The Toronto Shower

Toronto, Canada

I could only feel sorry for her, a wave of pity shooting through me like an arrow to the gut. She was perhaps 16, blond locks falling to shoulders, short tartan skirt rolled at the waist to take its level above mid-thigh. Bare legs, naked, no tights, no stockings, just tiny pale socks. And on her feet I could see unlaced, light brown walking boots. The girl was a serious contradiction in fashion, something clearly ignored as she stood on the Toronto street corner tapping bare handed on her mobile. I looked hard at her exposed legs, not something a male does easily in modern Canada, as accusations can so easily fly, and then I looked harder still.

“Don’t do this,” I could hear my inner voice shouting. Yet somehow, I just had to look. The legs were smooth, perfect colour, their owner untroubled and, remarkably, there was not a goose pimple to see.

I wanted to stop, to say, “Excuse me young lady,” wait for her to turn, and to stare at me, the ageing male, with confusion.

“Yes?” she would reply.

“Do you realise you have no goose bumps?” I would say, astonishment to my tone.

“So?”

“Well you should have,” I would add. “That is normal physiology.” I imagined then she would roll her eyes to Heaven and return once more to texting all humanity about the wandering Brit looking at ladies’ legs for goose bumps.

But no, I did not. I stayed silent. I glanced, I saw and I noted. The young girl standing on the street corner was Canadian, there was snow all around and the temperature was well minus. I was wrapped up like a duvet; thick mittens, umpteen layers, feather jacket with hood secured tight. But Canadians are to snow what Bedouin Arabs are to heat and for some reason cannot feel pain. They are adapted, trained, educated to handle, and stagger through weather systems that would destroy others in moments. Cold is second nature to a Canadian.

But even they can tumble. Each year, 3000 Toronto locals do face plants on snow-ridden sidewalks, despite 600 snowploughs, and 200 salt trucks spitting out 150,000 tonnes of crystals each winter. It costs the city a boggling $Canadian 94 million each year to keep the place free of snow, and that is only the main roads. They do not even think of clearing the minor ones before eight centimetres of white stuff has made groundfall.

Walk the streets in winter and you can see why a Canadian might stumble. It is cold, often windy, so they walk fast, head down, hood up, face serious. Smiling outdoors is not something Canadians do. Indoors they may giggle. Outdoors they look solemn. Think the Swiss are serious? Try a Canadian in the cold. They look forward, eyes glazed, glancing neither left nor right.

So, imagine. There you are, the Canadian, gloved hands in pockets, hunched, hood pulled down face tight, nose cold, eyes watering and you glance up. Your peek is quick, transient, rapid, as looking forwards in winter is not something Canadians do. There before you is a central core of cleared sidewalk. For some reason, they do not sweep the edges and leave the snow as margins, lying in ridge-like mounds. Wide sidewalks become narrow, narrow become minuscule. They place metal grilles at frequent intervals, slippery as can be, to be sure Canadian balance is up to par. After all, what would the emergency services do if 3000 Canadians no longer face-planted in winter?

Core-central, 20 metres distant, is a fellow Canadian heading in your direction at pace. She, maybe he, possibly even transgender - there are plenty of those in Toronto - has head down, pocketed hands, hood drawn tight, headphones in place and has the air of an escaping Martian. The alien, who is at least wearing trousers, does not look up, you are fairly sure intentionally, and the sidewalk has room for one. Actually, on occasion even one is too much, as Canada is in the global top ten for obesity. So, you stop in your track, remain dead still, as you, too, are core central. The alien keeps coming, you start to worry, as one of you, imminently, must give way.

It is the truck that saves you. The alien is in a distant land, headphones blaring, head nodding, gaze down, hood still tight, walking with determination. But the alien is also locked away, Planet Earth could explode and he, she, or in-between would have no knowledge. You see the truck coming. It is white, at least was white before the snow and the ice and the grime and the filth covered it all over with grunge. It is winter, things get dirty, outdoor washing is difficult, as pipes and showers and taps are frozen. Expensive things look grubby in winter.

It is as if slow motion. The alien strides by the ice-covered puddle in the roadside gutter, water that is perfectly camouflaged by a layer of dirt brown sludge. The front wheel of the truck hits the muck, breaks through the ice and dirt-impregnated water shoots upwards, outwards, at perfect head height, and exactly as a geyser. You watch, you wait, you cannot believe. The alien still strides, gaze down, hood tight, walking, until the Toronto shower. A shower that is unwanted, uncalled for, sudden, unwelcome and damaging. A shower that at any moment will leave the alien soaked through to the skin.

“Hey!” you hear the alien shout, at least a scream which now indicates a female. She stumbles to her right, staggering, up to mid-shin in the ridge of snow. You see her left hand come from its pocket, middle finger extended, you see the tiny portion of exposed forehead wrinkle and you hear the obscenities blasting from the alien mouth.

But you see an opportunity too. Life, after all, is about seizing chances. You start to walk, you pick up speed, you put head down, and within seconds you are on your way. It is your turn now to dominate the central core, untouched by Toronto shower, without need to yell vulgarities, without need to fling a sign. As you pass, you grunt a half French acknowledgement at the alien, who is sweeping herself down and glances at you with irritation, but within moments you are past and you are away.