Yesterday I was on Crescent Street for a short while, long enough to realize that this is the arse end of Montreal. I saw the spectacle of young toughs swinging punches and wrestling each other on the ground. Both sides had sought out such an adventure. I saw the episode from its very inception to its very end.
It was about two in the morning. My friend and I were sitting in a quiet cafe. There was a group of very drunk youngsters mere paces away -- girls and boys. We went outside so my friend could smoke. Some minor disturbance happened on the street right in front of us. I think it had something to do with somebody puking and falling over. All I know is that people were standing around making fun of the scene. Tough #1 detached himself from the group in the cafe and stormed out and immediately started verbally sparring with Tough #2. It was something to do with respect.
"Don't you have any respect, you fucking faggot?" he said.
He was obviously not looking to diffuse the situation. Nor was Tough #2. So the fight was on. The battle headed to the pavement fairly quickly, neither combatant being too steady on his feet. They rolled around for quite some time. The apparent girlfriend of Tough #1 stepped in gingerly at one point and tried to kick the head of Tough #2 with her pointy shoe. A friend wisely pulled her away and told her to stay out of it. Then a friend of Tough #2 tried to get involved but found himself thrown against a car by a friend of Tough #1.
When at last the fight was over, Tough #1 had no shirt. This displeased him. "Where's my fucking shirt?" he yelled. Likeminded toughs from across the street were jeering and taunting him but no further fighting ensued. Not that we saw. The spectacle having reached its end, we decided to leave.
What a seedy, sketchy walk it was up Ste Catherine. Nothing shocking to those familiar with Whyte Avenue in Edmonton, but disconcerting all the same.
About fifteen minutes later, I was in a cab headed back to Verdun, chatting with a driver from Chateauroux, France, which is a mere 50 kms from where my brother lives. He talked about going to dances in the countryside when he was young. Then we talked about the English who buy up property all over France because they love the food and the life. He left me at rue Galt, my street, just outside the restaurant, le Belle Province, where a few remaining customers were huddled inside over video lottery machines, placing their final bets.
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