three groups of shelves, as
usual, the limit was either one item from each tier or two from one. I picked
two cans of chickpeas because I find they make a pretty good snack, unheated
from the can. For some reason though, she thought that I’d taken three items
instead of two and actually looked through my bag to see. She said, “Sorry!”
but it was more of a “Sorry but I needed to do this” sorry than an apologetic
one. Other than the usual stuff, there was a box of Campbell’s tomato basil
bisque, a package of Nabisco chocolate marshmallow pinwheels and two Easter
chocolates on a stick, one in the shape of a bunny and the other a daisy, from
Chocola Chocola in Concord, by way of, of all places, Fertility Care Toronto. I
hope I don’t get pregnant from eating them!
There were a couple
of small blueberry and maple yogourts (what an odd combination) and some
homemade cream cheese wraps. With my voucher I received a 3.28-kilogram frozen
Butterball turkey that still had the supermarket price of $16.68 on a tag. I
met Bruce in the bread section and asked for some raisin bread. He found a loaf
and handed it to me but said “There’s another one with icing sugar, but you
never know, it might be anthrax! Sorry for the dark humour but you never know,
what with terrorist attacks.” I told him that I think we’re pretty safe. He
said, “I hope so!” and added, “It IS Toronto the good!”
I immediately went
up to Queen Street and sold my turkey for $11.95 in front of the liquor store.
Just kidding! I put it in my freezer.
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