“Nothing happens on Bloor Street,” the thirtysomething fellow said as he exhaled a stream of cigarette smoke in my direction, “without us knowing about it.”

He and his pals were standing near the corner of Bloor and Bathurst, just outside Lee’s Palace.

It was about 9:30 on a Monday evening, and as he spoke, more and more of his pals appeared out of the darkness.

As they walked up, they tapped fists and greeted each other monosyllabically.

The boys were streaming from the bars. The Montreal-Pittsburgh game was over, the Habs had won, and Bloor Street was getting noisy.

It appeared downright unpleasant.

I was at the corner with my 17-year-old son, Michel, and 19-year-old daughter, Ewa Frances, trying to unleash Ewa’s bike, which was locked to a utility pole.

She had been downtown looking for a summer job when she locked her 18-speed to the pole. The key broke off in the lock. It was an expensive Kryptonite U-shaped item.

She returned home via TTC and back we headed downtown, armed with a hacksaw and hope.

After about 10 minutes of futile sawing, we were about to give up. But we really did not want to abandon the new bicycle to the wilds of downtown.

Of course, as we tugged and sawed and pushed, passers-by offered opinions and observations.

“I’ve been there before,” one soft-spoken woman offered. “But I was near a fire station and they brought out the jaws of life. The lock even bent them outta shape.”

Another man was more abrupt: “That,” he said, referring to our hacksawing, “is not going to work.”

Shortly, a few tough-looking, swarthy types swaggered out of the nearby Tim Hortons.

After checking out our helpless selves, one suggested we get a car jack, lever it into the lock and jack it apart. Then another said, “What you need is a grinder. That’s what the city does when they want to get rid of bikes — they use a grinder.”

His pal surprised us with; “I have one at home. I’ll go get it. I’ll be right back.”

He had a buzz cut, earrings and a low-riding VW parked illegally in the nearby laneway. When I said, “You don’t have to do this,” he responded with, “Nah. Really.”

He headed home.

His pals hung around. They swapped yarns, talked hockey and greeted the ever-expanding group of allies. I felt like I was being surrounded by a local gang of guardian angels.

One was a truck driver. One a city worker. Another a supply teacher. They were all from the ’hood. Most had attended Harbord Collegiate.

We waited, and they high-fived the Habs fans and greeted the guys on the street. The crowd got bigger. One asked if the other approved of his new girlfriend, adding, “But I ain’t bringing her around to meet you. I don’t trust you.”

His friend countered with, “But I’m married now! I have somebody.”

“Oh,” Mr. New Boyfriend said, “I guess it’d be okay then.”

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After 20 minutes or so, the VW guy returned with a grinder and a long extension cord.

Where to plug it in?

I said “I’ll take it into the Tim Horton’s” and Mr. Bloor Street said, “No, not you . . . you won’t be able to do it.”

One of the younger ones — an apprentice tough-looking guy — hauled the cord into the Timmie’s and plugged it into an outlet near the front door. But not before climbing up onto the counter to reach it. The Tim Hortons clerk watched in amazement.

Outside, the grinder guy told me to stand back. “Cover your eyes, sir,” he said.

As his friends cheered him on, he leaned in and the sparks flew.

The noise was well, grinding, and fire lit up the night.

Right when he was getting going, two police officers walked out of the laneway, past his illegally parked VW, and directly towards the flame.

I said, “Evenin’ gentlemen,” and had my explanation all prepared. They walked right past us all, not even glancing in the direction of the excitement.

They crossed Bloor and entered a store on the other side.

At the same time as the crowd eyed the grinding sparks, they kept an eye on the police.

Maybe the officers knew the lads. Maybe they knew that these guys were only up to good.

The grinding worked.

Five minutes in, and the Kryptonite lock was in pieces. Applause broke out. Slaps on the back, high fives, and the cops stayed in the store.

Mr. Grinder accepted a small tip for his trouble; his pals just wanted photographic evidence. We left, and the gang dispersed, I suppose to make sure nothing else happened on Bloor Street without them knowing about it.

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