Cold in July

A late dinner and some happy-hour drinks with two of her friends was exactly what Nadine needed. When they walked out of the bar, Nadine’s friends told her that they were going to King station to catch the subway to Eglinton.

“Why don’t you come with us?” One of her friends asked.

“I would, but paying almost four bucks to take the subway two stops to my place at Dundas just feels wrong.”

They all laughed, with her other friend asking why the TTC doesn’t offer fares based on distance, like other cities. She also pointed out how it made no sense that somebody going from Yonge Street to Bathurst paid the same as somebody going from the Scarborough Town Centre to Mississauga’s Square One Mall.

“Making no sense is what the TTC does best.” Nadine replied.

“It’s fine. I’ll just walk.”

“Are you sure? You know how Yonge gets at night.”

“I do it all the time,” Nadine replied. “Plus, it’s a nice night.”

After her friends gave her a hug, Nadine looked north, where the flashing lights of Sankofa square lit up the hazy night sky.

It was a few minutes after eleven. There were still many people walking around. While few moved with the same hustle of twelve hours earlier, most still walked with composed, determined strides. It was those who moved erratically, however, that captured her attention.

At the beginning of the summer, she was walking north on University Avenue and saw a man shuffling south toward her with his pants around his ankles. His penis was out. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He was loudly cursing at nobody. The closer he got to her, the more tense she became. With every sluggish step he took toward her and every fearful step she took toward him, she tried figuring out how not to attract his attention or trigger him. But his unpredictability made it impossible to come up with any kind of plan. Fortunately, because University had a wide sidewalk she was able to move far away from, and fortuitously he passed by without even looking at her. He was clearly unaware of anything or anybody around him. She felt afraid for him and afraid of him.

A few seconds later, a young, Bay Street finance type walked up from behind and passed her, but not before saying, “Good ole Toronto.”

She smiled weakly in response but couldn’t muster any words. She was still shaken by what she saw, and how she felt. She envied the tailored man’s casualness to what they had both witnessed, while knowing she could never see it the same way. Since then, she told herself she was going to be more vigilant about what was going on around her, especially when she was walking around at night.

The beginning of her walk home to Elm Street was uneventful. She didn’t notice anybody leering at her or following her. Over 25 degrees, it was definitely warmer than usual. The pavement beneath her feet was moist, with small puddles scattered throughout. It rained while her and her friends were inside the bar but stopped well before they got out. That explained the humidity in the air. She was wearing a light jacket, and wanted to take it off, though that might draw attention. But it was warm, and she wanted to be comfortable.

She took of her jacket and immediately felt good about the decision when a gust of air struck her softly, cooling her exposed arms, shoulders, and upper chest. She closed her eyes to take in the moment but heard a noise nearby and immediately opened them and looked around to make sure everything was okay.

While passing Queen Street a couple walked toward her. They were around her age, maybe a bit younger. Students probably. They were laughing, while the guy’s arm was wrapped around the young woman’s shoulders. They looked happy. Nadine smiled at them and to her surprise, they both smiled back.

She walked on the west side of Yonge toward Dundas and the city’s busiest pedestrian intersection, opposite the square. Dundas or Sankofa, the name of the square may change, but Nadine’s efforts to avoid walking through it or even near it stayed the same. The square was filled with people making the same erratic movements she had to watch out for whenever she walked alone at night. Yet, along with those who moved in a way that made her uncomfortable, she also saw families there. Many of whom had children running around. To her dismay, several of those kids sat on the benches that she wouldn’t touch with the thickest gloves.

Didn’t their parents know how filthy those benches were? she thought.

On many occasions, especially late at night, Nadine saw what some people did on those benches. They smoked severely blackened glass pipes on those benches. They drank, spilled, and vomited alcohol on those benches. They urinated on those benches. She didn’t want to judge, even though she knew she was, but she couldn’t help it. She saw what she saw, and because of that she knew how disgusting those benches were.

Standing at the intersection, Nadine noticed somebody leaning against the wall of the Eaton Centre, just underneath the bright H&M store screen. He was staring at her from at least twenty meters away, but it felt like he was right beside her.

Whenever she felt like she was being paranoid, she criticized herself for it. She shamed herself for judging a person she didn’t know, whose life she had absolutely no knowledge of, who might not have been staring at her, who might have been looking at something else entirely. Was it really that surprising for somebody to be looking in her direction, considering she was standing beneath an army of electronic ads that never slept? That paranoia, and the shame she felt for feeling it, however, was overtaken by fear when the man started walking toward her. She looked at the traffic lights and saw a red hand demanding she stay where she was. He was getting closer. She put her jacket back on, unsure of what else she could actually do.

Nadine focused on the man slowly coming toward her, while doing all she could to not look like she was focusing on him. Meanwhile, she eagerly waited for the sound of a chirping bird that would let her know she could walk across the street. After the first chirp, she turned and quickly crossed through the intersection. She glanced back. The man didn’t cross after her.

Nadine turned. She was now faced with a decision, to walk west on Dundas to Bay Street, then go north to Elm, which was a longer, but quieter route, or continue north on Yonge, a shorter, but more unsettling choice.

She was starting to sweat. Unsure if it was from the humidity in the air or the tension within, she just wanted to get home, so she chose the shorter route. She reminded herself that she had walked it a million times. Plus, there were people everywhere. She would be fine. She felt even more relieved when she noticed a grey and white SUV with the word Police clearly marked on the side parked in front of the Zanzibar strip club just up ahead.

She passed Edward Street, where BMV, her favourite bookstore, was. She passed the Jollibee that she kept meaning to try but had yet to enter. Then came the Warehouse bar, where the music playing inside never matched the music videos playing on the TV screens dangling from the ceiling, and the H-mart. Almost home. But mere steps from Elm Street, right before the Salad King restaurant, she froze.

A man jumped in front of her. His hair was a long, dark, tangled mess. He was covered in tattered clothes, torn at the knees and elbows. His feet were bare. On his wrist was a bracelet. It was plastic, white, and spotless. She knew it was medical because she wore one just like it the week before when getting her broken left ring finger fixed at Mount Sinai hospital. But what she focused on and what frightened her most were his hands. They were balled into tight fists that he abruptly started using to punch a large plastic sign. The sound was deafening. He stuck it repeatedly, beating to a pulp a victim only he could see, while unleashing a primal scream with every strike. She wanted to pass him but felt trapped. When she finally summoned the courage to walk by him, he noticed her.

His punching stopped. His screaming stopped. The sudden silence terrified her. He looked right into her eyes. She held her breath. Luckily, he turned away and recommenced his assault on the sign. Pounding and screaming, pounding and screaming. Unlike her, people didn’t stare and didn’t stop. They kept on walking by. She just needed to take a single step forward but was so scared that if he noticed her again, it would be her he would start punching, while her pleas for help would be drowned out by his screams. Terrified of her own speculation, she managed to take a step, followed by another, and another. She crossed the street then looked back. The man continued punching and screaming. She felt terrible for him. Why was he not in whatever place gave him the medical bracelet?

Now that she was out of harm’s way, or at least what she perceived to be harm’s way, she feared what he might do to somebody else. If he struck plastic or concrete, flesh or bone, she doubted he would have known the difference, but that wouldn’t have changed the damage done.

Nadine walked up to the police SUV. The passenger side was vacant, but there was an officer on the driver’s side. She tapped on the window. The cop looked at her and lowered the window. She apologized to the officer for disturbing him even though he was doing nothing but looking at his phone. Maybe he was looking up something important. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. He accepted her apology all the same. She told him about the man who was still unleashing punch after punch against the plastic sign while howling so loud that she felt no need to point it out. But she did anyway. The cop barely turned his head to look for himself.

“I walked by him, and he jumped out at me.”

“Did he hit you?”

“No, but he is clearly having an episode.”

“But he didn’t hit you?”

“No, but maybe if you went over there,” she said. “He might hurt somebody.”

“Call the non-emergency number and report it.”

“But I’m talking to you right now, and it’s happening right there.”

“I understand, but I can’t leave this position. We’re in the middle of a call.”

“Can you call somebody else then?”

“Call the non-emergency number.”

The police officer turned away from her to look at nothing. While his insistence for her to report what was still happening less than a hundred metres away annoyed her, it was how the police officer tasked with protecting her was giving her less eye contact than the man who was still pummelling the plastic sign that she couldn’t accept. She leaned forward until she was inside the SUV right up to her shoulders.

“Look at me,” she said, surprised at her own forwardness.

“Ms., I told you that you can call the –”

“Now look over there at what that man is doing,” she interrupted.

He reluctantly turned in his seat and looked at the man before turning his attention back to Nadine.

“I’m not calling a cop when I’m talking to a cop sitting right in front of me,” she said. “That man over there is clearly not well. What if he mistook me, or somebody else, for whatever he is seeing and punching right now? Would you do something then?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So why wait? What if he punched me and I fell on the concrete and broke my neck? What if he pushed somebody in front of a moving car and they were killed? Why are you waiting until something serious happens when you could prevent it right now? I’m not asking you to arrest him, but just calm him down, or take him somewhere he can get help.”

She wanted to empathize with the cop. She started thinking about how overworked he must be, and how difficult it must be having to deal with the obvious increase in unstable people roaming the streets, and about how he was a police officer, not a mental health expert. But then she looked back at the man after no longer hearing his screams. He jumped in front of another woman, but she manoeuvred her way around him and kept walking.

“He just jumped out at another woman. What if he hit her? Do you even care? You have no idea what it’s like for women to walk around this city at night. You have no idea how afraid we are every time we see somebody who is clearly mentally unstable confront us. And how they could hurt us without even knowing what they’re doing. You have no idea how scary it can be just walking home at night. You’re a cop, and you’re right here, and you’re not doing a damn thing. What if I was your daughter, or your sister, would you care enough to get out of the car then?”

Her insides were overheating, and despite still wearing her jacket, and the humidity in the air showing no signs of letting up, she felt strangely cold. She looked to her right at the vehicle’s vent pointed right at her. It was blowing chilled air. She looked back at the cop who looked beyond her. She turned around and saw who she assumed to be the officer’s partner.

“Is something wrong here?”

“No,” Nadine replied. “There is something wrong there.”

She pointed at the man, who as if on cue, howled louder than before, and instead of just punching the sign was now kicking it.

“I’m sorry, but we have to answer another call. Why don’t you call the non-emergency number and they can help you.”

Before Nadine could even reply, the second officer non-aggressively, but assertively, moved her aside and got into the SUV. The window started rolling up just as the vehicle pulled away.

While staring at the man who continued his violent barrage against the plastic sign, she pulled out her phone. She considered calling the non-emergency number before realizing she didn’t even know what it was. She looked it up - 416-808-2222

She was about to call, but the man suddenly stopped his attack on the sign, and started walking south on Yonge, flailing his arms the whole time. She watched as every person he passed avoided him without breaking stride. She gave up on the idea of calling the number, realizing that as soon as he left there was no point. What was she going to tell the operator, that a mentally unstable man was walking down Yonge Street and he might hurt somebody? Even if she provided a detailed description, she knew she was entering needle in haystack territory. Besides, if a cop who was right there seeing exactly what she was describing chose to do nothing, what were the odds of the operator from the non-emergency department dispatching new cops to investigate?

She hoped that man wouldn’t hurt anybody. She hoped that any of the mentally unwell or drug addicted people roaming the city’s core wouldn’t hurt anybody, themselves included, but now knew the police wouldn’t anything until they did.

Feeling unsatisfied and hopeless, Nadine walked along Elm Street toward her home. There were two vents on the ground in front of her on the sidewalk. A man was laying on the larger of the two, sleeping in the fetal position, barely covered by a dirty sheet. On the smaller vent were what she assumed to be the man’s clothes. They were damp and soiled. Both of the vents blew warm, rancid air, and despite being covered by the man and his clothing, and the warm summer air, both of the vents billowed surprisingly visibly steam as if it were a frigid night in February.

She was getting sick of living downtown.

It was time to find someplace new.

Written in September of 2025 in Toronto.