A not boring day

I had been talking up the coming weekend probably from Monday on.

I was boring my friends, in fact, about those two blessed days, telling them I was going to de-stress because I had exactly zero responsibilities. No J-Man to feed and no parental responsibilities back at the Toronto homestead.

The truth, of course, was that I was stressing over every little thing I wanted to accomplish on my two days off. In typical me fashion.

I had a blog to finish, for starters. A blog that should have written itself that was already nearly two weeks in the works. I needed a haircut. My apartment was a mess. I was running out of beer. The list went on.

And all I really wanted to do was sleep.

My day would begin dark and early at 5 am as I had to do my Saturday shift at my landscaping job, but I was okay with that because my pal Malcolm - an ex Brock landscaper - was dropping by for a visit after our three-hour shift.

Hugs all 'round when this boy shows up. He's just that kinda guy.

Meet Ricky. As he's eating breakfast (followed by a nap),
he'd prefer not to be disturbed

But the first thing that happened to make this a Not Boring Day was when I met Ricky.

Brandon and I were on our second mall (of three) of the morning when I approached the garbage bin in front of the Food Basics store on Westney Road in Ajax, with the intent of changing the bag.

And then the bag moved. WTF? So I peeked inside and there was this raccoon, as chill as the morning air and twice as adorable, nestled amongst the garbage, gnawing on something edible and staring up at me as if to say, "what's up bub? I'm trying to eat my breakfast here."

So naturally I called Brandon over for a look, and he offered the cautionary advice to send him on his way before he scares the hell out of the arriving shoppers.

"Nah, let him have his breakfast," I said. "We'll check up on him before we leave."

Thirty minutes later I peeked in to his bin and we found him fast asleep, and attracting a crowd to boot. Okay, it was one curious Food Basics staffer, but still, that makes three of us (plus Ricky) and three's a crowd, right?

So I tipped the bin over to coax Ricky out and he grudgingly left his bed to slowly make his way along the sidewalk in the direction of someplace other than the shopping plaza.

Two Brandons and a Malcolm. The (bearded)
Warriors Three

Brandon followed at a discreet distance behind, filming the event and looking for all to see like he was taking his pet raccoon for a walk. This 100-metre journey took some time, as Rickey's pace (and Brandon's) reached a top speed of amble, which was slower than a saunter and barely half as fast as mosey.

Understandable as the poor guy just got rudely woken up from a nap. Rickey; not Brandon.

But all good things must come to an end, including the adventures with Ricky, as well as a litter run at dawn on a Saturday morning, and our three crews eventually returned to the shop, where Malcolm (who actually took the bus in to see us) was waiting.

We caught up for a bit before I squeezed five of us in my little car - two Brandons, Malcolm, Dimitri and myself - to pop over to see another ex Brock guy, Kuda, who lived just a few minutes away.

All good people, and my friends, so we listened to tunes (mostly Rap and Kuda's Zimbabwean Dance Hall stuff), we blazed and we talked about the good times. And then we blazed some more.

All in all, a very good morning.

Dance Hall music. The soundtrack to
my friend Kuda's life

One of the Brandons had to go to another job before lunch so I packed the guys in my car again and headed to Oshawa, making drops along the way, before I hit up the local No Frills for some groceries.

That's when I saw the couple arguing in the produce section. He was early 30s; his wife a few years younger, and they were obviously from somewhere in the Middle East. She was clearly choosing the wrong vegetables, because he was jabbing a finger in her face and talking sharply to her.

And then he hit her. Just drew back in a crowded grocery store and hit his wife in the face with the side of his hand.

Now, I'm not now nor have ever been a tough guy, and my younger days were littered with moments when action was required but I stood frozen; unable to make a decision.

But I had to say something.

"Hey-Hey-Hey-HEY-HEY-HEY!

That's more or less what I shouted,  attracting the attention of everyone in the produce section, as well as the husband, who by this time was thirty feet away and almost around the corner.

We locked eyes and I gave him the evil stare-down for three or four seconds before he broke it off and they disappeared into the next aisle.

A woman approached me while I was standing there - still in shock at what I saw and still seething with anger - and said she saw what happened and was glad someone spoke up.

That made me feel good. But I'm not going to pretend I made much of a difference in the young woman's life. I hope what I did made her husband at least stop and think about his actions, and more importantly, if this incident empowers his wife in any way to understand that what happened in the grocery store that morning was abuse and is not accepted, then even better.

Still, I worry.

I spent the next few hours trying to calm down and write my blog but I made very little progress (I would finish it the next day) before shutting down my laptop and heading out to run my errands.

The legendary Four Corners APA and Brave New World IPA was in the fridge, so I hit up Town Brewery for the beer but the haircut would have to wait until the next day as every hair cut place in the city closed at 6 on Saturdays.

I guess I should have known that.

So shortly after six-thirty I stopped in at Buster's for a beer.

Shanice was behind the bar and Alex, the restaurant's general manager, was there as well, so we chatted for a few minutes while I sipped on a Karma Citra IPA. And then Alex asked me if I would join him outside for a smoke.

I don't smoke and Alex knows that so I figured something was up and when we were around the corner from the front doors he gave me the news.

"I wanted you to hear this before you see it on social media," he explained, as my ears and antennae both sprang to attention. "Buster Rhino's is closing."

My local, my second home (almost), my former place of employment and the home base for most of my friends in this world, was shutting down. In two weeks.

I was gobsmacked.

Buster Rhino's boss Darryl Koster

Alex said Darryl, that polished, profound and pragmatic proprietor of Buster's, had decided to consolidate his efforts in Whitby, home of the original Buster Rhino's and the site of his production facility, where the meat is smoked and his other products - rubs and spices, jerky, pig candy, pork rinds, etc - are created and marketed for his retail customers.

I would see Darryl the next day and a few other times over this past week and he would provide more details on his decision - fodder for a future blog - but the shock still hasn't worn off.

It was a business decision and I understand it was Darryl's right to make that decision, and I also know there will be a few parties before the bar closes its doors for good on October 14.

Still. Gobsmacked.

And a capper on a not at all boring day.

Cheers!