I recently started working for (yet another) used bookstore, this time in the East end of Toronto, at Gerrard and Parliament. Most people think everything east of the Don is too east, and so the East end remains a bit of a blank spot in the urban psyche. (I have a lot of friends that will contest that, so let me clarify that by "most people", I mean people who did not grow up in Toronto... myself included). Gerrard and Parliament is where Cabbagetown meets Regent Park. It's an interesting neighbourhood, a mishmash of gay yuppies and crackheads; organic fine food boutiques with 5 different types of maple syrup and old school diners where people order beer with their breakfasts. The class disparity has never been so blatant. I started working there this summer, and after my first day, I decided it was the fucking Twilight Zone, and that I loved it. I'll out myself here by saying that it's probably because I had a middle-class and largely priveleged upbringing in the suburbs, and while the burbs has it's share of crazy, it's really quite a different bag of crazy beans altogether.
I'm leaving the store soon, and am feeling a little nostalgic, so I thought I'd recount some stories. So here's how my first day went:
Morning
I have about 5 minutes before I have to open up the store, so I pop into a convenience store to grab a drink. There's a man hunched over the Lotto stand right at the entrance, and I squeeze in behind him to get through. I feel his back tense as I pass, and I become very aware that this man likes his space, needs his space and does not welcome my blatent invasion of his space. A few minutes later, as I'm opening the store, I hear "FUCK SHIT BITCH CUNT FUCK BITCH SHIT". I poke my head out to see space-needy guy standing at the corner, screaming his head off. He looks like a cross between George the Animal Steel and Sloth from The Goonies- bald with a somewhat misshapen head and maybe it's just my imagination, but he seemed to have pupils that dangled cartoonishly around his eyes, like loose springs.
"Good morning," I say to myself, and pray that he doesn't feel like shopping.
Afternoon
A man walks in, a little fidgety. Youngish, tall, blonde. He's got a mark on his face that I associate with drug use, but I try not to judge... or rather I judge, and then chastize myself for judging. He thumbs through the music section and pulls out a Johnny Cash biography.
"How much for this one?" he asks.
I show him the price. "10 bucks," I say.
He brightens. In fact he gets downright giddy. "10 bucks! That's exactly what I have!" he says. "I was gonna spend it on a hooker, but a book's much better, right?"
He hands me the crumpled bill, then looks at me earnestly. "How about a date?" he says.
I smile No and he walks out. Like hell I'm giving you a 2-for-1.
Evening
"Hi"
There's a girl standing in the doorway. She fingers the knob but makes no move to come in. She's got downs syndrome. It's hard to tell, but she looks young.
"Hello," I say.
"What's your name?"
I tell her.
"Where's Ron?"
"He's not here. He'll be in tomorrow"
"Where's the boy?" She holds up her hand to indicate someone at chin height. Andrew- the friend who I had taken over for at the store.
"He's gone. He left Toronto. He was my friend"
"Oh." She stares at me for a bit. Then says "My mom died"
... maybe I heard that one wrong.
"What?" I say.
"My mom. She's dead." Then she walks out.
Closing Time
Here's a snapshot of the store's layout: I am on display. In the window, directly below the OPEN sign, perched on a stool, fitted for public consumption. All that's really missing is a flashing red light about my head, and a price tag.
So, I've sat through a "colourful" 8-hour day, and I'm combing through the last pages of a book. [I should add that it's a hot summer day, so I'm dressed unusually girly- tank top and short skirt. I should also say, that because I'm sandwiched in the narrow space between the counter the book shelves behind me, because it's a little awkward and cramped, because I have bad circulation, I am also not exactly sitting in the most lady-like fashion]. From my stool perch, I can see the outdoor sidewalk traffic in my periphery. I see a bike roll by very slowly. I look out in time to catch a woman's eye as she rides past. She looks me straight in the eye, then turns, and looking straight ahead, she says, "Put some fucking clothes on".
Epilogue
Bald-headed springy-eyed man came in a few weeks later. He stood at the doorway with a huge guffah grin, waving frantically as he asked me how my day was. Not a fuck, bitch or shit outta him. That's right- never judge.
The girl with downs has come back too. She tried to steal one of the records from the dollar bin, but saw me watching, then duely informed me that her mother was dead before walking out.
What Regent Park lacks in amenities (there are few, besides streetcar access), it makes up for in character. Along Queen Street, antique shops and design studios sidle up to the Brother Joseph Dooley supportive housing complex, while down the street from Nelson Mandela Park Public School, there might be a sex worker plying her trade in a faux fur ensemble. Still, there needn’t be a Starbucks on every corner for a neighbourhood to be desirable.
I'm leaving the store soon, and am feeling a little nostalgic, so I thought I'd recount some stories. So here's how my first day went:
Morning
I have about 5 minutes before I have to open up the store, so I pop into a convenience store to grab a drink. There's a man hunched over the Lotto stand right at the entrance, and I squeeze in behind him to get through. I feel his back tense as I pass, and I become very aware that this man likes his space, needs his space and does not welcome my blatent invasion of his space. A few minutes later, as I'm opening the store, I hear "FUCK SHIT BITCH CUNT FUCK BITCH SHIT". I poke my head out to see space-needy guy standing at the corner, screaming his head off. He looks like a cross between George the Animal Steel and Sloth from The Goonies- bald with a somewhat misshapen head and maybe it's just my imagination, but he seemed to have pupils that dangled cartoonishly around his eyes, like loose springs.
"Good morning," I say to myself, and pray that he doesn't feel like shopping.
Afternoon
A man walks in, a little fidgety. Youngish, tall, blonde. He's got a mark on his face that I associate with drug use, but I try not to judge... or rather I judge, and then chastize myself for judging. He thumbs through the music section and pulls out a Johnny Cash biography.
"How much for this one?" he asks.
I show him the price. "10 bucks," I say.
He brightens. In fact he gets downright giddy. "10 bucks! That's exactly what I have!" he says. "I was gonna spend it on a hooker, but a book's much better, right?"
He hands me the crumpled bill, then looks at me earnestly. "How about a date?" he says.
I smile No and he walks out. Like hell I'm giving you a 2-for-1.
Evening
"Hi"
There's a girl standing in the doorway. She fingers the knob but makes no move to come in. She's got downs syndrome. It's hard to tell, but she looks young.
"Hello," I say.
"What's your name?"
I tell her.
"Where's Ron?"
"He's not here. He'll be in tomorrow"
"Where's the boy?" She holds up her hand to indicate someone at chin height. Andrew- the friend who I had taken over for at the store.
"He's gone. He left Toronto. He was my friend"
"Oh." She stares at me for a bit. Then says "My mom died"
... maybe I heard that one wrong.
"What?" I say.
"My mom. She's dead." Then she walks out.
Closing Time
Here's a snapshot of the store's layout: I am on display. In the window, directly below the OPEN sign, perched on a stool, fitted for public consumption. All that's really missing is a flashing red light about my head, and a price tag.
So, I've sat through a "colourful" 8-hour day, and I'm combing through the last pages of a book. [I should add that it's a hot summer day, so I'm dressed unusually girly- tank top and short skirt. I should also say, that because I'm sandwiched in the narrow space between the counter the book shelves behind me, because it's a little awkward and cramped, because I have bad circulation, I am also not exactly sitting in the most lady-like fashion]. From my stool perch, I can see the outdoor sidewalk traffic in my periphery. I see a bike roll by very slowly. I look out in time to catch a woman's eye as she rides past. She looks me straight in the eye, then turns, and looking straight ahead, she says, "Put some fucking clothes on".
Epilogue
Bald-headed springy-eyed man came in a few weeks later. He stood at the doorway with a huge guffah grin, waving frantically as he asked me how my day was. Not a fuck, bitch or shit outta him. That's right- never judge.
The girl with downs has come back too. She tried to steal one of the records from the dollar bin, but saw me watching, then duely informed me that her mother was dead before walking out.
What Regent Park lacks in amenities (there are few, besides streetcar access), it makes up for in character. Along Queen Street, antique shops and design studios sidle up to the Brother Joseph Dooley supportive housing complex, while down the street from Nelson Mandela Park Public School, there might be a sex worker plying her trade in a faux fur ensemble. Still, there needn’t be a Starbucks on every corner for a neighbourhood to be desirable.
- Toronto Life, Real Estate Guide
