Aban's Accension

Chapter 16: The Market

The darkened buildings across the road remind her of some of the older buildings in the touristy towns near where she lives, but the one on their side of the street is like some boring thing someone plopped down. They come upon an open area. Tables covered by tent-type roofs line up along the sidewalk. A squat, rectangular building rises up behind the tables furthest away from where they are, its concrete façade painted blue with a happy market scene, light spilling out from its centre. She forgets to limp as she stares at the mural then wanders closer to browse the tables. But El has other ideas. He keeps going. She hurries to catch up.

As she passes the end of the last table, just before the building has a cut-out in it where doors are inset, she sees the old, imposing building across the street for the first time with people laden with packages streaming out of the bustling light of its three doors and people streaming in with empty bags. It reminds her of nineteenth century sketches of port buildings sitting on docks, except there’s no water here. Weird. Who’d build a port and a dock in the middle of land? A few people are sitting on the pier part eating. Her stomach gurgles. She wonders what they’re eating but suddenly realises El is once again way ahead of her, has already passed the cut-out, and is about to disappear around the corner. She rushes forward.

As she rounds the corner, she almost bumps into a table laden with herbs. Their freshness scents the air, and her stomach rumbles louder. She had no breakfast; even fresh herbs by themselves seem good to her. She looks around for El, wondering whether she’s supposed to buy food. She doesn’t cook. She doesn’t know how. She wouldn’t know what to do with the herbs. Mom cooked dinner on Sundays, and Dad the rest of the meals.

Aban can’t see El, and she steps away from the table and towards the corner of the intersection. The closest lane is lined with trucks, and the sidewalk is buzzing with people. Where is she? She looks up. “Jarvis,” the blue rectangular sign declares the street’s name. The one perpendicular to it says, “Front.”. She lowers her head and looks around again for El. A group are clustered at the corner, gazing at the other side, kitty corner to where they are. The dawn has lifted the dark, and she can follow their gaze easily. El is near a brick wall with a yellow and red sign blaring “Convenience” overhead. He’s bending over a crumpled heap of clothes while people hurry past, laden with paper bags, plastic bags, Whole Foods bags, Big Carrot bags, Loblaws bags. Everyone wants their name on a bag. Her parents don’t put their shop name on their bags, she thinks smugly. Mom had always said that plain brown paper bags were best. They were good for the environment, and they don’t need to trumpet who they are to get people to shop at their store.

“It was his fault. I saw the whole thing.” A voice next to her interrupts Aban’s reverie.

“Yeah? What happened?”

Aban listens to the voices around her and watches El across the intersection at the same time. El places a hand on the man.

“The homeless guy just wanted some money, you know. Like would it have killed him to give him a loonie? I know him, you know.”

“Yeah?” comes the breathless reply near Aban.

“Yeah. He’s the CEO of the insurance company I work at. He’s always sending memos out telling us how to do our job better, how we have to make the company more money and spend less on claims. Last month he said we'd paid out too much in claims, and he wanted to see a ten percent reduction this month. Bastard.”

“I know. Our management is the same. Always asking for the impossible, like our bosses do any work, those rich bastards.”

“Yeah, well look at him now,” the woman says with a laugh. The other laughs with her. A man near them interrupts them, “But wasn’t he robbed?”