Vancouver: Not So Down

When the ship docked in Vancouver, he was instructed to stay quiet and blend in with the crew. Captain, crew, and stowaway walked the short distance from the port to Main Street. There they started drinking, stumbling from strip bar to dive bar until everyone was drunk. “Suddenly I am alone — they go, and I had no money, no papers, nothing!”

For four days, he ate at soup kitchens and slept on the street. When he tried to improve his sleeping arrangements, trouble struck again. The shelter wanted identification, which he lacked. The authorities were called, and Antonio was taken away. He spent the next year in detention, he said.

He had boxed as a boy in Angola and took it up again in prison. But the real fighting wasn’t done with gloves. “I fought at least once in week. One time, I smash a guy’s face with my head,” he explained, pointing to a scar above his eyes. “They catched me, and put me in little room. But worse thing is when on the day of release from jail, they tell me I have thirty more days for fighting.”

Antonio didn’t return to society a reformed boxer, a Rocky Graziano ready to make good. Instead, he stayed in local shelters and sros and spent the next three years disillusioned and drunk. Then one day, he stumbled upon the Astoria.

The bell rings, and the coach asks Antonio if he wants to go another round. “Sure, man,” he says with a nod, and the coach waves out his opponent and sends in a fresh face — one not yet bloodied. The bell rings to commence round seven, and the two men come together. It is immediately obvious that Antonio is holding back. The opponent is a greenhorn, and the Angolan is not one to take advantage.

Antonio isn’t a hard puncher, but he throws fast and has tremendous endurance. He was the welterweight champion of British Columbia in 2005 and 2006. His heart, however, is no longer in the amateur game. Recently, he turned pro in an attempt to make some money while his body is still able.

Antonio likes the Eastside. Compared to the Angolan army, it is “amazing,” “a dream!” He dresses in the latest hip-hop fashions, has three decent jobs, and lives in one of the area’s newer co-op apartments. In this respect, the dtes has once again performed its historical function, dusting off a newcomer and affirming in his mind the idea of material progress.

tosi & company
“Don’t forget, now — not just a clove of garlic. Chop in an entire bulb.” I nod, but the grocer isn’t convinced I’ll get the sauce right. In felt pen, he writes the recipe on the top of a can. Then he draws a large knife from his apron. “Some Parmesan to go with it? ” he asks, ready to cut into the wheel of cheese beside the till. “Not today, Angelo.” He bags my groceries: spaghetti and two cans of tomatoes. The tomatoes are Angelo brand, native to the region of Italy from which the Tosi family originates.

The cluttered storefront of Tosi & Company, on Main Street just down from the Carnegie, first caught my eye because of its eclectic display, and because it wasn’t boarded up like so many shops in the dtes. I rapped on the door until I noticed a sign that read, “Ring and wait a minute.” This I did, until a buzzer sounded and the door clicked open. It was cool inside, high-ceilinged and stretching back to catacomb depths. The walls were lined to the roof with all things Italian: olive oil, bocce balls, pickled peppers, espresso makers, biscotti. Handwritten signs were everywhere. Around the doorknob: Back in 5 minutes — gone out for soup. Above the office door: Parking for Italians Only. By the till: In God we trust — as for the rest, it’s cash. Above a barrel of olives: Don’t Touch! — by order of the Health Department. A hello came from the shadows, and Angelo appeared. He was energetic and healthy looking, his white hair the only clue to his advanced age. As soon as he appeared, he disappeared. “Tosi!” he rasped into the telephone receiver, then spent five minutes reading back a food order that ended with an entire wheel of Parmesan. Half of Angelo’s current business is wholesale.