God was simple to exorcise.
— ryan kamSTra (from iNTO tHE dROwNED wORL_D)
Charity and pathos are not so easy.
I’m meeting a friend for lunch. She used to work for the city as an employability specialist. The way I understand it, her job was to help homeless people develop the skills they’d need to get back to work. My impression is that her job was overwhelming. A cup of resources. An ocean of need. And no sense that her efforts made a bit of difference. Now, she works in a glass tower for a wealth management company. I wait for her in the foyer of the building. There’s a gentle snowfall outside—not enough to accumulate on the sidewalks, but enough to remind me that it’s mid-February with weeks to go before the winter weather breaks. For lunch, we go downstairs and into The Path.
For readers who have never been to Toronto, this city has the world’s largest underground pedestrian network. If you’re new to the city and you walk through the business district, you may note the modest rush of people along the sidewalks, unaware that beneath your feet, thousands of people are scurrying like ants through the downtown core. Deep below the streets are hundreds and hundreds of shops and restaurants, kiosks, banks and coffee shops. It makes sense. Toronto is the financial heart of Canada’s economy and it can’t afford to let a little thing like a snowstorm keep it from beating on.
We go to one of a seemingly endless succession of food courts and find a buffet where we can fill a Styrofoam tray with fresh greens and pay by weight. The place is buzzing with conversation—hundreds of people rushing to down their food, have a chat, read a few pages from a novel, check their blackberries, post to Facebook on their iPhones. At first, we don’t think we’ll get a seat, but I notice a free two feet of space between a professional-looking head-shaven woman and two youngish men who look like aspiring executives. We squeeze in on either side of the table and eat and chat and do our part to sustain the hive.
This is my city. I was born here. I grew up here. I even spent a couple years working downtown, trying to fit into this polished frenetic professional environment. But I didn’t last. The truth is: I don’t belong here. When I walk through The Path and see all the stony-faced people coming towards me, it overwhelms me and I have to get out. If I don’t get out, I’m afraid I’ll freeze. I won’t be able to take the next step and so I’ll be swept away by a torrent of people.
After lunch, I return with my friend to the lobby of her building. It’s not her building of course. I have no idea whose building it is. Then the improbable happens. I recognize another friend, a father from the trampoline club where our children have trained together. It turns out he works for the same wealth management company. My two friends have never met, so I introduce them.
They disappear up into their respective offices, leaving me alone in the building’s lobby, wondering where to go from here. I look at the snow falling outside, then turn to the stairs and descend into The Path. Royal Bank Building. Scotia Plaza. Commerce Court. I stand in a stairwell to get away from the buzzing and then I phone my wife—part of our daily “check-in” routine. She works on the 50th floor of the Toronto Dominion Bank Tower—another node on The Path.
I decide I need to make a break for it, so I wrap my scarf around my neck, zip up my coat, and walk upstairs and onto King Street. Across the road is Commerce Court, four buildings, 109 stories of offices. To my right is First Canadian Place, 72 stories of offices. And kitty-corner from me is the Toronto Dominion Centre, five buildings, more than 200 stories of offices. I haven’t got a hat, and with no hair on my head, the snow flakes tingle when they land on my scalp.
When I reach the curb by First Canadian Place, I hear a voice call out: “Spare some change? I’m tryna scrape together five bucks for a meal.”
It’s a man, late fifties, maybe early sixties, grey stubble, weathered face. He’s wearing something over his ears—not sure what it’s called—a cross between a headband and ear muffs. When he speaks, he pulls a cigarette from his mouth and I can see yellowed uneven teeth.
I dig into my pocket and pull out a loonie.
“Thanks, man.”
I want to walk away, get as far as I can from him. Charity is one thing; having to talk to someone is quite another. But the stoplight is against me, so I have nowhere to go.
The man takes another drag on his cigarette and after he exhales: “You know, I’m tryna get enough for a meal. Just five bucks. You wouldn’t happen to …”
I stare across the road at the Scotia Plaza, an amalgam of old and new, 68 floors of offices. I dig again into my pocket and pull out a toonie.
“Thanks, man. That’ll really help.”
I think of another encounter like this that happened twenty years ago when I was an articling student, an aspiring lawyer. I had been standing on the opposite corner of the same intersection. As I exited Commerce Court, a guy my age (I was in my twenties then) had approached me and asked for two dollars so he could have a bite to eat. I’ll never forget his face—the dull blue eyes, the yellow skin, the bits of spittle on his chin, the emaciated frame. Is it really true? I wonder. Will they always be with us?
“Do you ride the subway?” he asks.
“What?”
“The subway. You ride it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
“Cuz I got a token. You know, like if you maybe give me five bucks, I could sell it to you. Then you could ride the subway and I could get something to eat.”
I pull out a five dollar bill and he presses a token into my palm. It’s worth three dollars. He throws the cigarette on the ground and he looks at me. He has blue eyes, just like the guy I met twenty years ago. I wonder what happened to that guy.
“I really should quit these things.”
“Probably helps keep you warm,” I say.
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“You know,” he says, “there’s this woman I think of all the time.” I notice that the man has a warm smile. “She used to stand over there.” He points further west along King Street. “The kind of woman who likes a man, if you know what I mean. I can’t get her out of my head. She’s always with me—here—in my head. But I haven’t seen her for real, like, not since my birthday and that was in November. I’m fifty-three you know. But she’s older, maybe fifty-nine, a working woman, if you know what I mean, but nice. She’d talk to me. But I haven’t talked to her in, like, three months. I’m afraid. I’m afraid to talk to her. I’m afraid she’ll kill me.”
“You seem nice enough. I don’t think she’ll kill you.”
“Naw. I guess you’re right. It’s just I have schizophrenia. I get these things in my head and I can’t get them out. I see this woman all the time. She’s there in my head, every day, every hour.”
I watch the cars rush past. I watch the lights change to green but I don’t cross the road. I feel the snow falling on my bare head.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“I’m Michael.”
“Michael, I’m Dave.”
“Nice to meet you, Dave.”
“And it’s nice to talk to you, Michael.”
“You have a good day, Dave.”
“You take care of yourself, Michael.”
I cross the street, but my head is cold and wet, so I make for the stairs that will take me back down to The Path.