Going from memory, adding a dash of imagination

by Dietrich

Since I don’t have an agent, I’m going to skip this question, and go back to one from the past week: Please describe a scene from your latest novel that you’re particularly proud of. Or better yet, why not share it?

So the scene below is from The Get. It’s an introduction to one of the key characters, where we learn much about who he is and what he’s after. But, what inspired the setting for the book was Toronto’s Kensington Market area the way I remember it from when I was growing up there in the sixties. 

My folks took me there on shopping outings, and I’d never seen anything like the place in my life: this mix of cultures and different ethnic foods, hearing people speaking many different languages. There were crates of live chickens lining the sidewalks, plucked and unplucked carcasses hanging in windows, goats, ducks, long links of sausages, boxes and baskets of vegetables like I’d never seen at our local Loblaws. It was quite an experience, one that has stayed with me. And I wanted to capture the mood of that time and place for this story.

On a recent trip back to Toronto, I went to the Kensington Market area again after having been away from it for many years. And it struck me that so much of that same vibe lived on. There are market stalls, and goods for sale lining the sidewalks, painted murals on walls, buskers, cars lining the streets, a lot of foot traffic, and many of the rickety old buildings are still standing, kind of defying all the gentrification going on all around it.

So, here’s the scene that takes place in Kensington Market when Gabe Zoller, one of the collector’s, goes into one of the shops, picking up the protection money for the week.

“You oughta be shamefaced, what you do to your

people.” The tiny man looked at him, wiping his

hands on the dirty apron stained with grime and poverty.

But wiping wasn’t doing much good. 1965: combat troops

setting foot in Vietnam, Watts going up in flames, dead

cosmonauts orbiting the Earth, and these people were living

on sawdust floors, no heat and no hot water.

“Think you’re my people, huh?” Gabe Zoller stepped out

of the sun and into the doorway, letting his eyes and nose

adjust to what lay inside — more a shack than a shop, not a

wall that looked like he couldn’t push a hand through it —

swatting at the bottle flies buzzing around on account of the

chickens and capons hanging in the front window. Its striped

awning supposed to keep the light off the poultry. Live ones

in crates clucking over by the chopping table, a tip of a cleaver

sunk in the stained wooden top. One of the birds flapped,

sending dust and feathers up into the thin stream of sunlight

coming past the door. Gabe thinking the smell of the place

belonged in a barn. More crates were lined and stacked out

front. This guy whose name Gabe didn’t remember, Kohn or

Kahn or something, calling Gabe his people.

Collecting for Ernie Zimm, same way he did at the beginning

of every month. This tiny man acting like he didn’t know

why Gabe was here, giving him the same hard-luck story about

mouths to feed, showing the height of his kids with his hands,

both children needing shoes. The guy’s “oy oy oy” supposed to

show the hardship. Three oys being a pretty bad week.

“We all got shit to schlep, man.”

“God knows you and sees what you do.” Kohn or Kahn

pointed a knotted finger.

“God, huh?” Gabe let his eyes go around the place, saying,

“You ask me, there’s only you and me and the chickens.” It

pissed him off, this guy bringing God into it, telling him

how it was. “Oughta take a hard look, and ask what God’s

done for you lately.” Be doing a favor if He threw fire and

brimstone down on this whole fucking ward. Burn it to the

ground, as far as Gabe was concerned. A front room used as

a store with a couple more rooms in back, one claptrap wall

holding up the next. Gabe guessing the wife and kids were

huddling back there, hearing through the thin walls, and

staying out of sight.