Toronto the Not So Good Anymore

            A forensic identification services van blocks the entrance to the gas station. The other entrance has yellow crime scene tape restricting entry. This will not do. I need a slushie and I need it bad. The gas station serves slushies par excellence. That's French for excellent, I think. Anyway, they know me at the gas station, it's just down the street from my place. I am a preferred customer, according to my slushie card that gives me a free slushie after I buy 20.

            "Why do you come here, miss? Why don't you have a car?" the chap behind the counter once asked.

            "Because, sir, your slushies are a revelation."

            He had his back to me while I replied. It was a rhetorical question I realized much later in the day.

            WTF? Why are the forensic dudes at the gas station? I raise the crime scene tape over my head and head inside the On The Go Convenience store. I like the illusion of being "on the go." If I patronize an establishment called "On The Go", maybe through osmosis, I too will be "on the go."

            The chap behind the counter, wearing a reflective and carrying a mop, waves his arm at me.

            "No, no, miss. No. Go."

            "You mean 'On The Go'."

            "No. I mean go. Go out of here."

            I plead with him. "It's 32 degrees today -- 42 degrees with humidity! I can't stand this anymore. Look at what it's doing to my hair! I'd show you my overheated internal organs, but they're inside my body. You get my point -- I'm sick of this sweltering temperature. I'd kill for a slushie right now!"

            Two humongous police officers emerge from behind a chip rack.

            "This store is off limits. Sir, is this woman threatening you?"

            The chap shakes his head no.

            "Mam, I don't know how you got in here, but leave the premise immediately."

            I know better than to argue with authority. The last time I did that, on the Toronto Transit System, I was slapped with a $265 fine for not tapping my Presto card (that is true). I huff and hurry out the store, passing the forensic truck.

            WTF? Can't I go to my corner gas station convenience store without the forensic identification unit being there? My thoughts grow dark. Did someone die at 'On The Go'? Is that person now "On The Gone'? Was it a shooting? A targeted shooting gangland style, or a random act of insanity? Or a stabbing, someone blind with rage repeatedly plunging a knife into an unsuspecting victim? Did someone collapse from poison ingested from touching a railing at a dog parkl?

            This neighbourhood is upscale, with families living in two millions dollars homes and renters sweating it out in 'dirty mansion' -- how dare a ne'er-do-well commit homicide in our enclave!  We have no problems here in High Park. We excoriate our children, cheat on our spouses, drink and drug to excess, cheat and thieve the government, plot murder in our minds, curl up in balls from depression and anxiety and leverage our lives behind CLOSED DOORS! That's what respectable people do.

            Will this affect the slushie machine?

            This city is out of control.