Tales From the Shelter – 2
“Rock, powder, down. Rock, powder, down”. There’s something strangely melodic yet dissonant about the dealers cry of crack, cocaine or heroine. It’s a lonely tune yet somehow devised, whether haphazardly or on purpose, to lure the craving and lonely into the den.
Soundsscapes along Vancouver’s infamous Main and Hastings (Pain and Wastings) blocks blend or rip , depening on the dealer or what’s being sold. “Rock, powder, down” is whispered, a lull, while ‘cigarettes’ comes at a few decibels louder. “Ssssssig a rettesssssss”. A young woman with a skirt up to her crotch is bending and flexing while rapping out, “I gotta clean pussy, gotta gotta, clean pusssssy”. All the while I walk up and down , checking out what the boosters are selling in hopes of finding some remnants of goods stolen from my van by some crazy, tweeking crackhead fucker.
“It’s the drug, not the person” I have to remind myself. A middle aged man who looks 65 stares at me, I suppose he’s thinking I’m a cop or something of the likes, but no, he says “Rock, powder, down”. I suppose he was eyeing me up for just the right timing to ask, then again I don’t know that the people down here are that sophisticated; desperation, survival and addiction seems to have taken most to ground zero in human existance. Meantime we send money to Haiti for earthquake victims knowing most of the money gets spent on transportation and fat ass officer’s salaries, with the troops receiving less then poverty wages. Is something just oh-too-wrong?
I’m still walking and hating these scabbed, skinny people…they stole from me. I’m forgetting it’s the system that creates the pain they hold in the first place. But then again, I overcame my childhood abuses and am not an addict…am I lucky , because the economic status of your parents doesn’t seem to make any difference to my fellow shelter dwellers.
“We are the evidence, not the crime”. I must remember how John Doe looks at me – a toothless rat on disability with no cast to give a visual reminder of my disability. Perhaps I should go to the pharmacy and buy an elastic wrap for my head and put fake blood on it…bipolar isn’t a visible impairment.
No sign of any of my stuff. I did spot my tool box one day but the cops weren’t into helping. They said they’d ‘try’ to send someone down and to keep my phone on if i was going to wander elsewhere. I spotted two beat cops across the street, thinking they were ‘my men’. Turns out they had not been contacted by dispatch so they radioed, things were explained to them and they told me they’d get on it but had another call to do first, so it would probably be in an hour.
An hour standing here? Nope. Dragged my ass home after first being verbally assaulted by a contract flag person who yelled, “Come on, hurry up or you’ll get your fat ass runover”. I couldn’t hurry, I was carrying bags and slow from depression. As i passed her she shoved me. I yelled, “Fuck you!”, she yelled the same back. Once I was curbside I took some pictures of her on my camera…knowing that if I didn’t have the energy to persue getting her sorry ass fired , it would at least stress her out for a few days. What’s that called, passive revenge or something?
A few days passed and no police had gotten a hold of me so I called them. They said they sent an officer but I wasn’t there. I said I had a phone and they have my number so didn’t understand the problem, especially because the cops had no description for me…I reported in by phone. After a slurry of phone calls I finally landed on a web site that has a pdf form for police complaints. At last! Well, not to be because while the pdf appeared to be portrait print, it was actually landscape and I ended up with a chopped up form. Maybe another day, maybe another day I’ll print it out correctly.
And all I can think about all this is, “Fuckers”.
Entry filed under: Political Humour.