Catboy - Eric Walters [12]
“They are? There’s still a dollar store.”
“There used to be three. Two are gone. One became a yoga studio, and the other is a place serving four-dollar cups of coffee. Can you imagine any cup of coffee in the world worth four dollars?” He laughed. “What are they doing, serving it in a cup made of gold?”
I shook my head in agreement. I liked listening to him talk. It wasn’t only the things he said, but the way he said them. There was a sort of rhythm to his words that was musical.
“You know the condos are not far behind when the dollar stores start becoming yoga studios, art galleries and doggie bakeries,” Mr. Singh said.
“Doggie bakeries?”
He laughed. “There is one a few blocks away. It makes treats for people’s pet dogs. Some people have more money than they know what to do with. Well, it is their money. The condos will come.”
“But not now,” I said.
“Not yet, but ultimately this whole city will become one gigantic condo development. There will be no room for factories, or businesses like this scrapyard.”
“I guess that’s too bad.”
He shrugged. “I will get another job. Maybe I will guard the condos instead. Are you here to say hello or to take a shortcut?”
“Can I do both?”
“Of course. Come, I will walk through with you. It is time for my rounds.”
“Your rounds?” I asked.
“A bad guard sits in his little house and reads the paper. A good guard walks around the property every hour. I am a good guard. I was on one of my rounds when I found you and those bad boys.”
He pushed the large metal gate, and it opened with a long, loud groan. I stepped inside, and he closed the gate behind us.
“So you think I could stop and see the cats, right?” I asked. “I saved them a bit of my lunch.”
“Of course.” He paused and then chuckled. “I saved them a bit of mine too,” he said quietly. He looked like a guilty little boy.
He popped into his guardhouse and returned holding a paper bag.
“I have a bit of my baloney sandwich. Do you think they like baloney?” I asked.
“They like everything! We have a saying: beggars cannot be choosers. Come, we will find the cats.”
I followed as he led me through the yard. I tried to figure out the layout, but one row of wrecks looked like all the others.
“Taylor, what grade are you in?” Mr. Singh asked.
“Grade six.”
“And do you have brothers and sisters?”
“Just me. Do you have kids?” I asked.
“I have four children, but they are older than you. Two of my children are in university and two are finished their schooling. My oldest son is a doctor, and my oldest daughter is a chartered accountant.”
“That’s great! You must be so proud of them.”
“I am proud of all my children, such good children they are. My littlest girl is training to be a teacher— perhaps she will be your teacher some day. And my youngest, another boy, he wishes to follow in my path.”
“He wants to become a security guard?” I blurted out.
“No, no, no,” he said with a laugh. “He will become a lawyer. In Canada I am a security guard. In India I was a lawyer. I worked for a very big firm, very important.”
“But if you were a lawyer there, how come you aren’t a lawyer here?”
“Rules, rules and more rules. There are many people from other countries who cannot become qualified to practice their professions in this country. There are doctors from other countries driving taxi cabs in Canada.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense. We need doctors and lawyers.”
“It does not need to make sense, it simply is,” he said. “But in fairness, they told me before I immigrated I would probably not be able to practice law without going back to school. With a family to raise, there was not the money for that, so I am a proud soldier, a security guard.”
“That must have been hard to come here knowing you’d have to stop being a lawyer.”
“It was hard, but it was the right decision for my