Alien Angel Egg on Fire

            The full morning’s length of the food bank line-up varies depending on the time of the month. Just before the social service payments are sent out it’s usually a python and just after the cheques come out it usually goes back to being a boa. But at 9:45, when I usually arrive, the line-up tends to be the same length no matter what time of the month it is and my place in it is just east of the east end of the steps in front of the apartment building at 1501 Queen Street West.

The last cart in the line this time was the khaki green one belonging to Robbie. I stepped up to it but asked the two nearest people if there was anyone after the cart. The guy with the longish wavy hair who was leaning against the building and reading a book confirmed that he was after the buggy. I made some space for when he’d decide to step away from the wall and into his place in line, stood behind that space and took out my book. I didn’t stay there long though because of the second hand smoke. The breeze was blowing from the east and so I had to walk east of the people smoking in front of PARC in order to avoid their fumes. After a while those people butted out and I was able to move closer to my place in line again.

Angie came up for her cigarette and said to me, “Hi bookworm!”

The regular group that comes early and stands in a circle to smoke and chat together were also near the steps. The big woman always sways from side to side when she’s standing and talking. The skinny woman wanted to make sure their circle was far enough out from the pigeons on the edge of 1501 Queen. She declared, “Pigeon shit is toxic” and then she lit a cigarette.

Justin Zaza came out of 1501 and asked what I was reading. I showed him the cover and he read the title out loud, “English stories”. Then he said, “I read an English story once!” and walked away.

About twenty minutes later Justin came back and asked if I’d finished the book yet. I told him it would take me years because it’s in both French and English. “Do you speak French?” he inquired. “A little bit.” I explained briefly the format of this type of book and he thought it was cool that the English and French are mirrored on opposite pages.

I read a couple of pages of Flaubert’s “The Legend of St Julian the Hospitaler”. For three days after Julian was born there was a continuous party in the castle that was officiated over by the father while the mother rested in bed. On the third night the mother woke to see an old man standing under a moonbeam by her window. He said to her, “Rejoice mother, your son will be a saint” then rose up the moonbeam and disappeared. The next morning at sunrise, after the father had escorted the final guest to the gate, from out of the morning mist appeared a Gypsy who said, “Your son … much blood … much glory … always happy” and then disappeared in the fog. Neither parent told the other about their visions, but because of them they considered their son to be extra special and raised him accordingly.

I saw a guy open the door of the three-holed litter and recycling bin across from the food bank and meticulously go through the garbage. I asked him if he finds anything good. After closing the door he showed me a beer can, which he put in his buggy before continuing east. Without breaking his step he reached out and checked the coin slot of the green parking meter in front of PARC as he passed it. 

At 10:30 we all got into line and shortly after that, two women whom I hadn’t seen all morning came and said to the two guys a bit behind me, “Thanks for holding our place for us” and then they inserted themselves ahead of twenty people. Shortly after that the doorkeeper, whom I’d thought was named Martina, but somebody called her Marlina, let the first five people in. When I was close to the front I asked her when the number system was coming back and she said maybe at the end of this month. After the first group of five had gone downstairs, whatever number of people came back out she would let that number go in. I went down alone.

I didn’t take much from the shelves this time, as I didn’t need any more bran cereal, granola, or pasta; instead of granola bars they had little packs of Dad’s cookies, which didn’t appeal to me and I passed on the canned soup because it was just too warm outside to even think about eating hot soup. All I took was a bag of twelve individually wrapped Earl Grey teabags from Fairmont Hotels; a can of tuna and a tin of chickpeas and a box of Carr table water crackers. Water crackers, like Newfoundland bread are made from basically just flour and water, come out hard and were designed to last better than regular bread over long sea voyages.

Beside Angie in her dairy and meat section was a young woman who gave me a 1.75 litre carton of orange juice; four small containers of fruit-bottom yogourt and three eggs. In addition to the usual frozen ground chicken and hot dogs were frozen packs of sliced Black Forest ham, so I took one of those.

Sylvia gave me a handful of heirloom tomatoes, most of which were soft; about ten small potatoes; a dragon fruit and was about to give me some onions but I told her I had enough. She said, “If you say you have enough, I believe you!” “Why would I lie?” “Exactly! Why would you lie?” 

From the bread section I took a bag of blueberry bagels.

The dragon fruit was pretty squishy on the skin but once I’d cut the outer part away the slightly greyish white inside with its constellation of tiny black seeds was fine. Even when overripe though the Pitaya has to be the most beautiful fruit of all. It looks like an alien angel egg on fire.