At the end of November, I bumped into Scott at the Tim Horton’s on Bond Street. He was working the door for tips. I took a photo of him and promised him a copy for his album, but kept missing him whenever I went back. Finally, I caught up with him the day after what I presume will be the last snow storm of the season. Although it was -5 Celsius, he was dressed in only a sweat shirt. He asked me to watch his stuff while he went inside to leave the photo with a buddy named Willy (?) who was drinking a coffee and keeping warm.
He said thanks for the photo, but I wouldn’t say he was overly delighted. Keeping a photo album reminds him of how much he’s changed, and how quickly, too. Scott’s been sick these past few months and has dropped 70 lbs. He says he could afford to lose the weight, but not like this. Not so fast. He shows me his teeth. They’re falling out. There are three left on the bottom and their roots are exposed. He says he’s given up crack. He threw out his pipes and shit last week and he’s never going back. He’s been getting some, too. Met a woman. She’s crazy for it. Two. Three times a day. He can’t keep up with her. Told her not to come around so much. It’ll kill him. He wonders if maybe he insulted her because she hasn’t come around in a couple days.
Scott got in a fight yesterday. A native guy jumped him from behind. But it turned out all right. He’s still standing. Can’t say the same for the native guy. I ask why the guy jumped him. “He wanted my door.” There’s no way Scott’s giving up this door. It’s HIS door. His and Jason’s. Though he’s thinking of getting out of there, going up to St. Clair.
He can’t stay at the door much longer and wonders what time it is. He has an appointment with the housing people at 11:30 so he has to get back to his room. He pulls the coin from his pockets and counts it, 18 dollars in all. A quarter slips through his fingers and he frowns. He can’t bend down to pick it up. Maybe I could get it for him. I say it’s a good thing they stopped making pennies and he laughs. There was one time in Union Station when he ended up with $15 worth of pennies in one pocket, but the weight of the pennies put a hole in his pocket and they all ran down his pant leg and trailed behind him on the floor. Meanwhile, a bum (he means that in the best sense of the word) was on his hands and knees picking up every last penny. When their eyes met, the bum said thanks; he’d just paid for a couple bottles of sherry wine. “Oh well, I wasn’t mad about it. Pay it forward is what I always say.”
Almost on cue, a well-dressed woman exits the Tim Horton’s. Scott holds the door for her and she hands him a coffee. He doesn’t mention that someone else has just given him a fresh coffee. When the woman is gone, he pays it forward by giving it to me.
When I get home and look closely at the images I’ve taken, I notice the sign on Scott’s door: “Pay With Your Phone.” With dedicated payment apps and secure eWallets, I wonder what guys like Scott will do once we go totally cashless.