Hypomanic Joy

            I went a few minutes earlier than usual to the food bank on Saturday morning. I’d been reading as part of my Early Medieval Philosophy homework the eleventh book of Augustine’s Confessions, in which he is trying to figure out how “god” created the heavens and the earth and how it created time from outside of time. I was starting to feel sleepy so I stopped reading and got ready to leave.

            Stepping out onto the back deck to check the temperature I could feel that we were no longer in mid-summer weather. I decided to wear long pants, a long sleeved shirt and my motorcycle jacket for the first time since the spring. My jacket was on a hanger hooked onto a chin-up bar set above the passageway between my living room and my kitchen. On a bookshelf nearby was sitting a sculpture that I’d made from metal objects that I’d found at the Leslie Spit. As I reached for my jacket I thought to myself that I’d better be careful not to knock my sculpture over. Sure enough though, the arm of the jacket caught one of the sharper parts of the sculpture and it went over and fell apart. I would be able to fit it all back together but I didn’t have time then, so I left it on the floor and headed out.

The jacket felt very heavy after a summer of flying around half naked and light in shorts and a tank top on my bike.

            When I got to the line-up I asked a guy that was sitting on the steps of 1501 Queen Street who the last person in line was. Rather than explaining it to me he led me over to and into the entryway of 1499 Queen Street and pointed the big woman from the Caribbean out to me. She was sitting inside because she never stands in line and she didn’t even put her cart behind that of the person ahead, but rather kept it with her. I guess she just remembers who was approximately in line ahead of her and then goes downstairs when they do.

            I continued to struggle through reading Balzac’s “The Atheist’s Mass”. I read a french sentence and if I don’t understand it then I look across to the English page opposite to see what it says and then I look back to the French side to pull the translation together. Usually one look at the French, the English and then the French again is enough but sometimes I have to look back and forth several times and so it’s a slow process. So far there is no story but just rather the introduction of the character of a brilliant surgeon.

            I was very glad while standing there that I was wearing my leather jacket, but I almost wished that I’d worn a scarf as well. It was quite chilly there in the permanent shade that the food bank line-up is trapped in, despite the fact that across the street it was a sunny September morning. My right index finger tends to go numb while I’m standing there and holding my book in the cold.

            The first smokers that I had to move away from were Angie and some other female volunteers from the food bank when they came out to sit on the steps. I decided to think of them as “Angie and the Bankettes”. 

            I went downstairs to use the washroom and the man that I’ve been referring to as the “e-cigarette guy” was there. I guess I’ll have to call him the “ex-e-cigarette guy” now because it seems he’s successfully made the transition back to real cigarettes. He left the washroom before me and the elevator doors were closing as I passed them on my way to the stairs. We got to the exit at the same time and he turned and said, “Oh! Did I close the elevator doors in your face?” I thanked him for his concern but assured him that it was okay, since I always take the stairs.

            Moe came by on his way home. I don’t think he’s had to use the food bank in a month, unless he’s been going on a different day. He stopped to chat though and he asked me about my place. He knew that I live above the Coffeetime donut shop but I guess he’d been trying to figure out which of the windows were mine. He’d noticed that the windows on the left on the front of the second floor don’t have any shades and so he assumed that it was a separate, vacant apartment. I told that’s my front kitchen window and it has no shades because I spend less time walking in front of it naked.

            An attractive young blond woman in her 30s interrupted us to tell me that I was reading her favourite book and then she quoted her favourite verse: “Luke 6:31 – Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” I said, “You thought that I was reading the Bible?” That would have been a pretty thin Bible. Moe asked cynically where she’d seen anyone following that rule. She answered with a smile, “Here in Parkdale! The most beautiful place in Toronto!”

            Moe shook his head and rolled his eyes. Continuing our conversation, I told him that I’d been living in the same place for twenty years. He declared that he would never want to live anywhere for that long, or even longer than seven years, because he would get bored. He said he feels the same way about work and asserted that one of the great things about being in the Canadian Armed Forces was that they always give you new things to do and so it becomes more like a school.

            Moe excused himself because he had company at home, so we shook hands and he left. As soon as he was walking away, the sunny young woman reached out her fist for me to bump it. Of course I bumped her fist with mine but this whole fist bumping phenomena has always felt alien to me. Twenty years ago it didn’t exist and we had the more intimate practice of clasping hands. It’s as if everybody’s afraid of getting cooties nowadays.

            After our knuckle touch, she declared, “You’re a really good person!” I told her that it was nice of her to say so but suggested that she didn’t really know that. She countered, “Yes I do! I can tell because you have kind eyes, so shut up!” Then she smiled sweetly but didn’t say anything more to me. Her observation would have felt more like a compliment if throughout the rest of the waiting period she hadn’t thrown compliments on everybody else like rice at a wedding. A woman with a walker had “the most beautiful eyes”; the Ethiopian guy with the tattoos and the Pom-Chi dog had a “pretty smile”; she hugged a scowling woman in a wheelchair and told her she loved her and she touched strangers affectionately. In response to someone’s complaint about the inconvenience of the line-up she enthused about what a nice day it was for us all to be together and make friends. She also dropped the Jesus bomb a couple of times, as in referring to her “Lord and saviour” and the alleged historical figure’s magic trick of turning water into wine and feeding the multitudes with five loaves of bread and two fish.

            I don’t want to be misconstrued as cynical here, because this young woman really was a ray of sunshine on our line-up in the shade. The people she spoke to and complimented were visibly lightened by the experience of her positivity and energy. But I have known quite a few people with bipolar disorder and though I’m no expert on psychiatric conditions, I had the sense that there was very little self-awareness behind her uplifted mood and that the look on her face and her mannerisms were reflecting the dopamine surge that goes along with a hypomanic episode.

            She was not removed from reality though. She complained in a non-negative way about the cold and wondered out loud what she was going to do in the winter with only her sweater and no jacket.

            The pom-chi got into a fight with a passing bulldog. The bulldog was a little bigger but the pom-chi seemed to be getting the better of the exchange until they were both yanked away by their leashes. The line-up group were impressed and even the sunny woman gave the little dog the thumbs up and said, “Way to go!” After that the dog was very perky and staring hopefully into the distance for the next dog.

            Wayne was there as well, a little ahead of me in line. He got a bit confused as to his exact position in the queue. The big white lady who is usually sitting on the steps told him exactly where his place was. He appreciated that and then said the most coherent thing I’d ever heard from him, “It’s bad enough to have to be here. You don’t want to have to fight!” He was doing his usual dance moves and smoking his cigar. There was another regular standing off to the side and Wayne would sometimes hand him his credit card and get him to go across the street to the convenience store to buy him some those $1 instant lottery games or some candy bars, or cigarettes. I wondered if Wayne actually makes payments on his credit card or if he was just going to amass debt until he got cut off.

            The food bank took in the first five clients at about 10:45 and a while later another ten. I was in the second group of ten. The Ethiopian guy took his dog down, even though they usually make him leave it upstairs. He explained that if they see a dog they’d more likely offer dog food. One of the intake people begged to look after the little dog while his caregiver shopped. I guess the smallness of the animal, even though it’s actually a full-grown dog, increases its cuteness factor. A mature pom-chi looks like the puppy of a larger breed.

            Winston took my card and checked me off on the computer. I noted out loud that it didn’t take any less time than the old system of me giving my birth date. I got number 32.

            Wayne was two places ahead of me, so while I was waiting behind the Ethiopian guy for the meat and dairy, I watched Wayne go through Sylvia’s vegetable section. She commented, “You’re wearing clothes today!” Of the beets: “I don’t want any of that shit!” He then turned down every vegetable that she had to offer, except he said he wanted an onion. But then when she tried to hand him one he shook his head and moved on. Sylvia looked at us and exclaimed, “See how much fun we have!”

            Angie, having seen me reading earlier outside, asked if I’d read any good books lately. The first choice was between a half litre of 2% milk and 900 ml of organic guava juice. I answered that I had. She slipped me both as she told me that she’d read one. She gave me four eggs. There was a choice between one larger tub of Greek yogourt and two small. I picked the small. She passed me an extra two as she informed me that her son is a schoolteacher. Another choice was between frozen ground chicken, frozen chicken wieners or bacon bits. I selected the ground chicken but she handed me also a bag of bacon bits as she shared that her son had recommended. Finally she gave me three individually wrapped Cookie Star double chocolate oatmeal cookies and told me that the book had been Native Son by Richard Wright. I told her that I’d heard of the novel but had not read it. She gave it a good review. Looking it up later I saw that the book, written by an African American author, argues that Black men are more inclined to commit crimes because the system expects them to do so. I would argue that this is true of any ghettoized group regardless of their race but that it’s probably especially on target for any ghettoized visible minority, of which African Americans are the largest group.

            I was about to shop Sylvia’s vegetables when Betina, my former yoga student who volunteers at the food bank, called out to me to compliment my motorcycle jacket. I surprised her by informing her that I bought it for $60 but then I had to turn away from her to receive things from Sylvia. I turned down the beets as usual and since she’d given me a full bag of potatoes last time, it seemed like overkill to take any more of those from her. There was a choice between cauliflower and cabbage. Of the two cousins I’d have to say I prefer cauliflower because it looks like a brain and it’s easier to chop. I received two carrots and an onion, but I had to remind Sylvia that there were apples behind her. She turned and reached for two granny smith apples, plus a bag containing fresh garden lettuce, a small green pepper and another with two small cucumbers. I think these last items might have been donated by the garden lady that had donated so much of her crop last year.

            My guide through the shelves was an attractive plus-size Black woman whom I hadn’t seen before.
            There was a larger than usual selection of cereal, including Rice Crispies, Corn Flakes and Cheerios, but I grabbed the last box of honey almond flax cereal.

            Another shelf had those little Nabob coffee pods, which I can cut open and pour into my French press.

            There were not only canned beans this time, but for the first time since last year they had a couple of varieties of dried beans. I took a bag of dark brown lentils.

            The only things in the soup section were cartons of chicken broth.
            I got a container of coconut water with pineapple, a bag of Mackie’s potato chips, several restaurant portions of grape jelly, a handful of raspberry jellies, four sweet and salty almond bars, one peanut bar, four peanut butter cups and a Kinder Surprise egg.

            I eschewed the bread this time because I had just enough at home to last until next time.

            I once again forgot to take the eggs out of my backpack when I got home and so when I finally did so after knocking around for a few hours one of the four was cracked. It was only enough though for some of the white to leak out but the yoke was intact, and that’s the most important part for sunny side upness. The bacon bits that I got were actually made from fresh bacon and there was pretty much enough to put meat in two meals. It was nice to get a little coffee because I’d run out several days before. She gave me six, which was enough for two cups. There was less than last time but it wasn’t a disappointment like some trips home from the food bank are. I hope someone will give the sunny woman a jacket before next time.