People & Jobs - 1969-1990, Part 1

You'll have to excuse my timelines; they are very general. It was a long time ago; some I remember, others are fuzzy. 

I arrived in Canada in July 1969. My first destination was Toronto, but once there I was told that it was easier to immigrate in Ottawa. So I went to Ottawa.

In Canada, a newcomer applies for "landed immigrant" status. Before one becomes landed, they are prohibited from working. The process took months. 

I met two other Americans in Ottawa, Richard Brownie and Brian Scharkopf, both originally from White Plains, NY. We hooked up with a sympathetic Canadian, David Vivian. David's father, Eric Vivian Sr. owned Lapointe fish market in Ottawa's Byward Market. For a short time, we all stayed at the Vivian house; a few blocks away was the Soviet Embassy. 

One thing we could do was volunteer work. David's older brother, Eric Jr., was a social worker in Ottawa, and the three of us volunteered to help with his summer program. It wasn't physically hard work but the stories of those underprivileged kids stayed with me.

One girl that stands out in my memory because she had such a terrible young life. Her father was in prison for murder. She lived with her mom in a studio apartment, where her mom "entertained" men. This young girl was maybe 10 years old. 

David was scheduled to get married later that summer and he had rented a farmhouse south of Ottawa. We, the three Yanks, were moved to the farm. We tore down a barn that was just about ready to collapse.

We had fun, worked hard, but our time at the farm was short. Time to move on.

At this time in Canada there were a fair number of people who sympathized with young Yanks. The next place we stayed was a house in "Old Ottawa South." 

A house similar to the one we stayed in.

Ottawa at that time was a small "c" conservative city. Old Ottawa South was even more conservative. Which made the guy that owned the house we stayed in very much an outlier; he was a Communist!

Eventually we got our Landed status and were able to work. The first job I got was at a store named Kiddytown. They sold children's furniture and clothing from two stores; one in Ottawa's Byward Market, and the other in the suburbs. I was a delivery driver and stockboy. I was paid $1.25 per hour. They were not nice people to work for. 

That first winter in Ottawa was brutal. Being from Connecticut I thought I knew cold. Boy was I wrong. And of course I didn't have a good winter coat. Kiddytown collected used winter wear for people in Israel; they had huge boxes of winter coats. I asked if I could take one; the short answer was no!

It's funny how people get acclimated to weather. It had been below zero (Farenheit) for about a week when one day in February it warmed up to around 25 degrees with the sun shining. People walked to lunch in their shirtsleeves! I was still bundled up.

I didn't last long at Kiddytown; I can't remember if I quit or they fired me. 

I worked for a very short time at a gas station out on the Rideau River. I didn't have a car, and it was a long bus ride. The place was run by an Irishman. I worked nights, something like 4:00 pm til 8:00 pm. Part of my job was to clean the shop floor. At least once a week they cleaned the floor by pouring battery acid on it! The floor drain went to the river. It was a horrible place to work. I maybe lasted a week.

The only high spot of working in that gas station was one bus ride home during a snowstorm. I was the only passenger on the bus, the road was snow covered, and as we approached a roundabout, the driver said, "You want to have some fun?" Without waiting for an answer, he put that city bus into a four-wheel drift through the roundabout. I was scared/delighted.

Sometime that first year in Canada, Brian and I moved to Toronto. We first ended up in a dump on Spadina Avenue, just south of Bloor Street. There was a laundromat next door where Zal Yanovsky allegedly slept before he went to New York and joined the Lovin' Spoonful. 

I went back to Ottawa one weekend, and when I came back, Brian was literally barricaded in the room. It looked like he hadn't slept since I left. The building was full of junkies and he felt they were going to rob him. We quickly found another place.

It was at 53 Niagra Street, Toronto. It was a "commune." We got the garret with it's one broken window. Brian taped some cardboard to replace the missing pane.

In all fairness it wasn't that bad a place to live. I think there were six people living there before we moved in. The leader was a guy who I think was going to the University of Toronto; there was a pregnant girl (she was around 20) who may or may not have been carrying the leader's baby, there was one guy who it was rumored came from a wealthy family, then there were Rob and Cathy, and their friend Jim (his dad was race driver John Cordts). Brian and I rounded out the roster.

While living at Niagra, I got a job at Norm Dunbar's Esso, on the corner of Don Mills Road and Wynford Drive. I was a pump jockey once again.

I met some good people working there, and a couple of odd ones as well. The owner, Norman Dunbar, was okay. He mostly did the books. In the Service Department, there was a service manager, two licensed mechanics, and one apprentice.

The front (gas pumps) was managed by Don, who was dating one of Norm's daughters. (I later found out that Don was a swinger - literally.) Usually, there were two of us manning the pumps, sometimes three. 

George was an older guy, probably in his late fifties. He'd been living in Canada since 1941, when he came north to enlist in the RCAF (Royal Canadian Air Force) and fight the Nazis.

There was one guy, maybe around my age, who was from Cabbagetown (then a rather seedy area, now kind of upscale). He was a know-it-all. I had to bail him out twice. We wore uniforms (gray slacks, pale blue shirt, red tie). Most of us wore clip on ties but he wore a real tie. While mounting a tire on a rim, his tie got caught when he inflated the tire. I helped him but his tie was ruined. 

Another time was more serious. Every night we power-washed the shop floor. Those old power washers were like an electric hot water heater with air power. For some reason it shorted out to him! He stood there shaking but he couldn't let go of the wand. I body checked him, he dropped the wand, and the circuit was broken.

Then there were a bunch of kids, mostly high schoolers working part-time. One I remember well was Mike Landry. Mike was French Canadian. He was the one who told me about Don's predilection for sex parties and swapping. 

When the weather warmed up, Mike would ride his Yamaha 250 to work. Every now and then he'd let me take it for a spin. What a fool I was - no motorcycle license, no helmet, no experience. But I survived.

When the college session was over for the summer, my then girlfriend, returned to Toronto from Ottawa, for her summer job. Brian had already left, gone back to New York because his girlfriend, Dottie, was pregnant. It was time to find another place to live.

Actually Rob and Cathy from Niagra St. found this place, 465 Bathurst Street, Toronto.

465 Bathurst Street, Toronto

We shared the upper two floors with Rob and Cathy for a couple of months. I used to park on Alley Cat Lane behind the building. One day someone shot me in my right shin with a pellet gun. I didn't know what had happened; I felt a stinging on my shin but there was no blood, the skin wasn't broken. A couple of days later the pellet fell out of the cuff of my bell-bottoms. I had a dent in my shin for years. 

Around the end of July 1970, we had to move again. Rob and Cathy (Cathy was now pregnant) were moving and we couldn't afford the rent by ourselves. We found a dinky apartment at 46 Maitland Street, just off Yonge Street, Toronto's main drag.

This is 46 Maitland today.

It looks pretty good right? Looks can be deceiving. The apartment was listed as a one bedroom. A double bed barely fit in the bedroom. The kitchen was so small that you could not open the oven door if you were in the kitchen! But the kicker were the paper thin walls. This place was the very definition of paper thin. 

The other tenants, at least on our floor (the 2nd) were different to say the least. One adjacent unit had "Mr. Mesh." We called him this because he always wore a mesh tee shirt. He was short and stout. And he and his mate were into S&M; we could hear it through the wall.

One day when I was working afternoons at Dunbar's Esso, I was walking out and nearing the stairs when this gorgeous blonde passed going the opposite way. As I got to the top of the stairs I heard her knock on a door, and a male voice yelled "Who is it?" I nearly fell down the stairs when the blonde answered "It's me, Bill" in a deep men's voice!

One Sunday we were at a laundramat on Church Street just south of Alexander. While sitting there I saw a Rolls-Royce drive up to one of the Victorian's across the street; it was one of these.

Three men got out and to my amazement, one of them was Vincent Price! By the time I realized this they were inside the building. When they came out, I ran across the street and said one of the dumbest things I could have uttered "You're Vincent Price!" He answered, "Yes I am." I asked him for his autograph but I had nothing for him to sign because who brings paper and pencil to a laundry. He asked one of the other men for a pen and something to write on. It was a business card for a film production company based in that building. He signed the back "To Bruce, Vincent Price." I may still have it.

We finished out the summer on Maitland, packed everything we owned into my '65 Mustang, and headed back to Ottawa.

This is getting a bit long so I'll save the rest of my Canadian People & Jobs for another part (or parts). Thanks for reading.