7-11 After Dark
A Christmas Eve Adventure
Every story has to start somewhere, this is where my story begins. Christmas eve alone in downtown Toronto. My friends didn't make plans because everyone assumed that everyone else would have plans with their families. I'm still avoiding spending prolonged periods of time with my family because every time I go home I feel like I go back to an old and stagnant mental state, a lesser version of myself. That all the progress I've made since then somehow will get erased and invalidated and I'll get sucked back into the void of my old life. Maybe this is mostly irrational but I can't deny that different places have different energies and it's important to go where the energy feels right for you at the moment. In any case I can see my old life fading away into obscurity every time I look back, I can no longer recall what it was like to live in San Francisco, or San Jose before that, or Toronto, only echoes.
Truthfully I'm not completely alone at all. There's around 15 people staying with me in Mimos Co-living - it's wonderfully cozy there, and I love all the people who live there, but it's also an in between place, kind of like a hostel except there's even less bonding that happens because everyone is there with their heads down and knee deep into the struggles of practical life, looking for a job, focusing on studies, trying to make ends meet working 3 jobs at once, worried about getting visas, all that good stuff, instead of avoiding ‘real life’ problems like the good folks I tend to meet in hostels.
I had just met P 30 minutes ago after he came back at the end of a little Christmas gathering that A forced us to organize, it's one of those parties where nobody really wanted to be there but would rather be alone in a room full of strangers than alone in their own room by themselves, because how sad would it be to spend Christmas eve alone in our own rooms listening to music or watching porn or whatever it is people do alone in their rooms, when everyone else is participating in holiday cheer surrounded by loved ones. But we're all outcasts here, or wanderers far from home, we have to find our community somewhere, and so we sit around and laugh and tell stories and paint smiles on our faces until they're so real that we believe we feel loved in our hearts as well.
P comes from a well-to-do upper middle class family in Mumbai. He arrived a few years ago and studies something related to business and finance - after talking to him for five minutes, I can tell right away that this man has big dreams. I think he came to Canada looking for a sense of adventure and to get away from his family, the weight of expectation is heavy on his shoulders and he needed to prove to his father and to himself that he can make it on his own in the world instead of just working in the family business and living a life he didn't choose. Two years ago, in what sounds like a series of miraculous circumstances that only happen a few times in our lives if we're lucky, his friends invited him to a party to meet some other friends, and through the randomness of connections at large parties he was invited to a Center Island excursion for international students studying in Canada, and there fate intervened and he met his girlfriend C. Damn, you should see them together, they have such a wonderful dynamic, she challenges him and encourages him and motivates him and he helps her organize her life and makes her feel safe and takes away the messiness of life so she can focus on her passions (she's studying to be an archeologist!)
P’s story made me think of my own parents' journey. Didn't they do the same thing when they were young, going across the ocean in search of freedom and adventure? Am I not following the same sense of yearning as I wander aimlessly from country to country? The reality though, for them, is much more painful than what they imagined. It's a ton of hard work, long nights, grit, dedication, and exhaustion. He has to balance his business school studies and make enough money to afford rent. To help pay the bills and in the spirit of self reliance, P has been working night shifts at the 7/11 that's right across the street. This is such familiar territory for me - it's the convenient store across from my high school, at the corner of Bloor and Spadina, we would go there for drinks and snacks after school, but I'm ashamed to admit that during my high school years, not once did I consider what was going on in the lives of the people who worked there. I was so self absorbed that if I'm being honest, I treated the employees who heated my taquito and gave me my change as mere automata without feelings and hopes and dreams. It's like I wasn't fully awake back then. But now I can't help but notice all the lives around me, all the experiences etched into the lines of their faces. P invited me to come to his shift tonight and I was excited to get a glimpse into the life he experiences on the other side of the counter.
In the icy blackness just outside the store, the temperature reaches below minus 20 degrees celsius, even without the wind chill - tonight is one of the coldest nights of the winter so far. I can't spend more than 2 minutes outside without my hands starting to hurt. Chatting with the other employees, I found out that they actually had to work in the freezing cold minus 20 degree temperatures all day yesterday - heating was restored only this morning. And yet here they are again, with barely a complaint. It took only a few minutes for me to realize what made this 7-11 location so special - nothing could have prepared me for the scenes I was about to witness. Since the start of the pandemic, the homeless population of Toronto has skyrocketed and become much more visible than it ever was in the past. And this little store is the modern day saloon in the wild west of the homeless community.
Perhaps saloon isn't the most apt description. The customers come in one by one, and usually engage in minimal interactions with each other. But each character that arrives is stranger than the next. An old white man wearing a tattered yellow jacket walks in the store, stays for several moments, and then runs out of the store waving his arms wildly and screaming about nothing and at noone in particular. An old black man coming in to momentarily escape the cold, silently wandering among the trippy color panels of the smoothie section in front of the multi-colored iridescent display of soft drinks in the refrigerator wall, adopts a square walking pattern like an NPC in a video game. Every few minutes another man, usually old and unkempt, comes in to browse the aisles surreptitiously and leaves with gum, chips, or other small items tucked away in their pockets without paying. When the employees notice they write it down in the big binder of incidents, but they know that they don't see at least half of all the shoplifting that goes on, especially when the store is a lot busier. The policy is non-interference, which makes a whole lot of sense, don't want to get caught up in something for the price of some junk food. There's so many people who just walk around talking to themselves, mumbling in a language that's close enough to English for me to pick up a word here and there but is on the whole completely unintelligible. Everyone is rolling around carts filled with trash bags filled with miscellaneous items that look haphazardly gathered in the spirit of hoarding. To stick around this 7-11 is to exist in a constant state of derealization.
A native american man with a cowboy hat and denim jacket buys some hot food from the counter and is surprised when it comes out to over 10 dollars.
“Damn this stuff is expensive - what happened?”
“Sorry sir, the prices are a bit higher these days”
“Can I get a plastic bag please?”
“Sorry sir, we don't have plastic bags here anymore.”
“What do you mean? I see one over there.”
“I can't give you that sir.”
I could hear the tone in his voice escalate from mild annoyance to hints of genuine anger.
“Ok just give me the paper bag over there then.”
“Sir a paper bag will be 35 cents.”
The outrage that followed was understandable but also alarming. I wasn't sure what would happen, some things must be lost in translation, P's indian coworkers kept stating the price of the paper bag matter of factly with no hint of sympathy whatsoever.
“You're kidding me. Give me the bag... how am I supposed to carry this outside without a bag?”
“I'm sorry sir, that's the store policy. It's not just this 7-11, it's every 7-11”
“Motherf-”
The man slammed the door on his way out. Over the next hour several more people asked for a bag and were refused. 35 cents for a paper bag that doesn't even help in the cold (no handles...) makes no sense to me. There was lots of swearing, lots of indifference on the part of the employees, and a lot of customers getting personally upset at those employees for company policies that they have no control over but are bound to uphold. Everyone in the store speaks like they used to speak in Hollywood movies - it's actually incredible how noticeable it is, they come from an older generation that excludes them from social media use and it shows in their language, the hyperreality of their time enshrined in dialogue from television and old films.
A store regular swaggers in and speaks to P and his stoic, immovable indian coworkers who give no verbal response or change of expression.
“Anyone want crystal meth? Any meth heads here? Some narcotics? What about girls, you like girls? Hah, you had to think about that one didn't you. Well after you fuck 'em you don't want them around anymore.”
“Hey don't touch my bike! Anyways this girl sucked my dick and now there's shit on my pants... hey you guys should put up a sign in the window, crystal meth for sale, it'll do wonders for your business, make a lot of money for you, what do you think boss? you like crystal meth right guys? that's right you love it.”
Noone is laughing in the store but him. He asks for a pizza, but P calmly and slowly asks for payment up front.
“Hey why you gotta make me pay first? Give me the damn pizza motherfucker...”
Again, P and his coworkers are dead silent.
“You think I don't got enough money to pay for this don't you. I got money...”
P quietly nods, “I know you got money bro.”
“I get special privileges. I can come to the back of the counter and grab my own cigarettes. Man why you gotta make me pay first?”
“We always make customers pay first it's the policy… you come over here and you pay before we make the pizza.”
I've learned that P never backs down and enforces store policies with an iron fist. The man was too hungry to argue and rummaged through his pockets for some loose change.
P assures me that this is a quiet night. Usually a lot more shit goes down than this. I don't envy having to be here for anything worse on all these night shifts.
At 1am P's girlfriend C comes to visit and pick up some small items. C works part time as a waiter at Enigma, a four dollar sign Michelin Star restaurant in Yorkville, also to support her studies and earn a bit of extra spending money. Next Saturday, for New Year's Eve, they're throwing a fancy party at Enigma for all the employees and their friends and P doesn't wanna miss it, so he has to argue with his boss to not work the Saturday shift. His coworkers try to assure him that it'll be okay.
“You can talk to him, you can take off, don't worry. Seriously, what will the fourth man even do? We've got it covered.”
“When are you working that day? 2-5? Nah 5-11. You know that black guy? Azul? He never stays for scanning, or to stack all the drinks properly.”
There's a definite sense of camaraderie amongst the coworkers, it helps that they all speak the same language - no matter where you go, tribes stick together.
After 2am, the crowd becomes a bit more diverse. Some late-night party goers come in for drinks and vapes. A whole bunch of couples come in from Insomnia, the brunch place that I had no idea turns into a nightclub. I make some small talk with the drunk clubbers and they try to give me tips on the best places to go for Toronto nightlife in drunken slurs. A small girl of about 15 with dirty blonde hair wearing an incredibly dirty blue Canada goose jacket walks in, opens the fridge containing the ice cream bars, and buys a drumstick. After she leaves, P whispers to me, “That girl, she's a regular, heroin addict, she always comes around with her drug addict friends, they're always up to no good. She ran away from home and lives on the streets. Every night around this time she comes to buy ice cream.” I don't know how to respond to this.
Another loud customer with ripped jeans and a torn red jacket walks in and paces back and forth around the store. With almost no warning, he begins shouting to get P's attention after being ignored for half a minute.
“Hello? Can I get the wings? Seriously, I'm over here. Can you make fucking chicken fingers for me?”
P is anything but a pushover. He starts to get pissed as well. “Yo man why are you being like this…” He engages cautiously at first.
“Do you know who I am? I come here all the time. I spend 300 dollars a week. I fucking kick people out for you. I can make your life hell.”
P is not having any of this.
“I don't care if you spend 3000 dollars a week in here. I'm not gonna serve you if you have this attitude.”
“Go fuck yourself bro.”
“Get out of here, I'm not serving you.”
“Are you dumb? You're a fucking bird. Fuck you you're a loser and you hate your life. You're pathetic. If you hate your job like this go get another one.”
This guy will not stop threatening and cursing at P. I'm all for immigration and living life as an adventure, and I get that he can't just go home and start running his family business, that would be like admitting defeat, returning home to the familiar weight of familial obligations and fatherly expectations. But I kept thinking that P doesn't have to take this. He doesn't have to work here. This is too much to take in day after day. Month after month. But he's committed to seeing this through, in taking all the blows in the hardship of his life but I can see the anger and frustration in his face, his stoic facade comes down and he can't hold in his rage any longer. Meanwhile, the angry, bitter man continues his rant.
“You’re gonna do the same thing tomorrow, and the same thing the day after, and the same thing the day after that. You’re pathetic. You’re a bird. You’re a fucking bird.”
P can barely get a word in, this guy keeps spitting in his face.
“Fucking asshole...” P mutters... “I'm a loser? look at yourself-”
The guy isn't done yet. “Look at yourself you pathetic loser, you lazy fat fucker. You're a shit employee who's never gonna get out of here.”
P disengages and moves to the landline behind him - “I'm calling the cops right now” he says, and dials the 3 numbers calmly but assuredly. “I'm not serving you. Get out.”
“Are you serious right now? That's my Christmas dinner...” I could see the anger turn to incredulity and frantic sadness in the man's eyes as it dawns on him that he's not getting his chicken fingers and wings as planned. At this point I can't tell if P actually called 911 or if he's bluffing but someone seems to pick up on the other end and he sees this through.
“Excuse me, there's a disturbance at 451 Bloor Street West, there's a man here refusing to depart from the 7/11. He's getting violent, spitting in my face.”
The man starts to get defensive and antsy, “Violent? Are you kidding me?”
And indeed this guy has been screaming for a while but there's been no indication that he would get violent.
Even his coworker tries to calm him down, “Bro chill, he always comes here...”, but P is in too deep. He hangs up the phone and the clock is ticking, the police would be arriving soon. The man still refuses to leave, though. I debate physically restraining P as he picks up an umbrella from behind the counter and threatens to beat the man with it, but everything happens too fast for me to react. The man shrinks away and winces in pain before the blow even lands. P is the one screaming now - “Get the fuck out of there I'm not serving you.”
The man tries to respond but he is almost helpless now, and he understands that the police are around the corner.
“Do your fucking job you lazy fucker. I just wanted my chicken fingers. You wanna fuck with me? On Christmas?”
“It's up to you. If the police come here, who do you think they're going to believe? You have maybe 3 minutes to get the fuck out of my store.”
Helpless and defeated, the man cursed P, cursed at me, cursed the world, kicked down a stand causing all of the bags of chips on it to tumble to the ground, and stormed out into the frozen night.