I'm underground, the Toronto Subway, I run into someone I know standing outside the turnstiles. We talk, he tells me he's working, I can too, just standing there, people coming and going. And I'm wondering why we don't have uniforms, jackets like the other transit security people, and he's reassuring me, the uniforms are coming, we're both pretty shabbily dressed. Off in distance I see someone, older man, reminds me of Sammi from the old restaurant, Tunisian motherfucker who stole my daughter's vacation allowance, it's not him, but somehow reminds me of him, this older fellow, he has an accent I recognize, and a quiet dignity that Sammi never had...
I get bored with this standing by the turnstiles and go through, into a shop on the other side, I've got a pocket full of lottery and sweepstakes tickets I need to check. And the shop owner, a little East Indian woman with a part of the shop separated off with cardboard boxes, a half-living space, she's telling me that I can only check the one on this machine, and now I'm crawling around amidst all these other lottery machines that look like old pinball games, bright vintage and foreign motifs, trying to find the laser to check them all, there's hundreds in here, I'm not even sure that all the tickets have been drawn...
She - the shop owner - speaks with somebody that's just come in, middle aged, shirt open, unbuttoned, he's got a plastic fork stuck in his fleshy orange nipple. He walks outside, I follow him, he's talking to me while looking straight ahead..."That was real good", and I know what he's talking about, I've never tried it, too dangerous, addictive, but clearly it's done wonders if he can't feel that fork in his nipple...