This past Sunday was amazing.
I attended a mini-reunion of a colleague at a design firm I worked at in the 80’s. Together we built a custom kitchen, bath, and family room. On Sunday, 11 of us had lunch, laughed, and shared old stories. Other than my deep smile lines and gray hair, it was as if I had never been away.
I was sitting next to John and I didn’t even know who it was for the first five minutes. John is the youngest, or “kid,” in our group. John was a talented engineering draftsman for 40 years who also drew artistic perspectives to help his customers “see” their dream projects. His art sold kitchens.
The conversation turned to an adventure John and I had attending a design conference in Toronto.
During the drive, I got to know John, who was quiet and shy. He was in his 23rd year and came from a large family, all of whom still lived at home. As a small-town boy, he used his brilliant mind to study various interests. Although he had never been to New York City, he memorized the entire subway system. Such a small subject. I was always struck by the brilliance of genius he brought into our conversations.
We traveled together on Sunday, November 27, 1983. I will always remember that day.
We arrived mid-afternoon. You can go directly to the CN Tower for panoramic views. I wanted to find a restaurant before dark.
There appeared to be no restaurants open on Yonge Street, the city’s main street. strange. I headed toward the main intersection of Yonge and Bloor, expecting to run into something in front of the conference hotel. This area is usually crowded with college students.
Suddenly, the street began to fill with people. I slowed down, but the screaming and jumping people didn’t move an inch. As I turned left onto Bloor Street, the Yonge Street trolley stopped beside me. I was stopped. There’s a trolley on the left, and a bunch of mobs in front, on the right, and behind you.
“John, this is not good,” I said. He mumbled something worried.
Suddenly – boom! A young man jumped onto the hood. I saw it sink beneath his feet. “Come on, come on!” he yells. he called his friend over. While the first two of him got on the roof, three more or four more guys jumped on the hood. In my rearview mirror, I saw two more cars on top of the trunk. The car was shaking, scraping, and bouncing.
I tried to calm down and accelerate, but no one moved. Several men jumped out and the car began to shake. We were pushed up on two wheels when someone yelled, “Let’s flip!”
Hearing them announce their plan to flip, John lowered the window a few inches, curled his fingers around the edge of the glass, and begged, “Please don’t flip us over!”
“Close that damn window – now!” It was me, gently persuading John to open the window. He did it. he trembled. I was the same. But I was almost 20 years older than him, so I wasn’t going to show it. And I wasn’t going to let him down.
I couldn’t understand what was happening. I could see bricks coming down from the storefront window. I had studied group psychology in a psychology class and knew how dangerous the “bandwagon effect” could be. Who were these people? Why did this happen?
They were football fans, long-time fans of the Toronto Argonauts who had just learned they had won the Gray Cup, Canadian football’s Super Bowl. The match was held in Vancouver, ending a 31-year drought. They rejoiced and took to the streets. And drunk. And destruction. And horrified the middle-aged housewife and her unworldly accusations.
I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and looked up into a handsome face of strength and security. A cavalryman in a red jacket rode back and forth between us and the trolley on a very large black horse. He bent down to talk and motioned for me to open the window. “I’m going to get you out of here. I can’t make any promises, but if you follow me closely, I’m sure you’ll get through it.” If I could reach beyond his stirrups, I’d kiss him. would have done.
He slid out to the front of the car and positioned himself between the headlights. The horse’s tail was constantly wagging, giving us reassurance that everything would be okay. After about two blocks we were free. God bless you, the Mountie came back to my door, bent down, smiled, and said, “Welcome to Toronto.”
John and I, shivering, found a fast food restaurant. The next night we had drinks before a nice dinner. Finally, John said, “You yelled at me.” I agreed. And I reassured him that if I had the same mob, I would do it again. We shook his head at the brink.
Last weekend, sophisticated John, now a gray-haired grandpa, laughed along with us all. Everyone offered their own version of the oft-told story. John and I just laughed at each other as we reminisced.
A calm Sunday afternoon in November.
Marcy can be reached at Moby,32@hotmail.com.