the Story Shop

  Chapter One

  Vince Pirelli was a Toronto street bum. He was a very happy street bum. He had a university degree in accounting with a minor in social studies, had held a nine-to-five job with attendant pressures, fake friends and mind numbing discussions, but gave it up to sell his trinkets, cheap watches and souvenirs on the corner of King and John streets. His needs were minimal but his friends were legion. He and a dozen others lived in the cellars beneath Union Station. There were two Chinese guys whose English was barely recognizable and Albert, a Polish fellow who always had a bottle of wine to share, a Jewish chap with hair reaching to his ass and even a couple of ladies who giggled much of the time. Vince loved them all. They were true friends, sharing what little they had, laughing at the folly of the world and quite content with their life on the street. There was never any criticism of beliefs, sarcastic remarks, whispered discussions or complaints at having been dealt a bad hand. Everyone was happy.

  Although summers were very pleasant, winters were not and Vince often dreamed of living on a beach on a Caribbean island, eating fruit picked from trees, fishing in the sea and just lying in the sun much of the day. When he first mentioned his dream to the others, they all sighed, a sigh of envy, of wishful thoughts and shared fantasies. Jacob, the Jew, suggested sneaking on to one of the cruise ships that left Toronto harbour every Saturday afternoon during the months of May and June. He was quite sure that they headed south, to the Caribbean. Vince stowed the thought in the back of his mind...until May when the chilly months of winter had passed. Then he set out to investigate the possibilities.

  Every Friday evening loads of fruits and vegetables arrived in large crates, at the place where the cruise ship would dock. A harbour guard paced back and forth when he wasn't sound asleep in his booth. Early Saturday morning the ship arrived, a large opening appeared on its side, a ramp was attached and many crates were boarded. It was one crate in particular that appealed to Vince. He could hide among the McIntosh Apples.

  It was near the end of May that Vince said goodbye to his friends. They were very sorry to see him leave, they wished him bon voyage, the Polish fellow opened a new bottle of wine and the ladies gave him a kiss on the cheek. Each gave Vince a small reminder of their friendship: gadgets, trinkets and souvenirs that they sold on the street. His cot was covered with his own things; they wouldn't touch them, they said. It was a touching scene and brought many to tears–including Vince. He would miss them dearly.

  On a Friday evening, Vince walked to the pier with a small bag of snacks and bottled water. He waited in the shadows until the guard entered his booth for a nap, then he rushed to the crate of apples. It was an easy matter to pry a couple of planks open, sufficient to collect and discard dozens of apples. He threw the fruit into the water, hoping the noise wouldn't wake the guard, then he crawled into the crate and pulled the planks closed. It was rather lumpy and not very comfortable, but the apples were delicious. In fact he recognized them as Golden Delicious.

  When the first light of morning peered into his crate, Vince felt the crate move. He was on his way into the ship. It took less than an hour to place the crate in the storage area and Vince felt quite certain that his presence went unnoticed. The would be his great adventure, his dream come true. He lay back, gnawed on another apple and fell asleep until he felt the movement of the ship. It was time for him to dislodge himself from his fruity confines. He pushed a few planks, squeezed through the narrow opening, looked about and saw no one, then dropped to the floor. It would probably be days before they reached some Caribbean island, but it was clear that Vince would not starve: he was surrounded by edibles.

  Chapter Two

  It was six days before the ship docked at a Caribbean island. Vince had no idea what island, but it didn't matter. So long as it was warm with blue skies and sandy beaches and fruit hanging from trees and bubbling brooks of crystal clear water. When the grinding of the anchors stopped, Vince climbed a ladder to peer out a porthole. It was a beautiful day and the sky was brilliant and the sea was azure. He needed a way to disembark and had it planned for days. Garbage would be unloaded and he'd be unloaded with the garbage. It worked like a charm. In fact, he didn't need to climb into the garbage bins, he just had to help the workers unload the stinking stuff. He gave an excellent performance, grunting when they did and cursing when they did. After the last load he didn't get back on board but walked casually along the pier and out onto the street. Tourists were everywhere, microscopic cameras seemingly attached to their body. He continued to walk, leaving the town behind, until he came upon a narrow path that clearly lead to the sea. That would be his home, he was sure. At the end of the road he'd find a beach and a jungle with fruit-filled trees and a bubbling brook.

  At the end of the road Vince did indeed find a jungle that ran haphazard to the sea. Birds were everywhere, small lizards scurried across the road and he could hear waves crashing upon the beach. There was a small cleared area that seemed to be for parking vehicles. That was okay. He'd live far enough into the jungle that visitors wouldn't bother him. When he reached the beach he tore off his clothes and ran into the surf. It was glorious. His dream, come true.

  It took only a few hours for Vince to realize that the only fruit were stunted banana trees with small green bananas that tasted bitter. He did find a kind of burdock that reminded him of his mother's creations, boiled then fried with eggs and parmesan cheese. Surely, with all the birds about, he could find eggs. There was also lots of dandelion and a root which looked very much like a potato. And, wonder of wonders, there was a spring-fed creek that ran into the sea. Yes, this would be his exotic paradise.

  After three weeks the sun was too blinding, the sand too hot, the air too humid and the food too offensive...and he was lonely. No more the delightful chatter with his friends under Union Station, no more sipping Albert's wine, no more laughing at the fragility of the world and its foibles. He found plenty to eat, in particular bird eggs, crabs that scurried about on the beach and small fish that swam near the shore. He learned how to make fire with dry sticks, a talent he was quite proud of. Yet, it was not the idyllic life of his dreams. His clothes were now in tatters and his beard was long and scraggly and he suffered from periodic headaches.

  One day he awoke to hear screams on the beach. He ran to investigate and found two old people bound together with rope. They pleaded with him not to hurt them. He said he had no intention of hurting them...then he cut their bindings. They explained that they lived on the island and had several shops in town and had come for an afternoon to this quiet place when they were accosted by two thugs who stole their jewellry and the woman's purse. The were so grateful that, when they learned that Vince actually lived in the jungle, they offered him a job in one of their stores. Vince at first refused, then thought that he might earn enough to buy clothes and supplies–so agreed to their proposal.

  Vince began working in a small shop with sparse living quarters in the back. It sold trinkets, souvenirs, pottery made by local craftsmen, glass goblets and other assorted junk. He hated it. He hated the tourists that fingered every item then left without buying a thing. He hated the local street merchants who followed the tourists with handfuls of souvenirs. He hated his living quarters with faucets that provided brownish water. He hated this Caribbean island dedicated to tourism.

  When Vince had made sufficient money, he thanked the owners profusely for their good nature and job offer and he flew home, to Toronto, to the cellars beneath Union Station.

  It was late afternoon when he arrived home. His cot was still there, untouched. His collection of trinkets, souvenirs and cheap watches were still there. Nothing had been moved. Vince sat on the cot and cried. Soon his friends began arriving after their day of selling on street corners. It was dark and they didn't see him. He waited until all had arrived, then he lit the kerosene lamp by his cot. Everyone jumped to their feet, shouting and laughing and rushing to his side. Albert waved his bottle of wine, the Chinese began to ba
bble, Jacob the Jew pulled his hair nervously and uttered what seemed like a prayer and the ladies each hugged Vince warmly. Vince was home. Vince was happy. He had learned a great lesson, something they didn't teach him in university: friends are more important than money, more important than locale and one's dreams should always include the people you hold dear.

 

  Chapter One

  I fell in love with her the moment I saw her, at Jake's New Year's party. She was surrounded by guys, she was talking and they were listening. I was tempted to join the crowd, but I'm not that bold. In fact, I guess I'm rather shy when it comes to women, but her animated speech, the huge smile, the giggle and laugh–I was charmed, spellbound, bewitched. I couldn't get her out of my mind. I was determined to contrive a meeting, somehow.

  From friends, especially Jake, I learned that her parents had both died in a car accident and that she lived alone. I also learned that she had inherited a cottage on Lake Simcoe. One Saturday in June I drove by her cottage and found that the cottage next door was for sale. I bought it without haggling over the price. I'm sure I paid too much because the guy who sold it to me was smiling throughout the whole negotiation. Nevertheless, it was now mine so I spent Sunday there, hoping to see the girl next door. No luck.

  The following Friday I arrived early evening and saw her car sitting on the grass, roadside of her cottage. She was actually mowing her lawn with a push mower. The lots are not that large, perhaps a quarter acre, but that was hard work. I immediately turned about and drove to a Canadian Tire store in Barrie and bought a riding mower. I was sure I had paid too much, but I didn't have time to look around for better prices. I was worried that it'd arrive some time in the following week, but they said they'd deliver it Saturday morning...so I was a happy fellow. When I returned to my cottage she wasn't mowing, but her mower was on her partially mowed lawn. I parked my car, went inside with a case of cold beer that I had bought in town along with a large pepperoni pizza and sat on the lakeside porch. I kept looking across at her cottage, but I didn't see her that night.

  First thing Saturday morning I drove again into town and bought a pound of hamburger, some onions, some tomatoes, sliced cheese, buns and a head of lettuce. I had thought about this for much of the night. I'd invite her over for hamburgers. The riding mower arrived before noon and I let it sit back of the cottage, roadside, so she'd see it. I didn't see her all day, but at dinner time I started the gas barbecue that came with the cottage and began frying my dinner. Every few minutes I look across at her cottage. By 7:30 she appeared, sipping from a glass. She didn't look in my direction, so I shouted, asking if she'd like to share my simple meal of hamburger and salad. She jumped up, gave me that huge smile, said to wait a minute, went inside then appeared again with a bottle of red wine. I can't describe how pleased I was. She was absolutely delightful: she had an charming giggle-laugh, her eyes twinkled, her hands flew up and down when she spoke. She was gorgeous. However, she was a vegetarian and didn't want any hamburgers. I gave her my salad and I ate four burgers with onions, tomato, cheese and ketchup. I was bloated. When I pulled out the apple pie I had brought from home, she ate three pieces. I couldn't understand how she kept so slim, with such an appetite.

  "I have a riding mower," I said. "You can use it whenever you want. I'll keep it in that shed out back and get you another set of keys for the shed."

  I leaned back, hoping for a sign of appreciation, for her eyes to light up, the huge smile. She wiped the last piece of pie from her lips and chuckled.

  "Why do you need two mowers?" she asked.

  "No," I said, "I just bought that one out back. I bought it yesterday and..."

  "You mean old man Jacob didn't leave the mower in the shed?"

  I coughed and spilled beer on my shirt.

  "Uh, I haven't actually looked in the shed...yet."

  "Let's look!" she said, jumping to her feet. She ran to the shed and waited for me to open it. Yes, there was an old mower in there. I felt like an idiot.

  "Oh my," I muttered. "I...uh...would you like the old mower? Or the new one."

  She giggled and gave me a hug. "You're so sweet," she whispered.

  It almost seemed worth the purchase of the extra mower just to have her hug me.

  By about eleven o'clock she left, just like that. She got up, grabbed the empty wine bottle and trotted over to her cottage. She never said goodbye, never said thank you, nothing. She just left. I turned on my porch light so she could find her way across the lawn. I could see her open the door and disappear into her cottage. Funny girl. I was about to go into the cottage when her porch light came on and she appeared at her door.

  She waved. "Hi there!" she shouted. "That was a lovely evening and I thank you so very much!"

  "Uh...we have to do it again!" I shouted.

  "Yes, let's." Then she disappeared and her porch light went out.

  Chapter Two

  When I thought about the evening, the next morning, I realized that I hadn't even asked her name. Then, she never asked for mine either. However, we laughed a lot and told stories and enjoyed the wine and we did agree to do it again. I couldn't wait.

  I had given her the keys to my shed, the only pair I had, and later in the morning I saw her mowing her lawn. Ah, but she was using my brand new mower and seemed quite comfortable doing so. I had hoped to teach her how, but she obviously didn't need my help. When she was finished, I was about to ask her over for a drink or maybe breakfast or just to chat, but two cars drove up. An old couple got out of one and a young woman got out of the other. I didn't see her again that weekend. Although I went to my cottage every weekend in June, I never saw her again until mid-July. As far as I could tell, she never had visitors except that day in June. In particular, I didn't see any evidence of a boyfriend. That was good.

  I needed to get the keys to my shed in order to make a second pair for her. She had forgotten to return them. It was getting close to noon, on a Sunday, when she appeared, walking toward my cottage carrying a box.

  "Hi neighbour," she said. "Lunch. Are you up for it?"

  I opened the door and she came in and set the box on the table. In it were grilled cheese sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil, a large bowl of potato salad, some nachos and melted cheese and two bottles of cold beer. I didn't have a chance to respond to her question. Yes, I would definitely be up for lunch. She pulled a couple of dishes, cutlery and large glasses from the kitchen, as though she was well aware of where everything was. Had she done this with the previous owner?

  "Have a seat," she said. I sat–and we began to eat.

  After lunch she washed the dishes and cutlery and I dried. She returned them to their rightful place then collapsed on the couch with a glass of beer.

  "Come," she said. "Sit here." I sat beside her. "I think we should get to know each other, don't you think?" Before I could answer, with great enthusiasm, she began to tell me about herself.

  "My name is Sally and I was born and raised in Toronto, had a lovely childhood, played mostly with the boys, moved to Waterloo to go to university, got a job in Oakville with a travel agency, parents died six years ago in a terrible accident. I was their only child and I bought a condo by the lake with my inheritance."

  She paused, then: "Are you Catholic? I didn't see you at church this morning."

  Now I was in trouble. I had never given much thought to religion, but assumed I was an atheist.

  "Well, no," I said. "Uh...I...I'm an atheist I guess."

  "Well, we'll have to change that," she said, giggling. "I'll work on it. Now, what about you? Your life story, please." She leaned back and waited.

  I took a sip of beer, then:

  "I was also born and raised in Toronto, went to the University of Toronto for an engineering degree, then to the university of Illinois for a graduate degree, then got a job teaching at the University of Waterloo. I assume you got your degree there, in Waterloo. What a small world, eh?"

  I paused, but she just waited for m
e to continue. I took another sip of beer.

  "I was there, at U of W, for years. Then I was offered a job in Burlington in graphic design and have been there for about three years."

  "Your name?" she asked.

  "Oh, yes, I'm Harold. Pleased to meet you Sally."

  I smiled, but she sipped her beer.

  "Girl friend?" she asked.

  "Nope."

  "Boy friend?"

  "Well, I do have male friends, but..."

  "Well, I'm a lesbian," she said.

  I spilled beer all over my pants.

  "You are an atheist," she murmured. "I said I'll try to change that. I said I'm lesbian. You have my permission to try to change that."

  Sally giggled, set her glass on the coffee table, then began to unbutton her blouse. I watched in astonishment. Was she suggesting some sort of sexual encounter? By the time she was down to bra and panties, it was quite clear.

  "Harold, you spilled beer on your pants," she whispered. "Take them off."

  I barely remember the rest of the afternoon.

  Chapter Three

  For the rest of the summer and all the next summer we met, Sally and I, each weekend. On Sundays, after we both went to a small Catholic church not far from the cottage, she would bring lunch to my cottage, saying: "Lunch. Are you up for it?" It took me a while to decipher that comment. Between the grilled cheese and the apple pie we made love. Those were memorable days of delight.

  I knew that I could not live without this girl. She needed to be by my side for the rest of my days. I decided to ask her to marry me. If she wanted ...needed an occasional female companion, a lover, I would accept that. It was on a Saturday afternoon that I approached her. She was sitting on her lakeside porch, sipping white wine, her eyes closed, immersing herself in the perfect day. I knelt before her and coughed quietly, holding the small velvet covered ring box. The ring was almost a carat and cost me a fortune. I might have got it at a lesser price had I shopped around, but this was to be the day and I was eager. She opened her eyes slowly, then she sat upright and flashed that huge smile.