debuts, bused, debts, tube, bed, dubs, best, duets, stub
BY ELEVEN O’CLOCK the Granville Market was bustling, even though it was a Monday. Out back, facing the water, a magician had set up near one set of doors and a violin player near another. Crowds gathered around to watch them perform.
I picked an empty bench, right in between the magician and the violin player, and set up my Scrabble board. Then I pulled out a sign I’d made on a piece of cardboard from a recycling bin. SCRABBLE GAMES, FIVE DOLLARS, it read. BEAT ME AND I WILL GIVE YOU YOUR FIVE DOLLARS BACK!
I had nothing to hang the sign on, so I simply held it up over my head. A lot of people wandered past and laughed at my sign, but not in a mean way. After about half an hour, when my arms were starting to ache, an older guy, probably in his fifties, stopped. He was with a young woman and he wore a sailor’s cap.
‘So you think you could beat an old pro like me at Scrabble?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we, Ashley?’ he said to the girl, and he handed her a five-dollar bill. ‘Why don’t you hang on to the money, in case the Lilliputian here tries to scam us.’
We played a game. People stopped to watch, especially when it became obvious that I was crushing the guy. He had this vein in his forehead that I swear I could see pulsing as I bingoed twice, blocked good spots for him to place words, and built multiple words on one turn.
I won, 320 to 252. ‘Beginner’s luck,’ he said grudgingly. He stood up and started to walk away.
‘Your daughter needs to give me my five dollars,’ I said.
I thought the vein in his forehead was going to pop. ‘She’s not my daughter,’ he sputtered. ‘She’s my girlfriend.’
Ashley handed me my five dollars and he grabbed her arm and they hurried away. A few of the onlookers laughed, and a couple of them shoved loonies into my hand.
Then someone said, ‘Hey, I recognize you, Most Promising Newcomer.’ It was Sandy, my waitress from Milestone’s, and she was with some friends. Maybe because she wasn’t at work and therefore not looking for tips, she wore a baggy shirt that hid her beautiful boobs. But it was nice to see her anyway, and she gave me five dollars without even playing a game. More important, she didn’t ask questions about who I was with, or why I had so much stuff with me.
Business wasn’t exactly booming, but by three o’clock that afternoon, I’d played three games and had easily won them all. I was up over twenty bucks (including Sandy’s five) and I was counting out my five-dollar bills plus the few extra loonies I’d been given. Just when I was thinking it wouldn’t be so difficult to finance my new homeless existence, a policeman approached.
‘Quite the operation you’ve got going here, son.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Do you have a license?’
‘For what?’
‘To run your little business here.’
‘This isn’t a business. It’s a board game.’
‘All the buskers down here – that magician over there, that violin player – they all have to apply for a license from the city to perform in a public place.’
‘I’m not performing.’
‘No … but performing without a license is a lesser offense than gambling, which is technically what you’re doing.’
‘It’s just a game.’
‘But you’re playing for money.’
I quickly shoved my earnings into my pocket.
‘Look, I don’t want to give you a hard time, but I am going to have to ask you to pack it up.’
I realized there was no point arguing with him. ‘OK.’
‘Do your parents know what you’re doing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, they have an enterprising young son,’ he said, then he laughed.
I packed up my Scrabble board and shook the policeman’s hand.
Then I walked to the other side of the market, to a square outside a building called the Loft, and set up my game and my sign on another bench.
The same policeman found me there less than half an hour later. I was partway through a game with a big burly guy, who looked like he could be a pro-wrestler. This time the cop wasn’t so friendly.
‘OK, kid. You’re coming with me.’
So I packed up again. And even though it was obvious I was going to beat him, the pro-wrestler guy didn’t give me my five bucks.
The policeman marched me over to a little office near the information center. I made up my mind that he could use all sorts of interrogation techniques and I would not crack: he could bully me, threaten me, use sleep deprivation or Chinese water torture, but it would be like drawing blood from a stone.
My resolve lasted about five seconds. ‘What’s your parents’ phone number?’ he said, and I told him.
Well, I sort of told him. He called the number I gave him, and when someone picked up at the other end, he said, ‘Cosmo Economopoulos? I have your son here with me. Ambrose.’
A minute later he hung up. ‘OK, kid. Your dad’s on his way.’
Thirty minutes later, Cosmo showed up. His face looked worse than it had the last time I’d seen him, because the bruises were in full bloom now. He sported a swollen lip and a black eye.
‘Ambrose,’ he said, and he pulled me into a tight hug. ‘We were worried sick.’ Then, when he saw the cop staring at his bruised face, he said, ‘Fishing accident. The fish won.’
The cop let us leave after he told me never to set up my Scrabble board on Granville Island again. We started walking to Cosmo’s car.
‘Fishing accident?’ I said.
‘It was the first thing that popped into my head.’
‘Thanks for coming to get me.’
‘I’m not going to lie to you, Ambrose. Your mom’s waiting in the car.’
I stopped walking. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘She was at our place when you called. She’s beside herself.’
‘Then, thanks for nothing. I’ll see you later.’ I started to walk in the opposite direction, but Cosmo grabbed my arm.
‘Ambrose,’ he said.
My eyes filled with tears, even though I didn’t want them to. ‘I don’t want to move again.’
‘I know that. Your mom knows that. I think she might be willing to listen.’
So I started walking with him again. When we approached Cosmo’s car, Mom leaped out. She gave me a suffocating hug. Her eyes were puffy and red.
‘Thank God you’re alright.’ She peppered me with questions, like where had I slept, what had I eaten, had anyone tried to hurt me.
‘Mom,’ I said.
She stopped talking.
‘I’m only coming home on one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That you agree to have supper with the Economopouloses tonight. And that you agree to actually listen to what we all have to say and try to keep an open mind.’
OK, so maybe that was three conditions.
My mom opened her mouth to argue when a funny thing happened. Cosmo laid a hand gently on her arm. She turned and looked at him. Then she turned back to me and said, ‘OK. I’ll agree to that. Now, please. Let’s go home.’
Which I found kind of ironic because that’s all I’d ever wanted to begin with: to go back to a place I could truly call home.