Waking up to the old hometown Saint John

 The weather wasn't getting better any time soon.  Off I went to see old downtown Saint John. But first, back to the Maritime Bus terminal to collect my big backpack and the warm coat.

And off we go.

The groovy parking lot is definitely new.

The old Red Rose tea factory has been washed up nicely. No actual tea is bagged and processed here anymore.  It's all offices now.

 The new NB Museum is now in a shopping mall.

Count all the people wearing masks.  One.

Closed.

That is Barbour's General Store on the right, a well-preserved store from before the Great Saint John Fire of 1877

  

Uh-oh.  This looks like demolition.

I heard men working inside so I waited until one came out and asked what was happening.  They weren't tearing it down.  Phew.  They were just gutting some of the interior that had been ruined in a recent arson attempt by some lunatic.  The interior would be restored but only after they loaded the whole store on a truck and relocated it to Sussex where, hopefully it will be safer. 

Groovy bike rack on King Street.

King Square.

This was the old Saint John library.

This used to have a through street.

The old YMCA is gone, replaced by this giant Department of Justice building.

It's an Arts Center now.

Saint John is a little slack on maintenance.  Nice weed garden!

There is no excuse for this kind of neglect.

You can still see the original purpose of this building carved in the brick above the door.

I was attacked here by 5 guys one Sunday afternoon in 1976 or 77. The sky looked about the same then as in these pictures.  I was returning books through the deposit because I didn't have any money for the late fee.  They never chased me for those fee if they just got the books back.

These 5 had been lurking at the YMCA across the street, looking for a victim. There just weren't many people about.  I didn't know about this little phenomenon until that day.  They called it "fag bashing".  Basically, groups of nasty hoods would attack and beat up anyone they suspected of being a homosexual.  That's why they had been hanging out at the Y.  Whether or not their victims were gay, it was all about the joy of violence without any danger of getting hurt in return as they tended to gather in safe packs.   Guilt of the "crime" was determined arbitrarily.  I read books and I walked alone.  That was all they needed.

They came whooping and grinning across the street and up the stairs to surround me.   I was just puzzled.  "Hi?"  The leader turned to the pack. "This guy looks like a fag." And they all kept grinning and leering, waiting to see how I would react.  

Me too.  I didn't know how I would react either.   Keeping in mind my main priority was to protect the only face and body I would ever have,  I assessed the situation and my options.  OK.  These guys were not nice friendly people.  Fight them?  Uh-uh, not five of them or even 2.  Fighting was the last resort, just to get a little payback on my way down if I couldn't de-escalate the situation.  Reacting angrily would have been a catalyst and acting frightened, which I was, would have been the same.  So, no fighting and no begging.  Neither of those was going to end well.  I pulled one desperate third alternative out of the air and acted as if I was neither scared nor angry, simply devastated that someone would say such a terrible insulting thing about me.  Of course, no one in their right mind would ever care anything about the opinions of these creeps.  

 It was a thin straw I held but a little of the unexpected threw them off balance long enough for me to move past them down the stairs.  They were so dumb.  From there, I kept walking, while they decided their next move, reserving my strength to run like hell if they came after me.   They might have figured out my plan and knew that moment of hesitation had lost them the game because they didn't follow.  I was already safe-ish in 5 seconds by the time I reached the street corner, and it was too late for them because all I had to do was sprint less than a half a block to the side door of City Hall on the second floor where the RCMP had their offices and there was always a uniformed policeman waiting right by the door. 

Back at the homestead, Dad submits to a photo.