The Buses and Other Short Stories by Dora Drivas-Avramis Page B

groves. He dreamed of returning to his old country to witness the fog again, that early morning fog which covered the rugged mountains and appeared to have come from the Creator’s hands.
    But for George it was different. He, too, had been born in Greece but had lived longer in Canada. It was here in Toronto where he met and married his dear Anna. Most of his memories had been created in this country; it was here where he fulfilled his dreams. He treasured his fate and wanted to look to the future. And he cherished his barbershop. It provided him with a good living, a living that earned him many friends, a living that he wanted to celebrate today. And he
would
celebrate it! He glanced at his watch; there was still time for him to go home, change and go out with his beloved Anna. They would commemorate his shop’s tenth anniversary and rejoice on his Name-Day, too. Extravagantly!

No Price So High
    Past midnight and dark, the grinding rasping street life was at its lowest. Bare and strange, without the oppression of its congested traffic, everything stared and glittered along Toronto’s College Street. Philip Lagis paused as he opened the door of the Olympic Flame Restaurant; his son Teddy stepped out, then Philip locked the door and joined him. They both felt March’s nippy wind on their faces and hands.
    Father and son walked slowly towards Teddy’s white Chevy, parked half a block from the Olympic Flame. Philip had made this walk, either by himself or with a member of his family, around the same hour, for more than twenty years. The old man’s heavy gait was the same, his head – with its receding white hairline – sunk a little between the shoulders; the red crease of his neck was visible above the collar of his grey overcoat. Philip’s weary appearance and his seventy years belied his good spirits, and his delightful tiredness which comes from being the proud owner of his beloved restaurant.
    At his side, his strapping son Teddy, keys in hand, stepped on the road and walked in front of the car towards the driver’s door. As he was about to open it, the father exclaimed, “Look Teddy; he done it! Sam Stamkos sold his building!” And with a changed low voice, the old man repeated: “My neighbour did it! He lied to me!”
    The four red letters on the ‘SOLD’ sign were bold and visible and the sign was displayed high on the large window pane of the shoe store’s main floor. The three-story building was the fifth one east of the Olympic Flame. Philip Lagis and Sam Stamkos knew each other for two decades.
    â€œThey must have put the sign up this afternoon,” said Teddy, “it was not there when I pulled up at noon.”
    â€œYes, you right,” agreed Philip. “One more gone. All our neighbours sell out and we’re alone my son! Last year Joseph Alvarez sold his, early this year, George Ganas! I always believe Sam, my friend would hold out.”
    â€œIt’s the children, probably. They always wanted to sell, and I think they brought their father around.”
    â€œWell Teddy, my boy, our whole block gonna go, startin’ from Bathurst Street is done for! All the family businesses, the fine restaurants, shoe stores, clothes and furniture—all go, gobbled up by developers!”
    Sombre and silent, Teddy drove east towards Avenue Road and when they reached it, turned left and headed north. The cars far ahead resembled gigantic iron caterpillars as the neon signs pulsed and glowed on their metallic roofs. Close together in rhythmic motions, their bright round eyes illuminated the pavement. Philip stared at their mechanical movements and his heavy heart wanted to forget the ‘SOLD’ sign. If only he hadn’t noticed it; he had to erase it from his mind or else it would be a long, sleepless night for him.
    He tried to empty his mind of all thoughts, and before long, his second mind and heart won out, and drifted to the