It was at Bathurst Street, near St. Clair. He was sitting at a table outside a coffee shop talking with some other guy. Bigger than I thought he'd be. Fatter too. He was emphasizing some point about something that was obviously important to him at the moment.
In all honesty, I felt worse than the time I discovered that I'd been inadvertently talking to Christie Belchforth. Being in the presence of this vile racist, shameless liar, torture apologist, boorish creep, made me want to have a shower. I walked a couple of paces away though, and then turned back out of morbid curiosity. I wanted to determine if that was him and then force myself to get a clear picture of the sort of failure the human species is capable of producing.
Two people thought I was staring at them. I apologized. I just said: "That's Ezra Levant." They said "Who?" I said "He's a horrible person. He's written all sorts of vile, racist stuff." They looked in his direction and then back to me with disinterest. (God bless 'em!) I apologized again for having disturbed them and then went on my way.
Got on the eastbound streetcar at St. Clair West Station. Older white dude, 70-something, got on the side doors. A Remembrance Day poppy on each lapel of his sports jacket. He spoke out in a loud, grating voice:
A black woman (in her 50's I'd guess) at the front laughed a little. He carried on:
"Good day driver! How are you?"
The old guy took his seat. The black woman spoke to him with a Caribbean accent:
"And how are you? How is your wife?"
"Wife? Wife? I don't ..."
The woman realized she'd mistaken him for someone else and tried to make this clear to the guy. But he was off to the races.
"No Dear. I'm HAPPILY un-married!"
"I see." said the woman, trying to put her mistake behind her.
"No. All of my relationships fizzled out."
"And now I'm the most eligible bachelor in Toronto!"
"And how are you, Sweetie?"
"I'm fine. I thought you were someone ..."
"That's what it's like after a few sips of Captain Morgan's rum. S-W-E-E-E-T!"
"Well, I don't ..."
"Yes! Sweet! But I'd guess you're not a Captain Morgan's drinker! You're more an Appleby's drinker."
I assumed this was some Jamaican brand of rum. I couldn't bear to sit and listen to this pompous ass all the way to Yonge Street, so I got off at the next stop. I got on the next streetcar and when we passed the next stop I saw that the woman had gotten off there. For some reason, she didn't get on our streetcar.
At Yonge Station, we pulled up behind my original streetcar and the driver was getting some sand for his sandbox. I asked if things had escalated. He said that the woman got off at the next stop (which I knew) and that she'd handled it all fairly well. She told him she wasn't from Jamaica. The old guy settled down after that.
I went down to the subway and the old guy was walking around in front of the newstand, following a lone pigeon. He had his arms outstretched, and was saying "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." over and over as he harassed the bird.