The Rastaman.
Playing weekly road hockey games was something I just loved to do when I was a kid. I played a lot of road hockey back in the old Lawrence Heights neighborhood.
I had so many friends that I could play road hockey with. It happened very rarely, but sometimes I would have too many guys who wanted to play. The ideal number of players was ten or at the most twelve including the goalies. I never turned anyone away and if you showed up to play, you played.
For the most part we all went to the same Kingdom Hall and we all lived in the Jungle. And for the most part we all got along with each other. Every Sunday morning I would attend our two hour meeting at the Kingdom Hall. After a quick lunch I would then have to go door-to- door soliciting the Watchtower and Awake magazines. I would usually be back home by 4 pm and if I wasn’t grounded my mother would allow me to play road hockey.
We would usually play for a couple hours before dinner.
The huge Simpson's warehouse was located right behind my building at 11 Flemington Rd. We all preferred to play there since we could play uninterrupted games without worrying about any cars coming or going. Shouting Car! was something we never had to do whenever we played at the Simpson's parking lot. We also never had to worry about searching for and digging our ball out from under parked cars. Although at Simpson's we did have to run much further chasing errant passes or slapshots that missed the net.
Playing at Simpson's also meant we wouldn't have to worry about breaking one of my building's ground floor windows. Over the years we broke a few windows after electing to play some of our smaller games at my building's smaller parking lot.
Also, if we did need an extra player or two we could easily sneak in non-Kingdom Hall 'worldly' kids to play with us. My mother would not have such a good view from our apartment window and she could not clearly see who was out there playing with us. My mother always forbade me or my brother to ever play with any and all 'worldly' non-Witness kids.
Simpson's was a large retailer equal to its rival the T. Eaton Company. The two behemoth companies competed against each other for well over a hundred years. They were the largest, most dominant department stores in Canada by far. The massive Simpson's warehouse on Lawrence Avenue was a very busy place although the huge back parking lot was never used. The backlot was much too far away from either the main warehouse or the store entrances and no employee or shopper wanted to park there.
At the northeast corner of the massive Simpson's property was a yard where all the delivery trucks would park. During the day the yard was empty, but overnight the yard was full with trucks. On Sundays the trucks also stayed parked in the yard during the day. Back in the mid- 70's there was no Sunday shopping in Toronto. A high chain link fence with barbed wire ran along the entire north side of the Simpson's property. The fence is what separated the Simpson's property from the Jungle. Within a hundred feet of the fence was my apartment building as well the twin four story building at 9 Flemington Rd.
I was soon to discover that a lot more than parking trucks went on inside the Simpson's truck yard.
While playing one of our weekly road hockey games our ball sailed over and landed in the weedy part of the yard. It landed right within the Simpson's side of the barbed wire fence. The ball was completely hidden in all the long grass and weeds and I could not find it. It was taking me much longer than usual and none of my friends came over to assist in my search. I was like a golfer searching for a ball in the ruff. I was using my hockey stick so as to make my search easier by spreading all the weeds and long grass apart. I finally found the ball and just as I reached down to pick it up; I heard a man’s voice.
“What the fuck you doin in there?” he said as I picked up the ball.
I looked up and saw what was a Bob Marley lookalike with long dreadlocks. He was also wearing what looked like a big tea cozy on his head that was peering out from a third floor window.
“I am just getting my ball” I answered.
“You stay the fuck out of there you motherfucker, I don’t ever want to see you in there again.” He warned me.
I quickly grabbed the ball and we resumed our game. The Rastaman was now gone from the still open third floor window. Once we resumed playing I quickly forgot all about my encounter with the creepy Bob Marley lookalike.
Fast forward a couple weeks later and we are once again playing road hockey over near the truck yard. Once again the ball sails over into the long grass and we had no other ball on that day. I was now returning back to the yard where I had been warned to stay out of. However, this time I saw exactly where the ball landed and I knew I could be in and out much quicker than the previous time. As I retrieved the ball I noticed that the same third floor window was open exactly like it had been the last time. I ran over to where I saw the ball land and reached down to grab it while looking up at the open window.
At that exact moment I thought my life was about to end.
Poking outside of the window and aimed right at me was a blowgun. I thought for sure the Rastaman was going to blow a poison tipped dart into my neck.
I was trapped.
I was about to dive into the long grass when once again the Rastaman's face appeared. It wasn’t a blowgun afterall because he was munching on the other end. The blowgun that I thought for sure would be the end of me was nothing more than a long stalk of raw sugar cane.
“What the fuck I tell you mahn.” He angrily yelled.
His voice was much louder now as he continued yelling at me. I said nothing and quickly grabbed the ball. We immediately moved our game over to another area of the parking lot and we never played over near the truck yard again.
I did however see the Rastaman one more time many weeks later.
One morning I had gotten up to take a piss just before dawn. I remember it was a bit foggy outside. On this morning something had caught my eye outside of my bedroom window. There were a few bright lights coming from the area of the Simpson's truck yard. The lights were moving around like they were flashlights.
I thought it was weird and I got curious.
I sat back on my bed and leaned against the window sill while peeping from behind my curtains. I saw the Rastaman with his Jamaican coloured tea cozy hat and a couple other black dudes in the weedy, grassy area. They were in the exact area where I had been looking for our ball a few weeks earlier. Right away I realized that they were harvesting pot plants they had been growing in the Simpson's truck yard.
It all made perfect sense to me now.
It was no wonder why the Rastaman was so upset about me searching around for our ball. I was smack dab in the middle of his ‘wacky tobacky’ plants. The truth is I wouldn’t even have known what a pot plant looked like back then.
I watched them from my window for maybe fifteen or so minutes. They all walked away from the yard each of them carrying what looked like a white pillowcase. The three of them walked back into the Rastaman's building at 9 Flemington Rd.
I never told anyone what I had seen on that morning.
I have no idea how long the Rastaman had been growing his weed in the Simpson's truck yard. I knew I could've easily put an end to his grow-op with just one phone call to the cops. I thought about it, but I decided that I would not get involved.
The thought of the Rastaman killing me with a poison tipped dart from his blowgun still scared the fuck out of me.
The thought of seeing the Rastaman chewing on his stalk of raw sugar cane still scared the fuck out of me.
Just the thought of the Rastaman still and always will scare the fuck out of me.
'Cause when me was a youth me use to hide from the Dread.
'Cause me say when me was a youth me use to 'fraid a Rastaman.
Ya Mahn.
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I had so many friends that I could play road hockey with. It happened very rarely, but sometimes I would have too many guys who wanted to play. The ideal number of players was ten or at the most twelve including the goalies. I never turned anyone away and if you showed up to play, you played.
For the most part we all went to the same Kingdom Hall and we all lived in the Jungle. And for the most part we all got along with each other. Every Sunday morning I would attend our two hour meeting at the Kingdom Hall. After a quick lunch I would then have to go door-to- door soliciting the Watchtower and Awake magazines. I would usually be back home by 4 pm and if I wasn’t grounded my mother would allow me to play road hockey.
We would usually play for a couple hours before dinner.
The huge Simpson's warehouse was located right behind my building at 11 Flemington Rd. We all preferred to play there since we could play uninterrupted games without worrying about any cars coming or going. Shouting Car! was something we never had to do whenever we played at the Simpson's parking lot. We also never had to worry about searching for and digging our ball out from under parked cars. Although at Simpson's we did have to run much further chasing errant passes or slapshots that missed the net.
Playing at Simpson's also meant we wouldn't have to worry about breaking one of my building's ground floor windows. Over the years we broke a few windows after electing to play some of our smaller games at my building's smaller parking lot.
Also, if we did need an extra player or two we could easily sneak in non-Kingdom Hall 'worldly' kids to play with us. My mother would not have such a good view from our apartment window and she could not clearly see who was out there playing with us. My mother always forbade me or my brother to ever play with any and all 'worldly' non-Witness kids.
Simpson's was a large retailer equal to its rival the T. Eaton Company. The two behemoth companies competed against each other for well over a hundred years. They were the largest, most dominant department stores in Canada by far. The massive Simpson's warehouse on Lawrence Avenue was a very busy place although the huge back parking lot was never used. The backlot was much too far away from either the main warehouse or the store entrances and no employee or shopper wanted to park there.
At the northeast corner of the massive Simpson's property was a yard where all the delivery trucks would park. During the day the yard was empty, but overnight the yard was full with trucks. On Sundays the trucks also stayed parked in the yard during the day. Back in the mid- 70's there was no Sunday shopping in Toronto. A high chain link fence with barbed wire ran along the entire north side of the Simpson's property. The fence is what separated the Simpson's property from the Jungle. Within a hundred feet of the fence was my apartment building as well the twin four story building at 9 Flemington Rd.
I was soon to discover that a lot more than parking trucks went on inside the Simpson's truck yard.
While playing one of our weekly road hockey games our ball sailed over and landed in the weedy part of the yard. It landed right within the Simpson's side of the barbed wire fence. The ball was completely hidden in all the long grass and weeds and I could not find it. It was taking me much longer than usual and none of my friends came over to assist in my search. I was like a golfer searching for a ball in the ruff. I was using my hockey stick so as to make my search easier by spreading all the weeds and long grass apart. I finally found the ball and just as I reached down to pick it up; I heard a man’s voice.
“What the fuck you doin in there?” he said as I picked up the ball.
I looked up and saw what was a Bob Marley lookalike with long dreadlocks. He was also wearing what looked like a big tea cozy on his head that was peering out from a third floor window.
“I am just getting my ball” I answered.
“You stay the fuck out of there you motherfucker, I don’t ever want to see you in there again.” He warned me.
I quickly grabbed the ball and we resumed our game. The Rastaman was now gone from the still open third floor window. Once we resumed playing I quickly forgot all about my encounter with the creepy Bob Marley lookalike.
Fast forward a couple weeks later and we are once again playing road hockey over near the truck yard. Once again the ball sails over into the long grass and we had no other ball on that day. I was now returning back to the yard where I had been warned to stay out of. However, this time I saw exactly where the ball landed and I knew I could be in and out much quicker than the previous time. As I retrieved the ball I noticed that the same third floor window was open exactly like it had been the last time. I ran over to where I saw the ball land and reached down to grab it while looking up at the open window.
At that exact moment I thought my life was about to end.
Poking outside of the window and aimed right at me was a blowgun. I thought for sure the Rastaman was going to blow a poison tipped dart into my neck.
I was trapped.
I was about to dive into the long grass when once again the Rastaman's face appeared. It wasn’t a blowgun afterall because he was munching on the other end. The blowgun that I thought for sure would be the end of me was nothing more than a long stalk of raw sugar cane.
“What the fuck I tell you mahn.” He angrily yelled.
His voice was much louder now as he continued yelling at me. I said nothing and quickly grabbed the ball. We immediately moved our game over to another area of the parking lot and we never played over near the truck yard again.
I did however see the Rastaman one more time many weeks later.
One morning I had gotten up to take a piss just before dawn. I remember it was a bit foggy outside. On this morning something had caught my eye outside of my bedroom window. There were a few bright lights coming from the area of the Simpson's truck yard. The lights were moving around like they were flashlights.
I thought it was weird and I got curious.
I sat back on my bed and leaned against the window sill while peeping from behind my curtains. I saw the Rastaman with his Jamaican coloured tea cozy hat and a couple other black dudes in the weedy, grassy area. They were in the exact area where I had been looking for our ball a few weeks earlier. Right away I realized that they were harvesting pot plants they had been growing in the Simpson's truck yard.
It all made perfect sense to me now.
It was no wonder why the Rastaman was so upset about me searching around for our ball. I was smack dab in the middle of his ‘wacky tobacky’ plants. The truth is I wouldn’t even have known what a pot plant looked like back then.
I watched them from my window for maybe fifteen or so minutes. They all walked away from the yard each of them carrying what looked like a white pillowcase. The three of them walked back into the Rastaman's building at 9 Flemington Rd.
I never told anyone what I had seen on that morning.
I have no idea how long the Rastaman had been growing his weed in the Simpson's truck yard. I knew I could've easily put an end to his grow-op with just one phone call to the cops. I thought about it, but I decided that I would not get involved.
The thought of the Rastaman killing me with a poison tipped dart from his blowgun still scared the fuck out of me.
The thought of seeing the Rastaman chewing on his stalk of raw sugar cane still scared the fuck out of me.
Just the thought of the Rastaman still and always will scare the fuck out of me.
'Cause when me was a youth me use to hide from the Dread.
'Cause me say when me was a youth me use to 'fraid a Rastaman.
Ya Mahn.
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