Uprising. Douglas L. Bland
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out onto the noisy, dusty sidewalk, the driver said, “Thanks. Have a nice day. And watch your wallet in this part of town.”
The cabbie hesitated at the curb, curious to see whether his wealthy-looking passenger was really going into the Occidental or, Alex thought grimly when he noticed the driver watching him, whether he’d make it inside without being hassled outside on the street. As Alex reached for the hotel door he saw the cabbie through the taxi’s grimy side window shaking his head as the car eased away from the curb. The old Sikh would have a story for the guys tonight.
Wednesday, September 1, 1140 hours
Winnipeg: North Main Street
Alex was familiar with Main Street, and even the barroom of the Occidental, from his first posting several years ago to the 2nd Patricias, then stationed at Kapyong Barracks on Kenaston Boulevard. But his experiences then only added to his sense of apprehension this morning. If anything, the intervening years hadn’t been kind to north Main Street or the old hotel-saloon. The Occidental was known by reputation to every Winnipegger, although few decent citizens have ever stepped into the place, except cops and the odd bunch of college kids on a dare. The three-storey building sat on a concrete island, isolated by the flow of traffic along Main and Logan streets and the busy Disraeli Freeway. Its uninviting front door faced the even less-inviting Bon Accord block across Logan, while its shabby rear, strewn with broken crates, boxes, and rubble, overlooked three dilapidated grey houses.
Still, the Occidental, perhaps in tribute to its sheer tenacity, was held in a kind of respect, a landmark residents would hate to see vanish almost as much as they’d hate to see its insides. The old girl displayed her aspirations in bold colours on a fancy sign hung on the Main Street wall: Furnished Rooms, Suites, Private Baths. Special Discounts for Artists, Musicians and Students. And, thought Alex, nightly brawls outside, no charge, join or watch, take your choice.
In the days of beer parlours and ladies-and-escorts segregated drinking establishments, the hotel had been the favourite of ordinary working white guys looking for ten-cent draft beer. They enjoyed the rough and the reassuring company of people like themselves. In those days, keen members of the Salvation Army would drop by to save souls from drink and damnation. The new locals, though less prosperous, drank beer there too, but they looked to other saviours and another religion. Alex grimaced at the sign over the entrance, White Buffalo Spiritual Society, then stepped inside.
The smell of old carpets and stale beer buffeted him on his way in the door. He blinked in the dim light and walked to the desk, where a middle-aged, unshaven clerk put down his paper and scowled at this unusual customer. “What will it be, chief? Nice suit. On welfare or are you one of those guys they hired in the government to make things look fair?”
“You have a room for me,” Alex replied stonily. “The name’s Grieves. Or do you have to ask your boss first?” He flashed a twenty and they settled for a draw. The clerk glanced at the register and said, “Yeah, sure, okay. Staying three days it says here. Prepaid.” His eyes flicked up in genuine surprise, and a note of sarcasm crept in as he continued, “Top floor, 372, the presidential suite.” He handed Alex a key and an envelope, taped shut and initialled. “Elevator’s broke. Stairs are over there.”
Alex crossed the small lobby and walked up the stairs, not too fast. He was conspicuous enough in his suit without taking the stairs two at a time; nobody that healthy had stayed in this hotel since 1953. He walked down the dark third-floor corridor to room 372, fumbled with the key, and pushed open the door. The room was small, just a creaky steel bed, a chest of drawers, and a well-used “private bath.”
He threw his bag on the bed and tore open the envelope that had been waiting for him at the desk. It contained nothing but a card with a phone number written on it. He flipped open his cellphone and dialled the number. Two rings, then a grunted “Yeah?”
Alex replied to the voice according to the set of code-words and counter-challenges he had been given at Akwasasne.
“You left me a card.”
The voice hesitated, then asked, “Birthday?”
“April.”
“Party?”
“Tea.”
“Okay, you’re cleared. Clothes are in a sealed box in the closet. Put them on. Pack everything else except your shaving kit, take the back fire-escape, and drop the suitcase beside the dumpster. Toss the cellphone in the dumpster there, then go to Disraeli, cross Main, and walk up Alexander. Wander a bit. Check for tails. We’ll be watching for ’em too. Take your time, then head to the Presbyterian Church on Laura at Alexander and sit in the pews. We’ll make contact if you’re clean.” Beep. Click. Dial tone.
Alex tore up the card and flushed it down the toilet. He opened the box and found worn jeans, white socks, old Nikes, green plaid shirt, a thin red jacket, and a beat-up Blue Bomber tractor hat. At least they were clean. He changed quickly, packed, threw the keys on the bed, opened the door, and checked the hallway. Clear. He made his way down the fire-escape and out into the alley. As he passed the hotel dumpster, Alex chucked his cellphone into it and dropped his suitcase on the ground. That, he said to himself, will be gone within the hour.
Alex followed his instructions, moving along Disraeli, dodging across Main Street’s several lanes, and up Alexander. Despite the clothes, he felt conspicuous, too upright in these beaten-down surroundings. He forced himself to discard his habitual upright, parade-ground posture, pace, and presence. Loser, he told himself. Think loser. Act loser. Look loser. Shuffle. Head down. Drift. He checked himself in the store windows as he walked along, trying to look as if he was stopping to ponder a smash-and-grab.
As he ambled along, he stopped at a bench in the churchyard park at Fountain Street. Maybe I should have brought a bottle, he thought. Nah, don’t want cop trouble. Just look thirsty. He hung his head but quickly checked the street behind him, looking, he supposed, for a shady character even scruffier than himself, or maybe someone in a trench coat, who would suddenly stop walking, turn away, pull up his jacket collar, and light a cigarette. I watch too many detective movies, he told himself.
After another half hour of wandering up and down the streets of this depressing neighbourhood, Alex found it was unpleasantly easy to shuffle along looking discouraged. Time to get going, he thought. He headed for the rendezvous point. The church on Laura was just one of the many churches and fine buildings in this once-prosperous part of Winnipeg. The grand red-brick Canadian Pacific railway station on Higgins Avenue, built in 1904, had once been the centre of a lively local economy that supported numerous small manufacturers, warehouse businesses, banks, and one-product shops; a number of rival churches and synagogues had been built for the mostly east-European immigrants who had come to build a better life in the early twentieth century. But that was ancient history.
In the sixties, businesses had started faltering or had moved to newer parts of town. The closing of the CP station was a big blow. And then the demographics began to change. As the middle class moved out and welfare clients moved in, trade fell off, and other stores, banks, and services moved out. Residents moved to the suburbs and businesses left Main Street for the new malls on west Portage Avenue and Pembina Highway to the south. Then the native population swelled, displacing the white working poor, if not the derelicts.
Ill-prepared young natives moved from the reserves to the city in search of the life they’d watched on TV. They didn’t find it. Instead, kids living on welfare, drugs, booze, and prostitution wandered the streets. Gangs began to multiply. More businesses left. More banks closed. Seedy hotels, pay-day “banks,” and little else remained. Winnipeggers grew resigned to the native slum around north Main, Selkirk, Slater, and MacGregor: what can you do? Just don’t go there, especially at night. Every election, the white politicians talked about doing something, and between elections they did nothing.
We will make something better for our people, Alex thought. We’ve got to. He reached the church on Laura and noticed the paint peeling off the door.
He went in and stood at the back, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He walked partway down the aisle and sat in a pew, not too far back, but not in front