Recycling a Friendship

By the time I returned to the curb last evening with the green bin, someone was rifling the blue bin. He thanked me for not chasing him away and I thanked him for sparing the bin its refundable empties. At what would have been a natural end of the conversation, he said, “Your name’s David, isn’t it?”

It was over 20 years ago, the first Christmas I took my flugelhorn downtown to busk, I took up position under the canopy of the old Zellers store. As politely as I could, I asked the hot dog vendor who had that concession if he’d mind turning off his radio. “Depends,” he said, “let me hear you play first.”

That season and for the seasons that came before Zellers shut down, Ken and I would chat between our respective deliveries of hot dogs and Christmas carols. I’d look for him when he relocated his cart further downtown, around city hall, to exchange hellos and a quick chat. I haven’t seen a hot dog cart over the last few years without wondering what became of him.

At what would have been a natural end of last evening’s conversation, we spoke for another hour.