Righty and Lefty

I’m standing at the corner of Queen and Yonge Streets in Toronto, wondering what the hell happened to the subway station? I know there’s one here. Thirty years ago, I used it twice a day on my way to and from work, and while many things about this city have changed, I’m fairly confident the subway still exists, since the trip planner I printed from the Toronto Transit Commission website advises me to board the northbound train at Queen and Yonge.

At five PM on Thursday evening, the sidewalk is a heaving mass of homeward bound refugees from the office towers surrounding the intersection. I press my back against the building behind me and watch the faces flowing past. They are big-city faces, vaguely scowling and compensating for the jostling of the crowd by avoiding eye-contact. I am reluctant to ask for help.

Further along the street, the commuter river divides; half if it continues along the street, the other half seems to be walking into the glass wall of an unfamiliar building. In the hope they are heading for the subway, I put on my grumpy face (to avoid looking like the country hick I am now) and jump into the river, which carries me to the top of an escalator. Everyone else is getting on, so I do as well. The escalator decants us into the familiar grey and navy tiles of the Queen Street subway station.

Like riding a bicycle, subway commuting is an unforgettable skill. I don’t need to look at signs; my feet automatically shuffle toward the transfer machine. By the time I remember I don’t need a transfer, I’m already holding one and standing on the northbound platform. I step back, along with everyone else, when the familiar whoosh of hot air preceding the arrival of a train blows through the station. Onboard, I shuffle to the centre of the car and inhale the subway smell, a dusty blend of personal grooming products with underlying hints of garlic and sweat and urine. When we arrive at Bloor and Yonge, I navigate my way to the westbound platform on autopilot, feeling like a time traveler.

I’m sitting there on the train, basking in the sensation of being thirty years younger, when the woman seated across from me takes a book out of her purse and starts to read. Immediately, an argument between my shoulder imps erupts.

Righty: Look! She’s reading my book! I should go over and ask her if she’s enjoying it.

Lefty: Fool! Don’t do that! What if she hates it?

Righty: She’s over halfway through. She doesn’t hate it.

Lefty: Maybe she has nothing else to read.

Righty: I can just ask. I don’t have to tell her I’m the author.

Lefty: What if she’s seen my picture at the back? She might recognize me. How embarrassing would that be?

Righty: Okay. How about this? If she smiles while she’s reading, I’ll go over and ask.

Lefty: Fine. But if she frowns…

At which point the train pulls into a station and the woman, still reading, gets up and exits the car.

Righty: See? She likes it.

Lefty: Well, let’s hope they like it tonight.

Which is when I suddenly remember why I’m on the subway in the first place. I’m on my way to be the “conversation” at a Cocktails and Conversation event being hosted at the Kingsway LCBO. (For my international friends, LCBO stands for Liquor Control Board of Ontario. In Canada, alcohol is a controlled substance only available at government outlets.)

Lefty: Wish I hadn’t forgotten to bring the speech.

Righty: I’ll wing it – just answer questions.

Lefty: What if they don’t ask any questions?

Stumped by this one, Righty shuts up. Lefty snuggles in under my ear and chants “I’m doomed, I’m doomed…”  for the rest of the trip.

But Righty’s strategy proves sound. The twenty or so ladies who show up for conversation - well lubricated with pumpkin pie cocktails, two kinds of wine and an nicely hoppy beer - ask lots of questions, some of which I can actually answer. We yak away like old friends while I brush samosa crumbs off my sweater and try not to be too obvious about refilling my wine glass.

The next morning, I have some time to kill before catching the bus home. The restaurant where I have breakfast happens to be across the street from Maple Leaf Gardens, where I attended a Beatles concert when I was sixteen. Inspired by this and the previous day’s transit regression, I decide to take the Carlton street car out to High Park, where I shared a three room flat with five other Beatlemaniacs forty years ago.

Streetcars, it turns out, still smell like chlorine and gas fumes and sweat. I take a seat by the window, already halfway down memory lane. A woman sits across the aisle from me and starts looking for something in her purse. I catch a glimpse of a pink book. Without hesitation, I leap up and scramble off the streetcar.

Righty: I’ll bet that was my book.

Lefty: It was probably someone else’s book.

Me: Oh shut-up!