"Honey, we are out of dog food," you say. There's that bit of chick in you that treats things like magic incantations; once you say them out loud, solutions will manifest. She looks up, exhausted from the kids who wanted to spend the day at the beach when you both wanted to spend it manifesting the solution to sleep deprivation.
"Petview's open till 7. Why don't you just go? I'm going to take a nap."
She has a point, you think. It's 6 p.m. The store closes at 7. Traffic will be a nightmare at this hour. You look at the street from your window. Outside, it's Canada's cheap knockoff version of Taxi Driver. Instead of yellow cabs and dirty streets, it's recently migrated Indians in freshly leased sedans covering just enough of the lane to keep people from driving past and clean streets full of potholes.
The street hums with annoyances. Newly subsidized immigrants with newly leased cars and olden third world habits. You were about to pick up your car keys, then decide against it and grab an insulated bag. You look at the dogs. They haven't been out in a week. It's a twenty-minute walk; may as well bring them along.
You jingle their harnesses and they come running. It's Pavlovian for them. You take a step outside and are hit with a wall of fight-or-flight audio. Ah, Toronto. A city that's thriving, on paper. Five lanes of traffic packed with two-thirds the same Uber drivers in 2024 black luxury sedans, with telltale, third world spatial awareness scrapes on their side panels, and the remaining third some ten-year-old sport SUVs from tired Canadian's who cannot move to the US, yet.
Like any choir, each car has its own tone of honk. Each driver sonically insulated from their own action. Together they converge on a single note that excites the adrenal response. In the same way that the great opera drives you to tears, this performance drives you to madness. The dogs don't care. They are old and can barely hear. To them? Life is a series of trees that haven't been marked.
Something is different. The traffic gets thicker the further you go. A cop on a bike rolls by, then two, then ten. Cruisers and vans and flashing lights and fluorescent vests fill the distance. You wonder if another SoundCloud rapper got shot in the hotel down the street. Canada loves to make cheap knockoff versions of superior American entertainment. Lil' Kqeeze Maine blasting Lil' DaShaen over a mixtape in front of the Tim Hortons is Canada's cheap knockoff Biggie and Tupac at the MGM Grand.
You keep walking. There's no place safer in the world than a crime scene. Up ahead, you see a flag. Mostly upright, canted to the left. You recognize that black triangle and green stripe.
"Damn," you think. "Hamas protest."
You continue to walk. Behind you, a swell of people in blue jerseys. The game just got out. New happy immigrants with new outfits and old third world habits. They block the sidewalks and stop randomly in the middle of intersections on yellow lights to take pictures of the garbage-free streets. Frumpy soccer moms and emasculated dads wearing whatever LGBT-infused jersey the stadium was giving away that day, creating a wall of people. Your one dog has a panic attack. No choice but to move forward.
You approach the intersection. The cops give way to Palestine. A group of maybe a dozen men, wrapped in balaclavas and that white linen scarf that signals revolution. Your dog bumps into the larger guy. He turns around; you can see a unibrow behind his eyes. He says,
"Sorry about that. Excuse me." You say thanks and keep walking. Behind them are a group of elderly people wearing the same scarves. One man is on his phone, tweeting about the resistance. Lollygagging about this, that, or the other thing. The cops are directing traffic so as not to endanger Hamas. You wonder who pays for all this. You suspect, somehow, that your $300 increase in property taxes is solving the Israeli Palestine conflict.
An Indian woman, dressed in traditional saree, exits the hotel beside the Tim Hortons. Her husband, wearing his traditional robe and sash, follows soon afterward. A group of two dozen Indians come up behind them. You wonder if they are about to break into song, like a Bollywood flash mob. As the lady, likely the bride, walks past you, you hear her bitching about all the immigrants mobbing her special day with their stupid protests. A cop breaks your daydreaming to halt you on the street.
A mobile pub, one of those large bicycles that people drink on while pedaling, passes you. They blast AC/DC on their shitty stereo system. They wave at the balaclava'd men. Hamas waves back. You take a moment to appreciate the visual of IRA-inspired Islamic revolutionaries waving their flag in the air while Brian Johnson yelling "Hard as a Rock" clips the max volume rating of the speakers. You reflect on the Canadian knockoff ACDC concert.
Between the honking, the Hamas, the Hoser's and the Hindu's, you're officially irritated. The dogs are agitated. Behind you are five thousand people in Blue Jays jerseys spinning in circles, taking in the sights and annoying anyone with somewhere to be. Beside you is the resistance and their extended family enjoying a "fuck the Jews" street festival. They aren't committed to hating the random Jews walking around. It's more a "fuck the Jews" in the abstract. In front of you are at least a hundred cops, fifty bikes, twenty cruisers, and a chef from the sandwich shop on the corner. The older cop continues his meandering story,
"Yeah, we haven't eaten all day," he says, chuckling as one does when working the door at a street festival.
The chef responds, "Hey, I tell you what, first seventy cops can have a free sandwich!" The old cop's eyes light up the same way your dogs' eyes light up at the sight of any food you've dropped on the floor. It's Pavlovian for them. A mass of police wander off their beat to line up for hero sandwiches. You reflect on Canada's cheap knockoff September 12th. Your dogs pull their leashes forward.
A half block ahead the crowds all disperse. The only people on Queen Street are the locals. They are dressed for work; they all wear noise-canceling headphones. No one is attractive, but everyone is thin and tired. They are efficient. People start walking the moment the walk light blinks. People stay to the right and pass each other without any awkward path crossing, stumbling apologies, or nervous laughter to break the tension.
You walk into Petview. The dogs are overstimulated. They don't even bother to try to grab any treats off the bottom shelf. They are happy to stand in their dog mecca, quietly. You haven't read the nutritional information in your dog food in a while, so you take your time, Googling every ingredient to make sure it's optimal nutrition. A moderately attractive woman with her Bijou has the same idea. You look each other in the eye. It's not love, it's mutual understanding. You reflect on being Canada's cheap knockoff Anne Frank.
You can't stall any longer. You buy the food. It's frozen raw meat. You aren't poor; you can afford it. You make small talk with Sunny, the Korean woman who owns the place. She leans forward and whispers, so as not to offend the wallflowers,
"Do you see? All the Hamas protesters. I wish we could just kick them all out. They scare away my customers." You give her the look and the nod. She knows you're the safe ear. Last week, you ranted about the new, subsidized Indians who have ethnically replaced Canadians after the great pandemic of 2020 wiped us out. You reflect on Canada's cheap knockoff Black Plague and Canada's knockoff Yugoslavian cleanse.
Your girl texts you, "Where have you been? You're taking forever." You take a picture and send it to her WhatsApp. You can't see her, but you know she's giving her phone the look and the nod.
You get back home. You walk by the working district, which has no tragic to speak of. Your woman is passed out on the sofa, one arm dangling to the floor. The kids are playing quietly, like they know not to break the spell.
You think about how Toronto used to have simpler fun. Back in 2020, it would've just been a taco truck festival selling fusion Korean BBQ in a parking lot off Spadina. Now, it's bored people making their boredom your problem. You reflect on being Canada's cheap knockoff Taxi Driver, thinking,
"Someday a real rain will wash the scum off the streets."