A sunny day on Bloor

By John

I woke late but still took my time getting out the door.

I enjoyed a bowl of cereal with yogurt, and listened to a quick podcast. The sun shone through the windows and for a moment I contemplated shirking my responsibilities, but I talked myself out of it.

It was a glorious day to walk along Bloor, so I did, in spite of my tardiness. I was heading to Dufferin to volunteer at a community food center. I felt the sun warm my winter-wary bones; I love a springtime walk, when the juxtaposition between sun and shade is at its most tangible.

Around Ossington I saw a familiar face. Weeks ago I met a girl - a fellow volunteer - at the food center on one of my first days. She was very bohemian - baggy clothes and plaid patterns, topped with a toque. She was flighty and spacey, overeager and jumpy; she had the attention span of a chipmunk.

I found her off-putting immediately. Her erraticness was annoying, and I wasn't interested in her overdone unwashed neo-hippy stylings - bordering on destitute, but rooted in the denim and slogan-button style of my generation. Frankly, her style would have been more engaging on an attractive frame; this girl looked malnourished.

Back on Bloor: I saw this girl sitting on the street speaking to herself or no one in particular. She was dirty and I could smell her as I approached.

I have no idea how many nights she had been on the street.

I averted my eyes as soon as I made the connection. I didn't want to acknowledge her poverty - I had no idea how to handle it. I didn't want her to recognize me, showered and listening to my iPod, blissful on a sunny day, stomach full.

I passed her, and I have no idea if she made the same connection I did. Behind me, I could sense movement, but fought the urge to look behind me. She passed me with quick strides, and crossed the next road while I was detained by the orange hand.

I was lost in thought, and unconsciously slowed my pace. Her form shrank ahead of me, but I knew her destination. As the building neared, I pondered how to handle our inevitable contact.

Confrontation never happened; she didn't come in the building. All day. I began to worry. In compensation for our volunteer labour, we are given a hearty lunch and fresh produce to take home. This could be her only meal today, and her only source of food all week.

Did she notice me recognize her on the street? Was she embarrassed by her situation? Was she insulted by the callous way I ignored her?

I was distracted throughout the day by conversation and work. I had all but forgotten about her as I walked along Bloor towards home.

She was ahead of me, sitting on the sidewalk, narrating her situation to deaf ears as they passed.

I walked past her, put my food box down on a sidewalk planter, reached in and grabbed two oranges.

"Can I give you two oranges?" I asked her, looking into her eyes for perhaps the first time since I had made her acquaintance. They were grey-blue, and disengaged.

"No thank you, why don't you give them to that lady?" she said, gesturing disinterestedly at a woman sitting on a bench ten paces down the street.

Maybe she genuinely didn't want the oranges - maybe the flavour doesn't appeal to her, maybe she hates the stickiness on her fingers after peeling them.

Maybe she has a general policy of not accepting handouts from strangers on the street.

Maybe, maybe.

But I could tell from the look in her eyes that she recognized me when I offered her oranges.

She recognized me as the guy from the food center who didn't acknowledge her that morning, who walked by briskly, deliberately not making eye contact - denying her humanity. She wasn't looking for food, she was looking for contact.

I have no idea how I will sleep tonight.