FROM NOVEMBER 2019 ISSUE OF WEST END PHOENIX

A bingo palace, a righteous curry spot, a storefront church with the biggest neon cross in town – it’s a corner that hums with life. But change is coming. As the giant Toronto Weston Flea Market closes its doors and the condo developments move in to the east and west, our writers go in and go deep, to capture this pocket’s stories while they still can

The doors of Delta Bingo, a large windowless building, open to an antechamber. Walking through this vestibule, you will be led to a large carpeted inner room full of slot machine terminals that showcase what seem to be Himalayan wolves and Arctic elephants. Further in, a glassed-in area has long tables and enough red chairs for 400 people. This must be what Vegas is like.

I’m a bit early for the one o’clock sitting – the place is open 20 hours a day, every day of the week. I stand in line at a cashier and, when it’s my turn, confess that I’ve never played bingo before. Tammy, in a red shirt, suggests a starter kit for $20. Cash only.

A small older woman waits at a nearby table and, when I’m done, tells me to come sit with her.

This is Rosa. “This is a lucky corner,” she says. Her friend Tina arrives with toast and jam for Rosa on a red plastic plate. Rosa is pouring her coffee into a cup of ice. “Hot coffee can kill me,” she says.

Tina is younger than Rosa. She wears round dark glasses and a burgundy velour top with lovely silver jewellery. Rosa mentions she’s from Calabria. “Just across from Sicily.” She’d gone back there seven years ago with all of her brothers and their mother. “I laughed so hard my stomach and throat hurt for months.”

“This place is so multicultural, it’s better than a nightclub,” Tina says. The hall is about a third full. Tina is retired. She worked as a screener for Irlen Syndrome, a disorder that makes it difficult to process visual information. She too has it; that explains the dark glasses. The fluorescent lighting here in the hall can hurt her.

Rosa has been coming here for 22 years. She dunks her toast in the cold coffee and takes a bite. “I used to be a gourmet chef for the Gem on Davenport. It was named best restaurant in 1988,” she tells me. Her son runs it now. “They almost killed me, but I made it.”

Our pads have nine bingo games on each sheet – you play all nine at once. Tina and Rosa have purchased extra bingo strips and taped them to the side of their pad. We play on a monitor, too. We have our dabbers and Tina has a transparent tape dispenser. The announcer begins calling balls. “Break a dabber,” Rosa says, which is the bingo equivalent of saying “Break a leg.” I remove the cap on my complimentary dabber and I’m told to set the cap face up as a bowl on the table – that way, money will pour in.

Ten minutes into the game, Rosa shouts, “Bingo!” There’s a code at the bottom of each bingo square and this number is checked against the computer. She splits the hundred-dollar prize with two other winners in the room. I can’t believe their dexterity dabbing the numbers as the live announcer calls. “You have to keep your elbow from crossing your pad,” Rosa explains. “You see the numbers better that way.” Tammy arrives with Rosa’s winnings and she buys an extra strip. She borrows Tina’s transparent tape to attach this strip to her pad. “That makes it easier to dab,” Rosa tells me.

They have bought larger pads than me so have more games to play on each sheet. This dabbing industry goes on for two hours. Rosa realizes I don’t know that the balls are projected on numerous screens around the room. You can see the ball before the numbers are solemnly called out. That gives you a head start. Rosa has bought a single game and taped it to the side of her monitor. She’s written her name on the back of it. “If someone tries to take it,” she says, “chop.” And she makes a slicing motion with her hand.

I ask about the cold coffee. “The heat,” she says, “can kill me”. Twelve years ago, in this room, she had a heart attack and died. In the hospital they froze her body until her heart got stronger. She saw a man open the windows to her room and stand there. Her angel. “My daughter is a nurse and only believes in medicine.”

Rosa writes down all the numbers she missed on the back of her receipt. On her balcony at home, she burns it. What do you burn it with, I ask her. “I smoke a little marijuana,” she says. “Two puffs.”

She asks what time it is and takes her heart medicine – five pills and a capsule. “You take them as soon as you remember, but you never double up.”

Tina has been playing bingo in various places since she was 14 years old. And then she used to come here with her mother. “I find it relaxing.”

Tammy drops by to see how we’re all doing. “There’s music once a month,” she says. “You should come and dance with me.” The Filipino regulars come with food. “To feed the Buddha,” Rosa says. It’s reggae and old-time numbers, a live band. They remove the tables from up front and the old couples dance. People bring dates.

I told them that I’d come the day before and wasn’t allowed in as it was Golden Ticket day. Once a year, coaches pull in from all over Ontario for big prizes. You could hear the numbers being announced on speakers outside. It sounded as solemn as church.

“Back in the old days,” Tina says, “they left the back doors open and people played in the parking lot. They’d smoke out there, too.”

Now the men come. There is so much money in bingo. “In the old days it was just women,” Rosa says.

Rosa once won $50,000, but that was a payday lottery. And Tina, with her friend, split a $30,000 prize. “She was sitting in your chair,” Tina says, which makes me feel responsible for the luck we may or may not receive. Tina’s car had gotten shot up at Bathurst and King and she’d read a book on quantum physics that said pray for what you want. “So I asked for money and my friend won the $30,000.”

Rosa calls out, several times, “Blue,” and I ask why. “I need a B,” she says, pointing out that each letter in Bingo is a different colour.

By the end of our session they have both won $34. I have won nothing. But I’d only spent $20 – their receipts added up to $96 dollars each. Tina shakes my hand and embraces Rosa. She is off. Rosa is staying on for the next session, meeting a friend.

“She comes every day,” Tina said.

“I do not,” Rose replies. “Those were the old days.”

The official name of the Variety store on the corner of St. Clair and Old Weston is PETER PAN ‘K’ CONV. SUPERMARKET & GREEN GARDEN (OPEN 7 DAYS VIDEO RENTALS). At least that’s what it says on the very long sign above this little shop’s window.

The more one studies it, the more complex it becomes, creating more questions than it answers: Is it really a Supermarket? A Green Garden? Do they actually rent videos? And what in Neverland’s name does the ‘K’ stand for?

There are also signs out front promoting bingo dabbers, cappuccino and beef patties. My most pressing concern at the moment, however, is whether or not they sell umbrellas. The one I bought at Dollarama just an hour ago broke in half as soon as I opened it, and we’re in the middle of a downpour.

I lean my half-brolly against the wall and push the door open. An automated doorbell chimes, then literally says, “Hello.” I say, “Hello” back and then the lady behind the counter says, “Hello,” then I say “Hello” back to her. I assume this happens about 300 times a day.

I ask if she sells umbrellas. She nods and points to where a man is emerging from a side door. “Hello,” he says. “Hello,” I say, and we both look at the umbrellas. I ask how much they are. “$7.99” he says. It’s more than I paid at Dollarama, which is obviously a good sign.

I select a tartan one with a wooden handle, then ponder the rest of my questions.

Is this really a Supermarket?

There is a good variety of wares — everything from garden shears to mouse traps, canned ham to bingo dabbers, as advertised. In fact, there are more bingo dabbers than I’ve ever seen in one place, including a bingo hall. This bodes well for the patties and cappuccino. But there is no produce — which brings me to the next question.

A Green Garden?

I would have to say no.

In regards to the video rentals, however, I’m surprised to find — high up on the wall in an odd little corner — a cabinet containing VHS tapes and DVDs, all in black cases. There is an unassuming sign that says “Adult Videos $5.” So I’ll gladly give them that one.

But next, to the truly tricky stuff.

“Hello,” I say, approaching the counter. This time they just nod politely. Somehow it feels uncouth to jump right into the ‘K’. So I ask for a cappuccino. Then a beef patty. It only takes a minute, and both are remarkably good and hot. The “CONV.” part checks out.

We talk for a while and they tell me they have owned the store for 12 years now. Some of the customers join in. They all agree that this corner has improved since the high school was turned into a police station, and since the bar next door closed down. It goes quiet for a moment. Then I ask about the ‘K.’

Everyone looks at me, puzzled.

“PETER PAN ‘K’” I say. “What is the ‘K’ for?”

“Oh,” says the man. “King.” But it’s like he’s surprised himself.

“King?” I say. “Peter Pan King? Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he nods emphatically. “King.”

“Why?” I say. They just look at me. “Okay. Then why Peter Pan?”

“My name is Peter,” says the man.

“Oh. So the store is named after you?”

Peter shakes his head. “It was named this before. We are the third owners.”

I try again. “So, you bought the store because it was named Peter?” He looks at me like this makes no sense, and I’m inclined to agree.

I ask the woman her name.

“Xue,” she says. As they ring in yet another umbrella I take a bite of my patty and look out the window. I can see the bingo hall across the street, and the signs for two other establishments. One reads “Pizza Pan,” the other “King’s Palace.”

“Um...” I say, like I’ve just seen Kaizer Söze.

“Yes?” says Peter, removing a price tag.

“Uh...” I turn back to them. But really I’ve got nothing. “You are open seven days?”

“Of course!” says Xue.

I thank them and say goodbye. The door says “Hello” as I open my umbrella. Then I walk back into the rain.

If you believe the measure of a good Caribbean restaurant is the decibel of calypso music or amount of tropical decor on the premises, King’s Palace probably isn’t for you. The family-run restaurant isn’t one for empty gestures. While a sign adorned with a palm tree promises you’ll “Eat like a King” (you will), that’s where the canned signifiers stop.

Inside, the only hints of island life are found in the distinct smell of spiced chicken radiating from the grill, and the faded menu board above it, an off-yellow sign advertising sea moss drinks whose blanched appearance makes you think of something left out too long in the sun. A counter takes up most of the place, with tins of cassava cake and jars of sweets balanced precariously on it. Against the wall beside the open entrance, a black sandwich board sits propped, the message – scrawled in lime-green marker – half erased. Whatever it was, it was $14.99. In the far back corner of the small seating area, a black wool jacket has sat draped over the back of a chair for a month.

Behind the counter, the co-owner, a Trinidadian woman in a red-and-grey-printed head wrap, walks slowly back and forth from the kitchen to the front. Her back is to the counter as she faces the grill, one hip jutted out, fist resting on her pink cheetah-print skirt.

When I ask if they take credit cards, she smiles warmly. “Of course,” she says, then walks the length of the counter, retrieving the debit machine languidly.

As I sit at one of the plastic-covered tables, a man hovers across from me. “Can I sit with you?” he asks. “I’m a customer, too.” He laughs. But I’m not so sure. A steady stream of people pass through the door, in and out, ushering in the drum of traffic from outside, treading the trail from the entrance to the kitchen, where they pop their head in and offer greetings. An older woman in a lilac trench coat taps on a small glass display case up at the counter, waiting for service, then reaches over partway through to help wrap up her chicken.

The traffic outside lulls to a steady hum, broken only by the pop of a can of Coca-Cola snapping open behind me or the whack of a steel knife on the wood cutting board in the kitchen. There’s so much going on that I hardly notice the food heaped in a Styrofoam container in front of me: rice and peas, topped with perfectly charred jerk chicken – just enough heat that my eyes water – and a dollop of coleslaw. But maybe that’s the point.

My tablemate finishes eating, scrapes his chair back and rests with his hands over his stomach, sucking his teeth and watching TV. A CNN panel is discussing the Trump impeachment. He hops up and disappears to the kitchen briefly, then wishes me goodbye as he leaves, cassava cake in hand.

“It’s a good business,” owner Ben King says. “I don’t make lots of money, but at least I keep my customers happy.” He opened the restaurant with his wife six years ago after previously working in a factory. He wants to do more advertising and grow the business, but his outlook on its longevity is as matter of fact as the restaurant itself: “It doesn’t bother me because if it comes to the day where I can’t do it, I’ll just give it up,” he says. “It’s okay.” Then he gets up, smiles and heads back to the kitchen.

Save it

A travesty, a red vein
sliced open and dripping

on pavement and palm leaves,
at no loss for unwashed feet

in the Year of our Lord 2019.
My redeemer lives

in the sewers, take-out containers,
the grey-green grasses of

the congregating youth, drinking
the blood of future-tense faith

and regurgitating salt. A young man
pierced his palm for art, asked

how to advertise a philosophy
in the anxious breast,

the neighbourhood spectacle
raking prayers at a crossroad,

cauterizing night eyes—
a moth-stippled promise:

Into your hands, we commend our tax
breaks, render unto Tory what is Tory’s,

render unto God what is the best
recipe for roasted lamb.

The Holy Spirit gentrifies
our stretched lips, spreading

the Word of a new savior
more immortal than tithes,

genuflecting, hands between thighs,
behind schools and libraries,

King Solomoning our friends
and lovers, casting stones.

We wear red to church now—
my need to be forgiven greater

than my need to wait for
the rising dead. We sit

on the left side, search for the faith
impacting my bones, the rivers below.

From St. Clair, I walk north up Old Weston Road under the tawny October sun. Through a papered door on the southwest corner, I enter into the throng of shoppers, pressed around the bins of boots and nobrand sneakers by the entrance, examining soles and insoles with the concentration of treasure hunters. Or I might cross the parking lot and shuffle into the harshly lit market past the halal hot dog vendor and the mountains of red and orange peppers, yams, hard green guavas.

Once inside, there are many ways to navigate the Toronto Weston Flea. The stalls make small streets with intersections and subdivisions. The market is its own village. It has its own loyalties and laws. You can find some of them printed in bold, all caps, on signage by the smoky window to the main office: NO HOODS ALLOWED ON WHILE IN THE FLEA MARKET. PLEASE NOTE FOR SAFETY REASONS AND FOR INSURANCE REGULATIONS LADDERS & TOOLS CANNOT BE BORROWED. Adhered to the wall, there are bright blue stickers, as if we needed to be reminded more than once that despite the aim of the marketplace, THE BEST THING YOU CAN SPEND ON YOUR CHILDREN IS TIME.

I’m more interested in the unwritten rules: that all of the cellphone-unlocking and repair stalls must be as far apart as possible. That the second-hand clothing racks of Tibi jackets and slinky wrap skirts and football jerseys must be placed so close together that only one customer can squeeze in at a time. That at slow times, Yan of Yan’s studio is allowed to wander off, leaving his booth of Bob Marley and Marilyn Monroe portraits staring at passersby. There will always be the smell of cumin and stewed beef from the food court area, and small children reaching for everything with hands spread wide as starfish, and booths must be either swarmed or empty of customers.

Yet it’s a village that’s moving out, since the closure was announced earlier this year. Oct. 27 would be its final day in operation. Despite empty stalls and blue and orange tarps thrown over unsold merchandise, there’s a festive air inside the market. Vendors have made makeshift cardboard signs – Everything must go!! Half-off!! Liquidation Sale!! – and customers are taking advantage, sorting through children’s socks, bottles of Mane ’n Tail Shampoo, faux-leather handbags and wallets with brass studs and sticky zippers. There’s the expected desultory atmosphere, but no one here has the time for sadness or regrets. “Oh, you moving to Scarborough?” exclaims a customer, leaning over the 14K, 18K cable, Figaro, fat link and braided gold chains at Sam and T Fine Jewelry. In a few months, these determined jaws and seen-it-all stares will be ensconced in new surroundings, dispersed but still running a brisk business. “I’m taking six months off,” says one of the vintage vendors, “and then I’ll find a new space.” His eyes are already elsewhere. “Gotta take time off... and THEN I’ll look,” he says, more to himself than me. I’m just passing through.