I worked in Toronto for almost thirteen years, off and on, before and after I was married, as there still wasn’t much work at home. When I drive around town now, in the autumn of my life, all I see is ‘We’re Hiring’ or ‘Help Wanted’ signs at the entrances and doors or drive-thrus. Oh! To be young again and not have to go away. People left NL in droves back in the sixties to work in the fields and factories of central Canada. Most of them would work beside people from all over the world who spoke many different languages, worshipped religions we had never even heard of. The common thread between us all was the need to earn a living, provide for our families the best way we could.

When I look back on it now, it is with a great sense of pride. So what if you got more pride than money, you earned them both, if not in equal measures. No regrets here. You helped to make the tires that went on the cars, some even the cars themselves; the flour that made the bread, the soup that filled the cans; picked the tobacco that made the cigarettes, even the cigarettes themselves and let’s not forget the toilet paper and paper towels. Well, as nice as that all sounds, I never got to make any of those. I worked in the warehouse and distribution end of things. It was my job to see that all those things got out to the people who wanted or needed them.

In one such job, I was working in a big warehouse in Rexdale in the northwest end of Toronto, distributing building materials all over Canada. It was a good job. I enjoyed it very much, made some friends on the work floor and in management too. Many years later I would go to Edmonton looking for work, I discovered in the phone book there was an outlet for the very same company here in Alberta. I phone, hoping I might get a job. The man who answered the phone said I had worked for him in Toronto years before. I went to work there two days later, it never hurts to do a good job. So this is how my story really begins, here at this warehouse in Rexdale.

Things got really busy one summer and the company had to put on a second shift to keep up with demand. Guys like me were offered the jobs first before new hires, a chance to get a slightly higher paying position than the one you already had. Of course I jumped at the opportunity. The new paycheques looked good for sure. You got to sleep in every morning, and when you woke up, most of the stores were still open and it was much easier to get to the bank.

Things were looking up for me. Among the new hires was this fella who lived in my area of town, but not really close. We became friends, he would give me a ride into the city after work so I got home much faster – I could even work some overtime which I couldn’t do before because the busses stopped running in Rexdale after midnight. The only problem was my newfound friend never went directly home after work. He always stopped at the local bar or bars for a few beers before going home. I noticed the waiters and bartenders always called him by name. When I first came to Toronto in the summer of ’67 a glass of draft beer cost 5 cents. I wasn’t old enough to get into a bar. By the time of this story, it had risen to 25 cents a glass. Still, you didn’t have to spend a fortune to acquire a beer-belly.

So one night the young foreman came by and asked me to work a couple of hours overtime. I said yes, providing my new buddy was also willing because there was no bus after midnight. He agreed to work and when it was time to leave and we were heading to his car he said the bars are closed now but I got some beer home in the fridge, why don’t you stop by for a beer. So we ended up at his house, the wife and kids were all in bed asleep. One beer grew to three or four and by the time I leave I was feeling no pain. When I left his house I had a fair ways to go to get to my own place, which was just a room in someone else’s house.

As you can imagine, I was pretty tired after working a full shift plus overtime. The weather was hot and humid, not to mention I had downed at least four ice cold beer. Somewhere along the street as I was walking not so steadily, a freight train was crossing the city. I think the rule was no faster than five miles per hour in built-up areas. So I stopped to watch as it passed slowly by, parallel to the street. The thought struck me: that train is going my way, why don’t I hitch a ride? It’s early in the pre-dawn morning, I’m tired not to mention slightly drunk, and for some strange reason the old country song “Hobo’s Last Ride” comes to my mind.

Well, you guessed it. Before I knew what was happening I’m up over the bank waiting for a flatcar to come by so I can jump aboard. I didn’t have long to wait. As it happened, this train was hauling some automobiles. I grabbed the handrail, put my foot on the first iron step, and was soon aboard the rolling train. I couldn’t really tell the colour of the beautiful new automobiles, but I did notice one of them had the back windshield broken out. That was all I needed, some railway policeman discovering me on the train with damaged property. Try to talk your way out of that if you please. Anyway, I had other problems to worry about, number one being where and how to get off without anyone seeing me. I remembered the shopping area with the big A&P supermarket and the Canadian Tire store attached to it. My brother and his wife and I used to shop there all the time when they lived here in the city years before. My brother would open the jelly powder boxes and take out the hockey coins then put the packages back on the shelf.

So I sat down, leaning my back against one of the beautiful new cars, watching the buildings go by, knowing sooner or later we had to pass this area. Things started to look familiar to me, so I stood up knowing I was close to the old neighbourhood. The train is going really slow, I can hear people talking to each other while they work. I know the train has to pass over the street before it gets to the shopping area, so I watch for the street. Just past it, I jump from the train, bolt for the ten foot high chain link fence which encloses the track, climb up over the fence – thank God there’s no barbed wire – and fall over the other side, rolling most of the way down over the bank to the parking lot below. That was cool! So that is the story of my life on the rails as a hobo. My first, last, and only free ride on a train.

-Cyril Griffin
New Perlican, NL