Sauntering

           

            I was just leaving my building on Wednesday to go to the food bank when I was reminded by the smell of pee in the entryway to make sure that the door was tight behind me. I pulled it shut and stood to wait for the light when I saw my next apartment neighbour out for a stroll. We greeted one another and he passed, but then came back to point out to me the old and probably homeless lady of East Asian descent who was just passing the donut shop while pulling up her sweatpants. She had just a sweatshirt on as well, and I didn’t look this time, but I’ve often seen her, even in winter, wearing just a pair of dirty ragged socks on her feet. He’d indicated her as the possible culprit who’s been taking advantage of our building’s malfunctioning door to go inside and urinate at the foot of our stairs. I asked, “You think she’s the one? You know, I’ve seen the other homeless woman (the shouting bag lady of European descent with the overloaded shopping cart) peeing on the sidewalk!” He told me that this woman does the same. He explained that some parts of the door shrink in the cold and so they don’t catch to completely shut unless we force it.

            I was twenty minutes earlier than usual at the food bank but found it open and with no line-up outside. A van from St Francis Table was delivering bread and buns as I went in and only had to wait a couple of minutes to walk away with number 17. I dropped my gloves twice in the snow as I was unlocking my bike and the wet chill slid along my wrist when I was slipping them back on.

            Two and a half hours later I was back again and they were already calling number 10. A couple of people were discussing the price of apartments at the building where one of them lived: $900 for a one bedroom and $1400 for two. “Are there drugs in the building?” “No, not any more! Not since the new owners!” Then they talked about guns. “Sometimes people will point a gun at you and shoot you because they have nothing better to do or because you looked at them funny! The only people that should have guns are the police and SWAT teams!”

If I’d been part of the conversation, I would have disagreed strongly. Police guns, on average, kill four times as many non-threatening civilians as there are officers killed on the job. About a third of killings by cops are cases where the officer screwed up in some manner and another third happen when cops are responding to people who are holding weapons that aren’t firearms. Canadian cops kill in one year the same number of people that British cops kill in ten years. The UK has almost twice as many citizens, much more tightly packed together. Why aren’t Canadian police officers learning how to police in Britain?

My number was called. Sue waved at me as I sat down, but the guy in front of me waved back. She knows everybody! A slim blondish woman in her thirties who has served me a couple of times before called out my number. She gave me a big friendly “Hi!” when I gave her my ticket. She’s never been unfriendly but she’s never been that exuberant. I suspect it’s my new motorcycle jacket. I think some women respond to guys in motorcycle jackets the way that some men respond to women wearing stiletto heels. I was perusing the bean shelf and checking out a can of chilli. She pointed out that it was vegan and I put it in my bag. She asked if I was a vegetarian. I told her that I am during Lent. She said, “Oh! And today’s the first day, isn’t it?” I nodded. I didn’t take much from her section besides the chilli, a can of organic soup, a can of mango slices and some breakfast bars. I passed on the box of Apple Jacks.

In Sue’s section there was a two-litre carton of chocolate soymilk. She told me, “Nice jacket!” There was a toaster strudel. “Thanks”, I said proudly “Sixty dollars!” There was a bag of granola balls. “Really? It’s beautiful!” “Thanks!” I said again. She said there was a choice between little bags of white sugar and sugar with what I thought she said was “hand cream”. I said I didn’t need any hand cream. She laughed. It was “sugar and cream”, but I’d misunderstood her Jamaican accent.

I just took one loaf of un-sliced dark, whole grain bread from the bakery section.

I asked the vegetable lady how she was as she gave me potatoes, broccoli, apples and persimmons. She told me that her back was bothering her, but she’d work it through.

That night, a little before 18:00, I remembered that I wanted to drink a Creemore with my dinner, so I went down the street to the liquor store. As I turned left to go through the automatic doors in front of which the gregarious panhandler with the sandpaper voice stands every night, he told me that I have a great saunter. I looked at him quizzically and he demonstrated by imitating my walk, while still standing in his spot but moving his shoulders alternately, rhythmically and exaggeratedly from side to side, and confirmed enthusiastically, “You got a real saunter!”