Here is a picture of 324 Euclid Street. Like every house in the area. Lawn mower? For what? No lawn. Bricks and gates, and crumbling front stairs. I especially like the dead tree. But then again that thin house with the crumbling stairs and dead tree is worth over $1 million, probably a lot more than that. That is the reality of living in Canada’s American city. Every extra benefit of living in a fully developed city costs a lot just to be there. People who live in the city don’t have cars. No where to park them and truthfully the transit system actually works in Toronto.
When I lived on Euclid, not far from this house, there was a slaughter house about a block away, which was very odd since we were only a block or two from Bloor Street. One morning I was heading to the subway, going to work at the salt mine (I was working at Domtar Chemicals, marketing…well…salt…) when a cow ran by me. It was heading to the open area of the fields with freedom in his eyes and a pack of big Italian guys with bloody bibs chasing after him. I was rooting for the cow though I suspect he didn’t have much of a chance.
What to say… What to say in my coat, with gun and money and all that jazz. Knock on the door and ask if they recognize the briefcase? Maybe just shoot them. I have a gun. Ring the doorbell, leave the case and run? All those ideas did not seem smart at all. So I sat on the curb, across the street, curious to see someone arrive or leave.
I did not have to wait long. A young guy, winter toque on in the middle of the frickin’ summer, kind of jeans that somehow stopped at the ankles with some stretchy-tightened bottom, running shoes (no socks), stupid current beard, crossed the street right in front of me, knocked on the door of the innocuous white van parked a few feet from me, side door opens, he gets in, lots of discussions and yelling, and he comes out and walks quickly back to me.
“Are you fucken gonna do something or what? We can’t wait here all day. Knock on the door! Knock on the fucken door! What the hell are you waiting for?” I stared back.
“Get back in the truck. We’re screwed now. You fucked it up like you always do dickhead. In the truck!” It was another beard by the truck.
“My apology sir,” said the kid. “Sit on the curb all you want to. Sorry to have bothered you. OK, well, bye.” He ran back to the van, the side door shut and the truck just sat there.
Something is not right. I’m dead here. Set up. Someone is going to kill me now. Think cow. Run.