Going Downtown on the Queen

            On Tuesday night I watched an episode of Maverick in which our hero was gambling with a man who’d run out of money and asked if he could meet Maverick’s bet with an Arabian mount. Of course Maverick thought his opponent meant a horse. Maverick won and ended up with a camel named Fatima, left over from the failed attempt by the United States army to use camels as cavalry mounts in the western deserts. Maverick tried immediately to get rid of it but no one would buy her so he paid a rancher to take it off his hands. The problem was that Fatima had fallen in love with Maverick and no matter where he travelled she would track him down. The camel was more comic relief than a main part of the story about Maverick exposing and tracking down a crooked gambling house owner, but she did save his life in the desert after his horse died. I assume it was the same camel that was featured in an episode of Have Gun Will Travel.

            On Wednesday morning my alarm again did not sound, but I got up on time anyway.

            When I’d asked my social worker the day before when my cheque would be deposited, she told me it would arrive on Friday. But when I checked my account that morning the money was there, so around midday I went out to get my rent money, my phone money and some extra money for a few groceries.

I rode down to King and Dufferin and in front of the MacDonald’s near where I was locking my bike a cop was standing over a semi-conscious middle-aged woman with bleached blonde hair. She looked drunk to me. The policeman blew his whistle down at her. She looked up at him with annoyance and lay back down. An ambulance arrived and one of the medics, while he was approaching her and putting his plastic gloves on, called out, “Hi Cheryl!” She lifted her head to turn and look at the person that knew her name, saw him and asked, “What are YOU doin here?” Then returned to lying on the concrete. I went to the bank to get my money and when I came back she and the ambulance were gone but the cop was still there talking on his phone.

I went to Freshco where I bought toilet paper, toothpaste, bananas, apples, a tomato, three bags of milk and some yogourt.

On my way home a woman on a scooter passed me with a toy poodle tied to her back in some way. I could really tell how the dog was attached to her. Maybe it was some kind of netting but it looked like the dog itself was either a backpack or spiderdog. Dog backpack.

Late that afternoon I went for a bike ride. I’d been noticing for a little while that my left crank arm was a bit wobbly, but it started to get worse on this ride. When I got out to Parkview Hills I stopped to see if I could figure out the problem. The crank arm was definitely loose, but I noticed that the nut that goes over the crank arm pin had fallen off. That made me think that if I could just replace the nut then the problem would be solved. I rode very carefully back down to Danforth because I was afraid that without the nut the crank arm would fall off. I headed west looking for a bike shop and after a while I came upon Cyclepath. A guy that looked like he was in his early teens greeted me and I told him my problem. He brought me a pin and nut set and said it would be $2.99 but I told him I was just looking for a nut for now. He wasn’t sure if they just sold nuts but he went to the manager, who showed him a drawer of nuts behind the front desk. Meanwhile a teenage girl in cut-offs of about the same age as the guy came up to ask if she could help me. I was surprised at how young the staff at Cyclepath are. The guy came back with a nut that fit, tightened it for me and charged me a dollar. It didn’t solve the wobbling problem at all but at least I knew that the crank arm wasn’t going to fall off, so I could ride less carefully along the Danforth.

But why is it called “The” Danforth? Why doesn’t Queen get the same treatment? Why not “the” Queen? Or the Dundas or the Bloor. I guess telling someone you were going downtown “on the Queen” might not sound right.

            That night I watched an episode of Maverick with the first appearance of Bret Maverick’s brother Bart Maverick. The story was set in New Orleans but all the Creole people had accents like they were from France.