Richard Laxer, expectant father, slumps into a chair, weary from another restless night. The morning calm is broken by the squealing of a bus, as autumn leaves swirl through a broken window of the basement workshop on the corner of Fairmount and St. Urbain. Mr. Rosenberg may arrive at any time and he’s in no mood for conversation.
A black-frocked Hasid dashes by, sidelocks dangling in the air as Richard wanders outside for a breath of fresh air, intending to greet Mr. Rosenberg before he dashes in unannounced. Or maybe share a few words with old man Wagen sweeping the sidewalk outside his dilapidated fruit store where fruit flies gather to feast. Too late. Wagen has slipped behind some wooden crates, miffed by the dramatic voice of Cyndi Lauper belting out “Time After Time” from a boombox on the balcony of a winding staircase across the street. It’s just another late October day in Montreal’s Mile End.
Burdened with guilt, Richard lingers outside, smokes a cigarette, adjusts his colorful Rasta skullcap, and limps back inside. The cluttered workshop is home to an esoteric crowd of jewellery tools, lopsided tables, garage sale paintings, broken chairs, and lost souls. One of them is asleep in an armchair near the entrance.
Yehudah Halpern is no longer hauling sides of beef for Canada Packers. At seventy-five, his bushy white beard and gentle eyes show little regret for the years gone by. Quietly he waits only for the cowbell on the door to sound, hoping for his delinquent...
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