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07/10/2005: "Summer is Angry"

I'm at the northwest corner of Harbord and Spadina, resisting an urge for a slice of Pepe's pizza, when I hear a man shouting. I turn to see a car stopped at the red light, the driver yelling at the woman seated next to him. The man looks at me, then the woman turns to look. I look back at them. Through their open car window, the man shouts in my direction. I look at him. The car turns the corner and pulls to a stop. The man, in sunglasses, gets out of his car and comes towards me. I don't move. He yells some more but I don't hear. All I feel is his anger. I say, "Sir, you seem angry." I'm not sure if he's going to hit me. He does not. Instead, he says, "You better watch who you mess with." Then he gets back in his car and speeds off into the evening.

I don't believe I'm being confrontational. I don't want to be a hero. But when people live their private lives in public space, what's the appropriate conduct? Should I duck my head when the man turns my way and defer to his anger? Should I meet his anger with anger of my own, and fight it out in front of Pepe's Pizzeria? Or do I go Ghandi on him, letting his anger flow through me, accepting whatever he chooses to inflict on me? I want to believe that this man is decent and loving, that the humidity and downtown congestion are warping his sensibilities on an otherwise delightful Saturday. And I want to feel able to travel my path through the city, merging with others on a similar course. Though these days, that's seems a dangerous proposition.

Eating ice cream sandwiches outside the Queen West 7-11, I watch with friends as the store clerk rushes out to confront a car pulling out from the gas bar. The car stops in a parking stall, and a tall black man gets out of the driver's seat. He gets into the clerk's face, and the two men stand three inches from each other, shouting. The clerk accuses the man of stealing gas while the man refutes the charge. The clerk returns to the store, then the man follows in behind him.

Maybe it's too many cars in too small a downtown in too thick a heat, but there's a tangible aggressiveness in the air. I'm as guilty as anybody. Riding my bicycle west along Dundas Street, I come to a stop at the Bathurst Street lights. I drift towards the intersection, in among the pedestrians, when I come to realise that I'm blocking a car signalling a right turn. The driver looks at me and raises his palms, as if to say, "Get the hell outta the way." I look at him and shrug my shoulders, as if to say, "Too bad for you." When the light changes, I continue west, while the car waits for pedestrians to finish crossing the street. This summer in the city, there's no room for the friendly.