I'm continually adding to my collection of literary references to Tim Hortons. You can find earlier collections here.
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Winipek: Visions of Canada from an Indigenous Centre by Niigaan Sinclair
Wearing an orange shirt is a beginning, but four other harder and vital steps--requiring much time and resources--are necessary. These are: Listen. Learn. Commit. Act.
[...]
Now comes the really hard part: commitment. Commit to moral, social, cultural, legal and economic change. Justice. Commit to standing up to ignorance every time you encounter it. Commit to voting for leaders who can actually articulate what reconciliation looks like and--most important of all--have a plan to do it. Then, refuse to accept when attempts are made to renege on promises for things like pipelines and payoffs. Commit to talking about relationships with Indigenous Peoples in the community, the home and the workplace. I know a group of seniors who do this during every Tim Hortons visit. Read the treaties. Realize they are about the future, not the past. Recognize that they are not just words but a way of life.
Then it's time to take the bravest step of all. Act. Fulfill this vision. Don't just be an ally, but live as one. Revisit the first three steps often. When you stumble--and you will--get up and start again.
That's how we produce change in this place, our place, and the future can be seen here, in more places all the time. I hope I've helped you see that it can be where you are, too. Miigwech.
--from Closing Words: Life in the Centre
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Avalanche: Stories by Jessica Westhead
One day I brought Mustafa some Timbits. I got him an assortment including chocolate and sour-cream glazed and the birthday-cake kind with sprinkles and the apple-fritter ones my son used to love when he was little but suddenly he's off gluten so who knows anymore. Anyway, he's off at university now so he can eat what he wants, I don't care. All of his classes are online and he still moved away but it's his life and I hope he's happy with it. I slid the box underneath Mustafa's chair and instructed him in a playfully stern voice, "Don't you dare share those with anybody!"
He said thank you in the nicest, softest way but he didn't reach for the box, so he must have excellent willpower because I would've opened it immediately and gobbled up at least two right off the bat, starting with the chocolate ones. Then I supposed he was probably holding off because he was wearing the face mask, so maybe he'd eat them on his break.
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Hair for Men by Michelle Winters
I'd picked up a few valuable lessons in my time with them, most notably in the area of law enforcement; one thing I knew was how to spot an undercover cop. Hardcore shows were always getting busted for drugs, underage drinking, assault--you name it. Law enforcement was the enemy and was always nearby. Sometimes they tried to infiltrate, to find out about the parties going on afterward so they could bust them up, that kind of thing. Marko had told me the surest way to spot a cop was that they'd be asking questions. Once you're part of the scene, you don't ask; you just find out. Anyone skulking around wanting to know where the party was, we gave them the address of a Tim Hortons in Regent Park.
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I drove through the night, seized every so often by waves of doubt, talking myself back through the events. I stopped three times at Tim Hortons for coffee but was too emotionally queasy to even consider one of their sensible ham and cheese sandwiches.
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Peacocks of Instagram by Deepa Rajagopalan
When it's bright enough, we stop at a rest area for breakfast. I wake Akash and get him into his winter coat while he's still in the car seat. He smiles and says, "Are we there yet?" I say no and tickle his stomach. Inside the building, I contemplate the lines in front of Tim Hortons and Starbucks before choosing Tim Hortons--the line is longer, but they have six employees whereas Starbucks has only three. Tito has disappeared, and I am relieved. A cigarette will do more for this marriage right now than anything else.
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The Knowing by Tanya Talaga
The voice on the radio declared they were known as school cars and schools on wheels. Trains that brought classrooms to children in the most isolated communities of northern Ontario. I was listening to the introduciton to an hour-long CBC Ideas feature on train schools, a program that would explore remote education, home schooling and nation building.
Home schooling? Nation building? Was this for real?
My friend Alvin Fiddler, then Grand Chief of Nishnawbe Aski Nation, and the leader that pushed for the inquest into the deaths of the seven,* had called to tell me about the radio doc. He'd been driving around in his truck in Thunder Bay after a Tim Hortons tea run when he heard the episode.
He said, "You need to listen to this."
*see Talaga's Seven Fallen Feathers
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Buffalo Dreamer by Violet Duncan
"Oh, good, you're up! I was just going to wake you," Mom says as she sips from a familiar red paper cup.
"What?! Mom, you stopped at Timmy's?!" I ask, instantly wide awake.
Timmy's is our favourite place to go when we drive through Canada, where I always get my favourite drink and treat. The thought of it makes my mouth drool.
"Why didn't you wake me up?! I would have gotten--"
"A frozen lemonade with a Boston cream donut," Mom answers, cutting me off mid-sentence. "You have them right there." She points at my cup holder and the paper bag by my feet.
"Oh, thanks, Mom," I say, feeling a bit embarrassed. I reach for my drink and take a sip.
"You had quite a nap," my mom says. "You were really out. And I could've sworn you were talking in Cree right before you woke up."
"Weird, since I don't know any Cree. What did I say?"
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Real Ones by Katherena Vermette
"Oh, can't today. I have yoga later. And then I have to finish my knitting. Why don't you come get me tomorrow morning. You can drive me to the Friendship Centre. I've been making mittens and scarves for their program."
I'm surprised, but only a little. "Okay, sure, what time?"
"Come by nine. Bring me a double double? It has to be milk and the fake sugar, remember. Awful stuff but better than nothing."
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Age 16 by Rosena Fung
The Gulf by Adam De Souza
The Deluge by Stephen Markley
"Over by the mall near Indian Ripple. It's a Tim Hortons. How 'bout you? You got a job, with all these collections people after you?"
"Yeah, I got a job at a blood bank."
"Blood bank? What you know about that?"
You pretend you can't be bothered to explain.
--from Book 2. The Watch & the Blood Bank. 2025
"My mom," you say to Andrade when you reach him. His eyes light up.
"Such a pleasure," he says, taking your mother's hand in both of his and pumping it profusely. "I heard tell of you, but here you are in the flesh."
"Least for now," says mom. "Day's not over yet."
Most of your mother's comments these days are about dying. The reverend compliments your mother's outfit and asks if she'll be staying long.
"Just until the evening. Got my shift at Hortons tomorrow morning.
--from Book 4. The Ghost and the Mask. 2036
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'Endowed' by Terese Mason Pierre, in The Journey Prize Stories: The Best of Canada's New Black Writers, volume 33
Headlights turned the corner. Tre's beat-up Corolla swerved slightly as it headed toward Jerry. It jerked when it stopped. Jerry opened the passenger door and got in. "You're late."
"There was a bomb ting by the Tim's, bro," Tre said as he turned onto Eglinton.
Jerry rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched in a smile. Tre was his most loyal customer.
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Becoming a Matriarch by Helen Knott
Her petite frame didn't seem capable of pulling the heavy words into the room. Her lack of confidence hit me in the stomach. I watched the doctor retreat into her body as she greeted Mama. And then she asked Mama a question: "Before coming here, what did you think your illness could be?"
There would be no joyous car ride home, and no dark jokes of what could have been, as we went through the Tim Hortons drive-thru. No singing along to songs on the radio as we sipped our creamy, sugared, caffeinated liquids.
The "C" word tumbled out of Mama's mouth and the doctor nodded slowly to confirm her suspicions.
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Prairie Edge by Conor Kerr
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A History of Burning by Janika Oza
A few weeks later, Hari was working at the kitchen table when Sol called him to come play. The sunlight through the window warmed his forearms, drawing his attention away from his textbook and toward the jungle of vines out back, the leaves of the sugar maple just blushing orange, and Hari had no trouble ditching the report he was supposed to be writing.
They met at the Tim Hortons by the park, where Sol ordered two double-doubles and a donut, slapping his change down on the counter before Hari could pay.
They hunched over their creamy coffees at a table shared with another family, whose kids were losing their minds, standing on the chairs, the parents switching between English and Vietnamese, so that Hari caught only snatches: Enough! Quiet! Hey!
"Honey cruller?" Hari poked at the cracked icing, trying to make Sol laugh. "You know it's Boston creme or bust for me."
"Fine," Sol said distractedly, waving the donut at the screeching kid next to him who grabbed for it with both hands.
Hari watched as the kid scraped the icing off the cruller with his fingernails before looking up at his mother. The way his eyes sought her out reminded Hari of the last time his parents had come over.
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