Blog
January 22nd 2010
Another Thursday Night in Wolseley
Westminster at Langside. The caked but slightly mushy snow beneath my feet squeaks and squirts as I bustle to my destination. I remove the two-toned knitted mitten on my left hand and pull my cellular phone from my left jean pocket. As I slide it open, it makes a sharp click, like I’ve just snapped my fingers. What a satisfying sound. The display reads 10:52 over a picture of an abandoned milk truck I took last summer. Up ahead is the Sherbrook Hotel, better known as the Sherby to those around these parts, and more importantly the beer vendor, which resides on the north-east side of the establishment.
As I cross the parking lot, which can fit about thirty vehicles at its peak, but rarely has more than five or six, I notice a familiar sight. A pick up truck sits driverless at the side entrance. It remains running, as a woman sits in the passenger seat. Her beau is likely inside I think to myself, as I open the heavy metal door, which makes a piercing screeching noise as it scrapes against the slanted concrete floor. I walk through the make-shift foyer and open the next door, which makes the same shuttering sound as the one before it. The ground inside the five-foot by eight-foot space is more slanted than the one in the foyer, with a puddle on its west side indicating as such. I proceed and my make my request to the barkeep (or what ever it is you call a vendor employee, maybe it’s just a “vendor employee”) aloud.
“Six of Lucky Extra” I say in a nonchalant manner, indicating that I’ve been here before and that am an experienced purveyor of his fine quality goods. “$7.85” he replies, equally nonchalant. I open my money satchel, and quickly realize a problem. I am twenty cents short. I shrug and admit my dilemma reluctantly. “Don’t worry bout it,” the good enabler replies. “Just tip next time,” he adds. I have a stirring desire to display my affection for this mustachioed Samaritan in a physical manner, but unfortunately I can’t, as there is a pane of plastic and a set of iron bars separating us, so I simply must express my gratitude orally. “Thanks man,” I say blushing, and turn to go on my way, bounty in hand.
I continue my walk down Sherbook, and decide to stop at “Pizza Bite,” a quaint establishment, whose signature dish “Pepperoni” is made with my particularly refined palette in mind. Two dollars and fifty cents worth of their quality cuisine later (that is, two pieces), I continue down the street, pizza in hand and six in elbow. As I pass the Standard Tavern, a drinking hole formerly known as Hooligan’s, I see a friendly face, as I often do when passing here. He waves and I move in for a walk-by shoulder hug, as a full hug is quite tough to pull off with your hands full of pizza and an occupied elbow. I move on to Cousin’s Deli at the corner of Wolseley, and a friend waiting outside smoking offers me a drag. A short chit-chat and a drag-and-a-half-later I continue down Wolseley, homeward bound. I once again slide open my cellular phone, and the screen now indicates that it is 11:04. I was hoping to pick up milk at the Kit-Kat on the way home, but unfortunately they close at eleven o’ clock. Too bad. I plan to go first thing in the morning, as I like to have cereal before leaving each day. But for now, it’s just another Thursday night in Wolseley.
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