|
Riding the streetcar the other day, a huge bear of a man staggered on and weaved his drunken way to the back seats. He maintained an ongoing one-sided conversation, either with the passengers in general or with an imagined companion. Once seated he focused his foggy attention on a particular young woman. "You wanna get out at dis next shtop? We culd go get shome beersh! Tousands of beersh! No? No way? No way Hosea? Awright, fair 'nuff." NOTE: This is Monday night and he's this drunk. The car was almost full, and it seemed that a lot of us were slightly tensed in case this guy made a lunge but, aside from the reek of booze, he was harmless. Obnoxious but harmless. The young woman tactfully batted away his comments and handled it about as well as could be expected. Once the fellow disembarked (a process that involved standing at the top of the exit steps, aiming himself head-first out the door and then shambling out like a misguided missile) everyone shared a few "Wow" comments. One young man complimented her on handling the drunken attention so well. She replied that she had been a bartender for a while and learned how to deal with drunks. The conversation seemed over. There's only so far that commuters go in sharing their personal stories with fellow passengers. But this guy clearly thought there was an opening. Maybe he figured that she'd compare him to the drunk and he'd win by default. Maybe he just had no idea how bad his timing was. At any rate, he started to flirt...in broad strokes. "Wow, a bartender! That's cool. Where did you work?" "That's amazing! I used to go in there!" "Yeah, I suppose you must have gotten a lot of guys hitting on you!" Gag! The young woman answered politely, but anyone could tell that she had simply shifted her coping mechanism from the drunk to this guy. Anyone, of course, but the young man in question. He kept at it, blithely unaware that his chances stood somewhere near those of a snowball on Satan's bedside table. Finally she got off. Maybe she was at her stop, but I prefer to think that she was trying to get away. I picture her getting off the streetcar and just waiting at the stop for the next one. As she waits, a guy comes up, stands next to her and says, "Boy, cold weather, eh? You sure look warm, though..." Later that night I went shopping up and down Roncesvalles. I enjoy doing this...I walk along with my canvass shopping bag, filling it with fresh fruit and veggies from the corner stands. (Honestly, every corner has a fruit stand. You can't swing your arms on Roncesvalles without knocking over a basket of apples.) I go to Polish bakeries to buy bread, sometimes fresh pierogi. I stop in the Old Country Shoppe to buy a German candy bar, or maybe the Polish grocery for some mystery cookies...what's in 'em? Who knows, the label's in Polish! My final stop is in the corner convenience store for an Italian soda - not the kind you get at fairs and amusement parks, just a can of soda that happens to be both Italian and delicious. When I came home my bag was brimming, and (aside from the candy bar and soda) none of it was pre-packaged. There was actually a loaf of bread sticking out of the top of the bag, as if I was filming a commercial. This is how we're supposed to live - buying real food at corner stores, getting to know shopkeepers, learning what shops have the best bread but if you want cheese go to so-and-so. It's how we lived for centuries before the invention of the car. It worked then, it works now...so long as you happen to live in a place dense enough to support actual neighbourhoods. |
