A story for Thursday

Dear Congressman,

Today I wanted to relay a story that I told my granddaughter over the weekend. It is not an adventure filled saga, or one that many would find particularly interesting, but for some reason I felt a need to tell it.

In September of 2003, my wife and I went to a reunion of high school friends from my days in London, England. As the reunion was in Ottawa, we decided to spend some time in Niagara Falls and Toronto before descending on Ottawa with the rest of the attendees.

This event happened in Toronto, early on a sunny Sunday morning. We were staying up on Bloor Street after getting a good weekend rate at the Hilton. Our weekend involved wandering around the streets of Toronto and exploring the ambiance of the city. This particular morning we walked down Younge Street toward the lake and stopped at that bastion of American cuisine, McDonalds, for a quick breakfast. Not that the Hilton did not have a fine breakfast buffet in their own restaurant, but at $30 Canadian each for the privilege of nibbling on their fare, we opted to spend our dollars elsewhere.

It was about 8:00am when we went for breakfast, so there was only a scattering of people at the McDonalds when we approached from the hotel. As we entered, there was a lady standing outside of the building silently talking to herself. Her appearance was that of a street person, with generous layers of clothing to fight off the evening chill, but with muted colors so as not to stand out too much. I perceived her to be fairly young, in her twenties, but the age of the homeless is hard to gauge, as she had adapted that timelessness that comes with limited options in life.

We entered the McDonalds, leaving her standing outside, still talking to herself quietly while scanning the street for threats both imaginary and real. There was a short line at the ordering counter which went quickly, and we settled down in one of the hard plastic booths to eat our breakfast and drink our coffee.

As we sat eating, a young gentleman walked away quickly from the counter after he had bought two breakfast sandwiches. He had taken one out of the bag, unwrapped it, and taken a bite all before reaching the front door of the store. As he exited, without breaking stride, he reached into the bag and held the other breakfast sandwich out to the young lady we saw earlier. She took the sandwich from him and just stared at his back as he continued up the street consuming the sandwich he kept.

At this point a subtle change came over our friend. It was not a quantum shift, like a mood swing, but she quit talking to herself and ended the constant rearguard action of scanning the surrounding area for the evil forces that lurked nearby. She held the breakfast sandwich in her hand for a minute, slowly peeling back the yellow paper covering to see what it contained. After examining the item fully, she carefully re-wrapped it so it's appearance was that of one newly served.

Our young lady then looked up and walked briskly into the store, holding her entry pass in front of her in her right hand as she headed for the condiment table. Once there she perused the contents, collecting several napkins, packets of salt and some of pepper, and several ketchup and mustard packages. Once her bounty had been collected, she found a table in the center of the near-empty McDonalds.

We were still finishing our breakfast, so I observed her from the short distance that separated us. She had used the salt and pepper on the sandwich, but had pocketed the other condiments for later consumption. Under the yellow wrapper, she had neatly arranged the brown generic napkins into a form of tablecloth. Her head was now held higher, as if she had been magically empowered by the sandwich. She ate it slowly, taking small bites and chewing thoroughly, like an unseen relative was judging her table manners as she engaged in the morning repast that had unfolded before her.

I was still sipping coffee when she finished. She placed the napkins and used condiment packets into the yellow wrapper before wadding it up into a small ball. Arising from the chair, she walked quickly by the trash receptacle, dropped the bundle inside and shuffled back to her spot adjacent to the front door of the McDonalds to continue her vigil. We left soon after to continue our day of exploring, and I was tempted to slip her some money as we walked past her. But for some reason I chose not to do so.

I wonder to this day if I had witnessed a ritual that occurred on a regular basis, or if this was a one off opportunity that the young lady took as an opportunity to dine inside. We passed by there later in the day, however she was gone by that point, off to stand guard in another of Toronto's many boulevards.