On Wednesday when I went to the food bank, it was clear that we’re getting down to the cool end of the summer. I think however that this August has been warmer than a lot of previous ones.
I stood in line and took a better look at the building next door. It doesn’t seem to be either a business or a residence. All of the windows are boarded up but there is a no parking sign on the door, and above the door there’s a bigger sign that says the same thing even more emphatically. There is a car parked in front of it and one in the back. I suppose it’s possible that the place is being used for storage but it could also be empty and waiting for development.
A haggard looking guy with blond hair in front of me in line was smoking self-rolled cigarettes, so the second hand smoke was even harsher than usual.
The manager had a handful of children’s passes to the Canadian National Exhibition. There was only one person in line who had a child with her, so he gave her one. It would make more sense to leave them at the reception desk. They have the information on their computer system, which is accessed every time they are giving out the tickets and tells them whether the recipient is a single adult or if they have children.
When I got home, called my landlord to ask him to arrange for another bedbug treatment. To my surprise I didn’t get any argument at all. He just asked if he should call Orkin or the most recent guy who came to spray. I said “Orkin” and he said “Okay”.
When I came back to the food bank at 13:30, there were quite a few people smoking near the door. I’m not sure that even people who are willing to obey the nine meter bylaw understand the concept of nine meters. Maybe they should paint a semi-circle with a radius of nine meters around every doorway so that people will know exactly how far away to stand.
People were asked to show their numbers after they are called.
It felt like it might rain.
Someone was talking about urination, “Sometimes I feel like I gotta go and can’t go, and then I feel like I can’t go but I go, all in a couple of days!”
Snippets of another man’s sad story: “I don’t even know who I am … I don’t know when I was born … I know I was born in Detroit … My adopted mother got killed by a drunk driver … I’ve been homeless … I was found unconscious … I got brain damage from lack of oxygen …” I started to feel a few sprinkles of rain.
The numbers being called were in the early twenties, but a guy wanted to trade his twenty-something ticket for something between fourty-five and fifty.
The sad man continued: “I’m also on methadone … that’s why I get out of bed in the morning … $450 a week for nine hours work … I’m also an electrician … I went to Ryerson …”
There was a Latin American group standing together. One woman is pregnant and smoking. She saw me looking at her. She knows it’s bad for the foetus but she does it anyway. She was standing beside another smoking woman who had a three-year-old girl in a stroller.
“ … That’s why I don’t drink … I won’t drink ever again …”
Inside, Sue gave me some milk from grass fed cows, sausages and Jamaican patties. The vegetable woman asked if I wanted some chocho. I wonder if she knows that means “vagina”. I took two.
The milk wasn’t sour this time.
That evening I rode up to Eastbourne and Eglinton, then down Eastbourne to Chaplin before heading back to Oriole Parkway. I had a good run down Avenue Road, and then crossed Bloor to ride down Queens Park. Suddenly a TTC bus startled me when it passed, just millimetres from my left arm. I tried to catch up to the bus to tell the driver what an asshole he was but I went on ahead. I memorized the number on the back of the vehicle and made note of the time. When I got home I went online and filed a complaint form on the TTC website.
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