My brother came to visit last week – first time since August before the pandemic – almost two years ago. We discussed current situations to get updated. He is a dozen years younger but for years now hasn’t taken my advice. He did recall one mesmerizing interaction between us that I had forgotten about.
I was working at Wellesley Hospital in Toronto back then – the late seventies.
During the early construction of the Eaton’s Centre, Doug was transferred a supervisory position at the site. I worked only a few blocks and occasionally walked down there on lunchbreak. This particular trek, I came across the new site that had a high wooden fencing surrounding it where excavation was in progress. As was the custom back then, there were eye-level small openings for those passing to look through to satisfy their curiosity about what was happening rather than chance climbing the fence and being susceptible to injury. I hesitated, then drawn to take a look myself. Excavation was already down three stories. I could make out the construction crew below. To my astonishment there was one that looked like my brother. I shouted his name. It bounced around like an echo in that open abyss. He turned, looked up and recognized me. He echoed back that we would get together soon.
Already some others on the sidewalk had gathered speculating what I might be up to. As I was leaving to go back to work, I said to those within earshot, “My brother is down there and he can’t get out.”
The whole happenstance of our crossing was so bizarre. Weeks later, he may have been down so far, he mightn’t have heard my yell. I found the coincidence of our meeting rather surreal.
It reminded me of other weird stories, one while a maintenance buyer at the Hospital and one at the Eaton’s Centre some years later.
While at Wellesley Hospital I would on occasion have lunch across the street. It had booths only and I was seated in one. During my lunch, a couple took the booth directly behind me, probably continuing a tense conversation about the man keeping late nights. Minutes later I heard, “Talk softer, Big Ears is listening.” I was so insulted as I was always conscious of my ears being too big. I left my remaining lunch, stormed over to the person at the counter and said, “Allowing riff-raff customers in spoiled my lunch. I’m not paying for it.” I walked out back across to my workplace. I was still fuming the next day when I was telling a co-worker. The person said, “It was nothing to do with your ears. They probably thought you were eavesdropping.” Of course, that made sense. I went back and paid my bill.
One evening on leaving the Eaton’s Centre (now totally completed, thanks to my brother!), a sleazy looking woman asked me if I would like some mushrooms. I said, ‘no thanks.’ The next morning at my job at Stackpole Packaging, I mentioned about the strange question about the mushrooms. It brought a peel of laughter. My naivety about ‘magic mushrooms’ spread throughout the plant like the joke of the day.
This reminded Doug of a magic mushroom story he had heard. There was fairly small airport in the Vancouver area where those mushrooms grew like weeds. Apparently, people were allowed to go over the fence and pick them, but it was illegal to remove any from within the fence. The cops had this point as a prime surveillance one that could lead to an arrest. A compromise solution did occur. Some decided to camp out for a week or two amongst the mushrooms without leaving. It became a perfectly diverse place to lose yourself in an epic psychedelic trip.
His was the first family visitor I had overnight prior to Covid. It was a little awkward at first. His small dog he brought with him, cute but feisty, terrified our cats the whole time. Poor Muffin was traumatized long after they left.
Because we were somewhat hesitant when at first, I wonder about meeting other friends and acquaintances after the shutdown and if we will be able to pick up where we left off.
