The Bottle Man
by Morris J. Marshall
part 1
I was on my way to work yesterday morning when I noticed the strange man. I’d just come up the stairs from St. Andrew subway station, maneuvering around a crowd of people to make it to the office a few minutes early. Normally, I didn’t look at anyone when walking downtown, but for some reason I noticed this man out of the corner of my eye. He was sitting beside one of the tall office buildings, begging for money, dressed in a blue plaid flannel shirt in the middle of August.
A dirty baseball cap sat on the sidewalk in front of him. His long, straight dark greasy hair, tanned chiseled chin and stringy spaghetti arms first caught my attention but it was the vintage blue plastic grocery bags beside him that made me do a double take. They had a black “D” insignia on them with a red maple leaf inside for Dominion grocery store. Dominion had long since been taken over by Metro.
I’d seen those bags somewhere a long time ago. During the morning, I sat at my computer entering the most recent financial figures, but my mind kept circling back to the plastic Dominion grocery bags. What was their significance? It wasn’t until later in the day, while eating lunch at my desk, that I remembered.
September 1981
The summer heat continued into the fall, refusing to let up even after the first two weeks of classes. The promise of a new school year stood before me, but there was also apprehension. In grade six, we’d been the seniors of the school. Grade seven relegated us back to newbie status. Most of my friends went to other middle schools, but Davey Stein, Chris Chan and I managed to stay together.
We got along, most of the time. I’d been a top student in grade six, scoring the highest mark in practically every subject. Mr. Howse chose me to be valedictorian. Being small in stature, I traded off my academic prowess and homework help for my friends’ protection.
Music was my one academic thorn in grade seven. We were required to pick an instrument and were assigned our homerooms based on that choice. Davey, Chris and I chose violin. We’d been in the same violin class in grade six. I was the weakest player. I didn’t want to take violin again, but it was the only way I could be with my friends.
I couldn’t hold the violin properly; it slipped constantly from under my chin. Notes were blurred black marks without meaning. I tried to compensate by playing by ear, much to the consternation of Mr. Plunkett, my old grade six teacher. Once he caught me playing without any music on my stand.
“What do you think of the new music teacher?” Chris asked me as we walked down Scott Road on our way home from school.
“Mrs. Vanneste is nice,” I replied. “I wish we didn’t have to take music again. Gym is bad enough, but I can handle that. I like track and field.”
“Hey, Eddie,” Davey said, slapping me on the back, “where’s your violin? We have a test later this week.”
“I left it at school. What’s the test on?”
“‘Soldier’s Joy’,” Chris replied. “It’s a pretty tough jig.”
Each day we’d take a short cut home from school. Instead of walking all the way around Rogers Road to Weston Road and south to St. Clair, we’d walk past the Beer Store into a wooded area called “The Creek” with a path that led to a steep incline littered with cinder blocks and sand. We’d fight our way up the rocky hill and rest at the top, hoping to see a freight or passenger train approaching. This ritual saved us twenty minutes’ walking time.
“Look guys,” Davey said, dispersing my thoughts about the music test. “It’s him.”
The “Bottle Man” had just emerged from the creek and was approaching us, a plastic bag with a Dominion grocery store logo dangling from each of his skinny arms. His long, brown greasy hair hung over his forehead, almost shading his eyes which stared at the ground. Each time he took a step, the sound of bottles clinking emerged from the plastic bags. A whiff of sweat greeted me as he walked around us, passing by on the grass beside the sidewalk.
“He lives in the creek,” Chris said when the Bottle Man was safely out of hearing range. “He’s the one who put up that tent near the tracks.”
“Nobody lives in there,” I replied. “You’re making that up.”
“He’s right,” Davey said. “I saw him in there once, cooking something over a fire. Probably a rat he caught in one of the sewers that empty into the creek.”
The thought was repulsive. As bad as that was, I couldn’t believe that a frail-looking old man could survive in a tent. Chris and Davey had to be wrong. Maybe the Bottle Man — or whatever his real name was — lived in a rundown apartment or a nursing home somewhere in Toronto. There were rumors around the neighborhood that he’d killed someone once.
As we walked further into the Creek, the foliage thickened, increasing the shade. A junkyard bordered the eastern side of the Creek while the western fence overlooked a cement factory. Stones placed in circles just off the path marked the remnants of old fires.
“There it is,” Davey said, pointing at a yellow tarp that had been draped over tree branches several yards off the path. “That’s where he lives.”
Chris put down his violin case. “Let’s take a look. Maybe he has some money. I heard he’s returning all those bottles to save up for a new house.”
“I’m not going anywhere near there,” I said. “He could be back any minute. With a knife.”
Before my friends could stop me, I ran up the gravel hill and crossed over the tracks to Weston Road.
The next evening, Davey and Chris weren’t with me as I approached the Creek with my violin. Chris had a soccer tryout after school, while Davey was at a dentist’s appointment. It was seven o’clock. Hesitant to go home, I’d stayed at the library for three hours until it closed. My mom had stopped taking her lithium medication a month before and was in a manic phase, talking to herself and bothering our neighbors. I steered clear of home at every opportunity.
The foliage surrounding the Creek resembled the front of a castle wall, preventing anyone on the street from seeing inside. A small opening in the middle of the leaves formed an entrance into the path that wound its way through the Creek. Dusk had arrived, causing the path to darken quickly. Smoke wafted into the air from somewhere up ahead. Maybe the Bottle Man is cooking something, I thought. I could go back the other way and take the long way round. Still, I was curious to discover if he really lived there.
Fingers tightening around the handle of my violin case, I entered the creek. A musty smell arose from the polluted stream beside the path. What would I do if the Bottle Man tried to attack me? Didn’t seem likely. His arms looked too stringy. And even if he did try to take a swing at me, I could always run away.
My heart thudded as I walked toward the smoke. Two boys in their mid-teens had started a fire in a makeshift pit formed from a circle of rocks. Rockers with bangs over their foreheads and long hair cascading down the back of their leather jackets. One blond and one with dark brown hair. They swigged beer and giggled as they told dirty jokes. A beatbox sitting on the ground belted out AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.” Maybe, if I walk quietly enough, I could get by them without them noticing.
It almost worked. A large dry twig in the middle of the path was my downfall. I stepped on it with a loud “Crack!”
The blond rocker got up, a blank look on his face. “What the—”
“Well, look what we have here,” his friend said, jumping on to the path in front of me. He grabbed the front of my shirt with one hand, twisted the material and pulled me toward him, gracing me with his putrid beer breath.
“Hey, Joe,” the blond guy said to his friend, “what’s that in the kid’s hand? We could sell it for enough to buy a month’s worth of pot and beer.”
“What ya got there, kid?” Joe asked, pushing me down on the ground.
I held on to my violin.
Blondie grabbed the case and tried to wrench it from my hands. He kicked me in the stomach and the case toppled to the ground.
I screamed.
The next several seconds were a blur. Before passing out, I remember a dark form coming at us in the twilight, carrying a large rock and smashing it against the blond rocker’s face. Blood poured from his nose. Blondie looked confused, got up and ran back along the path toward Keele Street. When Joe realized he was alone, he took off as well.
When I came to, the Bottle Man was standing over me, shaking me with one of his spaghetti arms, which apparently were a lot stronger than I’d thought.
“Are you okay?” he asked, pushing his long dark hair out of his face.
“Y-yeah.”
“Those druggies, no class,” he said. His accent sounded eastern European. This was the first time I’d heard him speak.
“I’d be dead if it weren’t for you,” I said, rising from the ground and dusting myself off. “Did they get my violin?”
“Violin?” the Bottle Man said. He scanned the ground. By now it was dark, but he found the case beside the path. There were a few scuff marks on it, but everything seemed intact. He picked the instrument up and passed it back to me. “You play?”
“You might call it that. My teacher, Mrs. Vanneste, calls it making noise. We’re supposed to play by note, but yesterday she caught me playing with an empty stand, trying to fake it. I had to stay after school.”
“Better to play by note.”
“I guess so,” I replied. “We have a playing test in a few days, but I don’t think I’ll pass.”
“Now time for you to get home,” the Bottle Man said. “Your parents be worried. But you come back tomorrow. I help you learn violin and pass test.”
“Well, I’m not sure,” I said.
Just a day ago, the “Bottle Man” had been a strange old hermit. Even though he’d just saved me from certain death, the words “He killed somebody” resonated in my mind.
“You don’t trust me,” the Bottle Man said. “Understandable. Look at me.”
“It’s not that. I don’t trust anyone really. Even my own parents.”
“Just thought I could help. Do something useful.”
“I could use the lessons,” I said. “But I have nothing to pay you with.”
“None needed. I appreciate company.”
“What time should I be here tomorrow?” I asked.
“Earlier, to avoid thugs. Five okay?”
“Sure. Oh and my parents aren’t worried. My dad works late and my mom is so mentally out of it she doesn’t even notice I’m gone most of the time. She just yells at me a lot when I’m home. By the way, what’s your name?” I couldn’t tell him I’d been calling him “Bottle Man” for years.
“Sal,” he said. “What I call you?”
“Eddie.” I extended my hand. “Nice to meet you, Sal.”
* * *
“That’s how you hold bow?” Sal said the next evening, shaking his head. We were standing in front of his tent.
“That’s how I was taught by my music teacher.”
“No wonder you can’t play. You hold bow too tight.”
I relaxed my grip on the bow. “Like this?”
“Better. Spread your fingers. Little finger on end of bow. Relax arm.”
I drew the bow along the strings, using my elbow as a pivot. The sound improved.
“Still not perfect,” Sal said, pushing his hair away from his eyes. “Your left hand too tight on neck of violin. You choke instrument. It can’t sing.”
I relaxed my left hand which was used to play notes.
“Now we try some scales. Don’t worry. No one around to hear if you make mistake. Try easiest scale first: D major. Also same key “Soldier’s Joy” is in. You read notes at all?”
I thought of Mr. Plunkett coming to the back of the room during a violin rehearsal and seeing my empty music stand. I shook my head.
“Okay,” Sal said, “no problem. Every scale has eight notes. Start with open D string. Put first finger on D string for E note. Second finger spread out from E is F-sharp. Third finger bedside F-sharp on D string is G. Got it?”
I followed Sal’s lead for the fingerings. “So far.”
He showed me the remaining fingerings: A, B, C-sharp and D-along the A string.
“See?” Sal said. “You start in D and end in D with scale. Eight notes always. Eight up and eight down.”
I nodded.
“That’s all today,” Sal said. “Practice D scale tonight. Bring sheet music for ‘Soldier’s Joy’ tomorrow at five and we start playing. I help you pass test.”
“Thanks, Sal.” I loosened my bow and put it back in the case along with the violin. It was still light outside, so I climbed up the gravel embankment, crossed the tracks and walked home along Weston Road.
* * *
Copyright © 2018 by Morris J. Marshall
