Dying of Thirst: A Shelter Worker’s Journal
Journal Entries, Poems, Editorials
On Life In a Homeless Shelter
By Glenn Pascoe
Toronto, On
2002-2006
"Kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight"
Bruce Cockburn
“Let me words sing a prayer not a curse
Of our beautiful suffering eternal worth.”
Bud Osborn
Introduction
You're downtown Toronto heading east from Yonge Street on Gerrard. You'll see Ryerson College on your right before you come to Jarvis Street. Go through the intersection and you'll see a big old Baptist Church on your left and an outta commission bar called the 'Fueling Station' on your right. When Allen Gardens comes into view on your left you turn south onto a disquieted little street called George Street and there you'll find Canada's largest homeless shelter. Approaching the shelter you navigate your way on and off the sidewalk as you choose not to go through groups of people huddled together conversing and doing transactions. Some will be lighting crack pipes. Some will be drinking beer. Pairs of eyes from both sides of the street scan your way and determine whether or not you pose a threat to the business of the day.
Nine foot black steel bars stand ominous around the parameter of the four storied yellow bricked building -- a building that extends half a city block. A building that has sheltered, imprisoned, protected, entombed thousands of displaced souls for over 40 years. Directly across the street is the mirrored backside of a Youth Detention Centre, which produces little activity except for the odd young person being escorted in shackles. George Street has always got a buzz going. No down time, no rain checks. It is a street of trade and commerce yet without any storefronts.
Just south of the shelter the curtains of a 4th story apartment are shut but the window is always open. A young north African looking head is poking through watching for customers, speaking in drug scene vernacular, inviting customers up. A whistle is heard cutting through the hum of the day and a man shouts '6 up' effectively alerting the street to the presence of an unmarked police car creeping by.
The throb of the street activity has everything to do with the 600 bed shelter for men, or, more specifically, it's inhabitants. This is a place where many persons who are without a place to stay will not stay due to its disreputable history, its sheer size, and the probability of trouble that accompanies a night's rest there. It’s an unlikely assemblage of souls. Some fighting to get out of a system that won't let them go others clinging to stay inside a system that threatens to spit them out. Men with broken necks and gangrenous feet -- broken minds and scarred psyches pace in the cages of their lives.
Outside the front entrance a single cigarette is sold for 25 cents to an Indian man whose anxiety is at a fever pitch. His hand shakes as he reaches for the cigarette, his lips quiver and his eyes flutter involuntarily. He's just arisen from his bed but not from sleep. One of his roommates screamed and shrieked all night while another one banged his head against the wall. And the alcohol he drank yesterday came from a bottle whose label read, "For External Use Only". He's thrown up already this morning so he should be OK for a little while but what he really needs is a drink.
You walk in the front entrance, known as 'Center Island', to the tune of catcalls and taunts from the local riff raff, riotous banter, and disturbed behaviour. A man holds a cigarette in one hand and crutch in the other. He yells out at the sky then clutches his testicles and cows in pain only to reengage in imaginary conversation and solitary laughter. You wonder to yourself, "Is this guy O.K.?" "Should you tell somebody?" "Perhaps the front desk staff?" Yet, you don't want to come off as presumptuous given that so long as they have their sight they are in direct view of this man and would be doing something if they thought it necessary. You second guess your instincts as you don't want to come off as the naïve, innocent suburban citizen who doesn't really get to this part of town very often. But then, with your ethical wheels turning, you think, "Well this guy is a person just like the rest of us, he obviously needs help, so who cares how I look in all this." You draw it to the front desk staff's attention who then calmly indicate that they will go and help the disturbed soul. What the staff don't say is that this same fellow has been sent to hospital repeatedly for drug induced hallucinations and the police were called yesterday after he grabbed a female staff. Both institutions assess him and immediately released him back to us where he continues to suffer.
You tell staff you're coming to see someone on the third floor. They confirm with the third floor that it's OK to send you up before they buzz you in. You pass several men sitting in soft chairs by the elevator and the pay phone. What you don't know is that one of them was just released from prison where he was detained for several years for attacking a police officer with a knife. He is on a specialized central nervous system drug called Clozadine. To be on this drug he needs to have his blood checked every week to make sure that the right levels are in his system. If it is not properly regulated the man is susceptible to take psychotic fits and is prone to violence. He was discharged to the shelter last week.
The man on the pay phone speaks with great articulation and precision as if in a commercial. He is making a complaint about the staff on the third floor. He protests that he was just forcibly stripped and showered and would like to make a formal complaint. This is the same man who is often seen standing still writhing in pain as he burns the skin of his cheek and ear with a lit cigarette. A dark skinned man with a gray beard, winter toque, and a heavy Caribbean accent greets you with a pleasant smile and says, 'With Respect", as the elevator door opens to take you up two floors to a harm reduction and infirmary unit.
Alternative Introduction
Anyone who lives in Toronto knows that homelessness is an ongoing issue and holds a prominent place in the news and in political debate. Views on the subject range in both diversity and intensity. Every winter the issue sees a spike in interest as it becomes unnerving at best for the general public to consider that while they have just arisen from a warm bed, showered, put on clean clothes, and are guzzling hot coffee the mound that they are stepping over at Bay and Queen is a person with quite a different morning underway.
Stepping over a person sleeping on a sidewalk in January sets off an inner dialogue and line of questioning. Who is this nameless person? What in the world are they doing sleeping outside? Are they trying to prove something? Do they expect pity? Excuse me but I've got to get to work…you know…so I can pay my bills…so I can pay taxes which fund social programs...and I've judged and stepped over him all in one motion.
I try to look into the eyes of a disheveled wild looking man crouched down on the sidewalk. In his eyes I begin to read a deeply human story but something happens. I get lost in the cobwebs of that room in my heart that deals with social responsibility and those eyes which are intensely personal, even mirrors to the spirit, go through the machinery of rationalization and are theorized, generalized, politicized and forgotten by the time I cross the street. Often, I just do whatever I need to do to appease the gnawing hunger of my conscience, pleasantly justify myself, or ignore the person altogether. That's the best way to steer clear of any of this social duty, human need, compassion, and justice stuff. You know the stuff that still holds water at the end of the day when you're trying to figure out why you should get up the next morning and do whatever it is you do. The stuff that factors in when you're contemplating the reason why you're breathing in and out…in and out…in and out.
On having Friendships with Homeless People
I could excel in my work, have friends and family around me. I could have a great life carved out where I can control the rhythm of my day. I can infuse a sufficient amount of pleasure at key intervals along the way in order to keep this train moving and enough meaning could be extracted from all of this to help me sleep at night. But it is a train that after a while cannot slow down. A train which after a certain point can no longer entertain the people we want to discuss like the stranger, the foreigner, the outcast because there is too much at stake, too much to protect, too much to lose. And the good but insular life lived reasonably well wears thin and loses water.
Friendship with the disenfranchised is a political act. It will cost you votes among your friends and acquaintances. Working with the homeless is innocuous enough, even laudable, but friendship with the homeless is not. It requires that you take sides and then stepping over that line you find yourself on side with a powerless, positionless, embarrassing, falling down drunk, laughing, couldn’t care less group of misfits. And may I say that while this friendship may appear to be a benevolent act of service on the part of the enfranchised one I want to say that it is an awfully good time despite the ubiquitous presence of tragedy. It helps the so-called ‘helper’ discover truth. Truth for life in the suburbs. Truth for marriage and family. Truth for how to be in this world. You’ve got an internal scale on which ‘what is’ is weighed and you need a person from the street to help you. To balance your scale. Sometimes it is the drunk man that will make you sober.
Friendship has the strength of religion and faith because it converts souls, it turns souls toward hope. It can move things that are stuck. It is limitless support, it seals leaks, it holds your spot in line, it's the bucket for your sinking boat, it bails you out of jail. This friendship changes everything. Who are you friends with? Know that your choice to be a friend could be revolutionary. It will spark a revolution in your own heart and lead others in a kind of class protest. Know that being political isn't necessarily about picket lines, petitions, and speeches. When the wealthy and the poor know each other things will happen. For every friendship like this another plank is nailed into the bridge of human solidarity.
“There is a crack, a crack, in everything…that’s how the light gets in.”
Leonard Cohen
Shelter Moments: Great and Small
Daniel throws up into a garbage can, shows me where his right eye used to be, shakes like a leaf, and tells me the horrors of his childhood. Around us people scream, curse, slam doors, storm down hallways… These guys are of a different ilk. They've seen things that would shatter and paralyze most. They're veterans in a war on their souls. They need their space and respect and mustn't be underestimated.
A disturbed man tells me I'm beautiful over the din of two men arguing and Ivor screaming out, "Be gone Satan", followed by "F##, F##, F##", and then "Jeeesssuuusss". Yet, surpassing all of these goings on's, there sat a portly Italian man dressed dapperly in black playing guitar and singing tune after tune while Ram stands transfixed, eye's closed, in a kind of orgasmic radiance giving the impression that what he feels is 60% pure wonder and 40% pain. It is a kind of intensity wherein the experience pushes the boundaries of euphoria. I'm soaking all this in when a man named Kevin introduces himself to me as being schizophrenically-minded. He further explained that during the day he goes quiet and at night he becomes talkative. After all of these things happened Ivor, the swearing blind man, gallantly launches into the singing of the American national anthem.
Sweet Daniel tells tragic tales of Sprucedale Residential School and the devils that counsel for the darkness dancing in the walls of his soul. He's been trying…trying for 20…30 years first to shake them but then just to rid himself of himself by living a suicidal lifestyle. On a good day he'd say he's just trying not to hear, not to feel, not to think. On a bad day he's hoping to not exist. He assaults himself by pouring poison into his system and discovers that so far it just won't end. But all of this isn't Daniel. Daniel is a gentle bear whose missing a front tooth, missing an eye, hangs over a crutch, gives Sam swirlies and ties his hair in a ponytail. Daniel's a guy, who as a boy, would wake up to find naked people in his bed, blood spilt on the floor, adults assaulting each other, and terrible things happening to his sister. All before he got out the front door to go to school. His teacher said he couldn't concentrate and that he 'acted out' a lot.
Last shift I took poor Kenny’s bottle of Listerine that he had in the rack of his walker. He was not impressed: a) that I found his Listerine and confiscated it. b) that he had totally forgotten that it was there.
I had to rip, literally rip, Jan away from the window as he persisted in asking for a drink when he was 'cut off' for the night due to coming in intoxicated. I would pick him up and pull him away as he clung on for dear life. I would then take him down the hallway to his room only to have him come plodding back one, two, yea three times. After such resilience I felt that he deserved some sort of prize. He wasn't causing trouble otherwise.
I helped G shave the right side of his face as his facial hair, due to radiation treatment, isn't growing on the left side anymore. Last shift G told me, 'no one wants to die'. He's not responding well to treatment and will not likely live much longer.
The shelter has revealed to me the fundamental condition of the human heart. Firstly, that the heart is insurmountably resilient and capable of love and friendship. Secondly, that the same heart has the capacity for unspeakable evil toward the one’s it loves.
A rare moment with Mr.F transpired as he inquires about my relational status and asks what I'll do on New Year's Eve. He reflected that he'd like to have a nice new year's supper and drink with a girlfriend or wife but he had neither. When I asked about his relational status he expressed that there was a time but that he 'wore out his welcome' with his women. As he put it, "I never followed through on anything. I'd say, 'I'll do this or I'll do that…', story of my life" he said.
K's Dad's Bday Party
I was asked to accompany K to his Father's birthday party which was held on Saturday February 7th in the elegant buffet style restaurant. An invitation to this party had come for K and his stepmother had called to make sure that someone could escort K to the celebration.
It was a cold, blustery Saturday morning when we began to get K ready for the party. He resolutely refused to believe that there was any such party going on and resisted my efforts to get him showered and changed. Coercion, bribery, threats, and lies were used to persuade K that he needed to go. K never leaves the shelter. Getting into a cab that morning was such a deviation from his highly routinized life that K became very talkative, using colourful language, and making unbelievable comments, not at all suitable for public consumption.
When we arrived at the restaurant we quickly discovered that it was indeed a fashionable affair and a place for wealthy shoppers to eat. We stepped off the elevator and poked our heads around tall cloth curtains into the auditorium-like room as K cussed and swore at me. We were spotted by K's stepmom who came to greet us. K was still exclaiming that it was not his father's birthday, there was no such party, and that I was a %#!*ing derelict for dragging him to this strange place. I can still hear his words echoing through the banquet hall to the surprise and dismay of this prestigious group. I quickly asked his stepmom if she was sure she wanted to go through with this given that we had not been seated yet but had already caused considerable commotion. Not to be deterred by the untold possibilities for embarrassment she said, "No his father really wants him here" and directed us to their table. Introductions were made to K's family and hence we were off navigating what felt very much like being in a canoe going over a waterfall.
It was at the gourmet buffet table that K shone most brightly. The elaborate selection of meats involved a choice between chicken, beef, lamb, and ham. This proved to be confusing for K and prompted him to snatch the display plate to the shock and confusion of the chef. K's response when the display plate was taken away from him was to assert, "Well give me some $#*!in food then!" Then noticing that there were waiters walking around with bottles of wine K became distracted and began to follow after them. The family looked to me at this point to determine if a glass of wine would be permitted. Something about the 'path of least resistance' fluttered through my mind as I nodded in the affirmative and watched as K clasped the glass and sipped with great familiarity.
It was a cold, blustery Saturday morning when we began to get K ready for the party. He resolutely refused to believe that there was any such party going on and resisted my efforts to get him showered and changed. Coercion, bribery, threats, and lies were used to persuade K that he needed to go. K never leaves the shelter. Getting into a cab that morning was such a deviation from his highly routinized life that K became very talkative, using colourful language, and making unbelievable comments, not at all suitable for public consumption.
When we arrived at the restaurant we quickly discovered that it was indeed a fashionable affair and a place for wealthy shoppers to eat. We stepped off the elevator and poked our heads around tall cloth curtains into the auditorium-like room as K cussed and swore at me. We were spotted by K's stepmom who came to greet us. K was still exclaiming that it was not his father's birthday, there was no such party, and that I was a %#!*ing derelict for dragging him to this strange place. I can still hear his words echoing through the banquet hall to the surprise and dismay of this prestigious group. I quickly asked his stepmom if she was sure she wanted to go through with this given that we had not been seated yet but had already caused considerable commotion. Not to be deterred by the untold possibilities for embarrassment she said, "No his father really wants him here" and directed us to their table. Introductions were made to K's family and hence we were off navigating what felt very much like being in a canoe going over a waterfall.
It was at the gourmet buffet table that K shone most brightly. The elaborate selection of meats involved a choice between chicken, beef, lamb, and ham. This proved to be confusing for K and prompted him to snatch the display plate to the shock and confusion of the chef. K's response when the display plate was taken away from him was to assert, "Well give me some $#*!in food then!" Then noticing that there were waiters walking around with bottles of wine K became distracted and began to follow after them. The family looked to me at this point to determine if a glass of wine would be permitted. Something about the 'path of least resistance' fluttered through my mind as I nodded in the affirmative and watched as K clasped the glass and sipped with great familiarity.
Then the stories began to stream forth. Not being even slightly aware of the level of discomfort that I and the family - the sisters, their husbands, nieces, parents - were feeling K rambled on through. About the girlfriend who became a lesbian at one of their heroin parties, alarm systems on the bridle path, jokes about erections, Richard 'Dixon', the Iran/Iraq debate, Brian Mulroney, Czech, England, California…and of course his famous father who just happened to be seated at the head of the table. Waves and waves of relief washed over me as we left the elegant family birthday party and got back to the shelter where bizarre and unruly behaviour is permitted and welcomed.
A staff member asks a young mentally troubled homeless guy, named Chris, how he's doing. Chris wrestles with the question and is unable to respond with any social convention and finally stutters, "I don't know…how should I be?" The staff seemed to resonate with his response. Chris physically couldn't offer up a conventional response because for him it was a complicated question and he preserved his integrity by not being flippant however awkward the moment was.
My heart grows fonder shift by shift for R as he dazzels us in the office with high volume and trippy eyes that gaze intently. What I love most is when he stands in the open listening to his ever playing walkman swaying orgasmically as if being rained on by ecstacy. He comes to the office window and watches us for a minute before he announces loudly that he likes me and says that I'm 'good'. He then goes on to state that while he is not homosexual he finds me attractive. I quickly ask him to speak softer, which he does, for about 10 seconds.
There's John who in his finer moments could bring John Nelson Darby to utter fowl words of contempt. What I enjoy about John's protestations, which are almost exclusively about being 'cut off' from the wine line due to clear and present intoxication, is the widening and rolling back of his eyes. And, also, the craning of the neck and lowering of the ear as if to say, 'I beg your pardon'. Meanwhile, he stands before you sun burnt and half-naked, impregnated by years of alcohol consumption, a cast on his ankle, reeking of strong beer, increasingly belligerent, increasingly persistent, like a big fleshy mosquito.
In the world of nicotine stained fingers there is no one I've seen who tops Reg. Reg, perpetually ill and ghost-like, has the darkest smoke stained fingers of all. He claims, in his unique drawl, to have, at one time, smoked a carton a day! Let's say that's 10 packs times 20 smokes giving us 200 a day.
Alcohol and the Ego
Weather worn and damaged the ego looks to be held in place and preserved against total ruin. Alcohol helps to hold the ego up; indeed, it infuses the self with feelings of bravado and creates a newly improved, sometimes larger than life self that in the end loses a grasp on reality altogether. In its extreme form it is sometimes known as Korsikovs Syndrome, a condition not unfamiliar to chronic alcoholics.
I think of dear Graeme who, in his own mind, has emerged as being the drummer for the Beach Boys and a former pro hockey player who hob knobbed with the rock n' roll millionaires of the drug crazed 60's. Alcohol has vaulted him into a realm of superhero's and super villain's wherein he reads the narrative of the daily paper into his own story and becomes the lone rescuer of helpless and stranded women, the gifted sexual performer, the socially conscious citizen, the pastorally sensitive friend… And so, put together, we are surrounded in the shelter by experts and scientists, psychologists and specialists, and the most unbelievable personalities.
I think of dear Graeme who, in his own mind, has emerged as being the drummer for the Beach Boys and a former pro hockey player who hob knobbed with the rock n' roll millionaires of the drug crazed 60's. Alcohol has vaulted him into a realm of superhero's and super villain's wherein he reads the narrative of the daily paper into his own story and becomes the lone rescuer of helpless and stranded women, the gifted sexual performer, the socially conscious citizen, the pastorally sensitive friend… And so, put together, we are surrounded in the shelter by experts and scientists, psychologists and specialists, and the most unbelievable personalities.
Standin Up to Die
Wallup after incredible wallup and still they get up to take another one on the chin. Get up after broken bones, gashed heads, bleeding wounds, oozing abscesses, emotional darkness, sexual violence, verbal poisoning, terminal diagnosis. They rise up, stagger home, come back to life and continue on… They die but not like others die. They are so used to surviving that for them it actually seems like they won't die. It usually comes at unexpected moments. Hit by a car. Dies in his sleep. Falls down dead in an alley. For us, who usually die in hospital being palliated and drugged by professionals we watch as they die valiantly but often alone. The Jimmy's of this world aren't gonna lie down to die. They're gonna be out there doing what they do…taking care of what has become an involuntary need. Saying that he's doing 'fine'.
He sat in the front row of the sanctuary tilting back a 40 ouncer of vodka as the young seminarians marched across the stage to collect their pastoral degrees at Jarvis Baptist Church. He wandered in before things got started and felt no compulsion to leave when they did.
The man requests a wine from the harm reduction employee. The employee refuses on the basis of extreme intoxication. The man protests, stone-faced, "I haven't been drinking all day…damn it I'm as sober as a judge!" The employee marvels as the man's believability and begins to doubt his assessment until the man walks away…straight into a wall… with nothing on from the waste down but a belt.
The old toothless man hobbles out of his room upset once again that the ‘#$#$ pipe’ above his bed has still not been fixed. Sure enough there it is in the middle of his sheets a round wet spot which, coincidentally, matches a wet spot down the front of his pants. The incompetent staff, try as they may, cannot repair that #$#$ leaky pipe.
Out on George Street a man lies disheveled on the sidewalk. Staff arrive with a wheelchair -- it's late. They offer to pick him up and wheel him inside. The man seems insulted to think that the staff imagine him to be drunk. "I am not intoxificated" he slurs as he tries to get up without the use of his legs or his inner ear. Staff prop him up but again he protests that in fact he's just a little stiff. After some time playing this game staff lift him, plop him in the chair, and wheel him inside. Upon arrival at his room with his pants soaked, clothes filthy, with his cane in toe the man asks what time his next drink will be served. When he is told that it would be the next morning he is outraged…he is then rolled onto his bed where he immediately passes out until…the next day.
On Taking Someone to Hospital Who is in No Shape to be Out in Public
Mark passes out on George Street. He is brought inside to sleep off the alcohol’s effect. Upon waking Mark is better able to talk but still remains seriously inebriated. He is now conscious enough to recognize that he has considerable pain in his right arm and shoulder. The doctor wants an X-ray so off to emerg Mark and I go. With Mark highly intoxicated we navigate our way through Triage, although narrowly, as Mark checked off nearly every symptom on the SARS check list. At one point he nearly got us all quarantined as he told the intake nurse with a sense of confidence and without any clue of the possible ramifications, “I think I have SCARS…”
We eventually get to Emergency Minor, room E. We wait and wait. I use every technique possible to keep Mark on course. We go out for a smoke. We come in and sit. We go out for a smoke…One time while essentially guarding/blocking the door with my body as big Mark tried pushing his way out we enter into a whisper time of negotiation. While my bargaining skills are cramping with lactic acid our whisper game strikes me as a complete oddity but also as a thing of beauty. Mark, disheveled and speaking in the voice of a small boy began to whisper, “I have to just go around the corner…just over there” as he points to a hallway with no exit. Unconsciously, I follow suit and begin to whisper back to him as if all the other patients in their examining rooms were trying to listen in, “No you can’t go out there we just have a few more minutes to wait”. Mark retorts, “No I just need to go down there for a minute…” I come back with the argument, “We don’t want to lose our spot in line”. Two grown men communicating in the most conspicuous manner in a place of sophistication, competence, and technology.
It's a strange dichotomy to witness the medical professionals all decked out and white-robed asking precise and important questions. And then to behold the street tough turned childlike Mark giving his medical history as all historians everywhere roll over in their graves. According to Mark his broken arm was the result of a violent street fight which he unabashedly claims to have lost. But when I suggest to him later, in the absence of the doctor, that I found him that afternoon passed out and lying against a fence and that his injury was likely a result of the fall it seemed to dawn on him that this was probably the case.
And then the final spin that crystalizes this hospital visit in my mind. Mark is construing his story, his symptoms, his account of the injury while the medical people scurry about in highly trained ways of functioning to determine what X-rays Mark needs when he requests boldly, “Just put me in jail.”
We eventually get to Emergency Minor, room E. We wait and wait. I use every technique possible to keep Mark on course. We go out for a smoke. We come in and sit. We go out for a smoke…One time while essentially guarding/blocking the door with my body as big Mark tried pushing his way out we enter into a whisper time of negotiation. While my bargaining skills are cramping with lactic acid our whisper game strikes me as a complete oddity but also as a thing of beauty. Mark, disheveled and speaking in the voice of a small boy began to whisper, “I have to just go around the corner…just over there” as he points to a hallway with no exit. Unconsciously, I follow suit and begin to whisper back to him as if all the other patients in their examining rooms were trying to listen in, “No you can’t go out there we just have a few more minutes to wait”. Mark retorts, “No I just need to go down there for a minute…” I come back with the argument, “We don’t want to lose our spot in line”. Two grown men communicating in the most conspicuous manner in a place of sophistication, competence, and technology.
It's a strange dichotomy to witness the medical professionals all decked out and white-robed asking precise and important questions. And then to behold the street tough turned childlike Mark giving his medical history as all historians everywhere roll over in their graves. According to Mark his broken arm was the result of a violent street fight which he unabashedly claims to have lost. But when I suggest to him later, in the absence of the doctor, that I found him that afternoon passed out and lying against a fence and that his injury was likely a result of the fall it seemed to dawn on him that this was probably the case.
And then the final spin that crystalizes this hospital visit in my mind. Mark is construing his story, his symptoms, his account of the injury while the medical people scurry about in highly trained ways of functioning to determine what X-rays Mark needs when he requests boldly, “Just put me in jail.”
I am tagged off by my colleague who has come to relieve me as it is time for me to go home. I walk out of the emergency department and exchange a smile of understanding with the intake nurse who recognizes the comedy of this sherade.
Sarge (A Poem about a Shelter Veteran)
Rise from racket-screeching, radio, rest
Hobble down hallway, navigate George Streets’ narrow way
To sit enthroned in the Garden’s grandeur
Loved by birds, trees, and a bench-sitting family
Pensive in lingering smoke, soldier risen from trouble’s rubble
Face of the hard boiled, the cracked, of struggle
What fruit of fear, what smoldering sadness,
Makes this lion among us our peace, our gladness?
We tense at your heaving, bone-chilling weasing
Meatball choke, through black tar and smoke
Smile that smile of a 1000 waves crashing
Wide eyes bright like jewels in moonlight
Voice raspy raw, concrete being sawed
Out from the weight of years, history among us here
Reflection of all that is good in us while containing all our brokeness
Where will these walls look when your sun has set?
Last night after reprimanding J for urinating on the floor in his room I saw him sailing down the hallway on his scooter with staff members R and R hailing him from behind. As J drew closer to the CSW office, where I was standing, it became apparent that the cause for concern lay in the fact that J was buck naked. There it was, a rotund baby faced disabled Asian man with thickly spiked hair flying headlong down the busy hallway in his birthday suit oblivious, to the startling effect that his processional was having on clients and staff alike.
Conversion
I roll Gary to his bed as he sits weary on his worn-down walker. Gary is a crusty, grumpy, soury, cantankerous, vulgar old man who finds his manners and charm when wine or cigarettes are involved. Upon arrival at his room we discover a piece of mail on his pillow. We are both pleasantly surprised, me moreso, as I read the return address to Gary. Remaining unphased although eager enough he opens the letter and peers at it. It is clear he cannot read it so I volunteer to read it to him. He accepts my offer relishing the fact that its ‘he’ who is giving ‘me’ permission. Atop the left hand corner of the letter is a picture of a middle-aged, attractive, accomplished-looking, black woman whose credentials and academic degrees surround her profile like a sea of flash bulbs going off. She bears the title “Dr.” and is the ‘President’ of “Deeper Life Christian Ministries”.
The letter opens “Dear Mr. E,…we are excited to hear that you have decided to accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Saviour."” I read on with delight, “This is the most important decision you could ever make and we are here to support you as you begin to grow in your faith.”
At this juncture I pause to allow for any comments that Gary would like to make. He says nothing but sits on his walker looking interested and filled with pride. Not being able to help myself I ask him, “Gary…did this happen recently?” Hoping for some elaboration Gary retorts, “Yup”. I continued on, “The Christian life is a journey and requires that one be fed by healthy practices such as prayer, Scripture reading, and fellowship. It is our hope that you would join a Christian church, be baptized, and begin to follow Christ. Our ministry is here to help you in your new life with Christ. Again, I pause and query, “have you been baptized Gary?” He exclaims, with characteristic sarcasm, “Well of course…a long time ago.” I respond generously, as I have become quite fond of countering Gary’s rude disrespect with a somewhat less obvious sarcasm of my own. I ask, “What led you to make this kind of decision?” I begin to feel pastoral impulses gearing up. Yet at the same time I am conflicted as I am face to face with someone who regularly and most energetically calls me a “#$# bastard” followed by a lewd invitation.
Here is a man who, when it comes to shower time, spits, swings the shower nozzle, strikes out, hoping against hope to connect. Indeed, a man who throws wine at us while uttering insult upon insult at the only people on this earth who care for him, with the exception of the good folks from Deeper Life Christian Ministries. But back to my question to Gary.
His response revealed some reflectiveness, some consideration, some hope for change, for improvement, a side of him that I knew nothing of. He explained, “Well I’ve gotta do something. I can’t just die like this…in this hell hole…somethings gotta change. So I’m gonna try this. “Sounds great” I replied with keen interest, “Do you have a Bible?” “Yes, of course I do!”, Gary blurts. “O, well where do you keep it?” I ask, thinking that perhaps we could read a passage or two about being kind and respectful. “It’s here” Gary says, pointing to the bedside table. “No, it’s down there” pointing toward the office, “with staff” he snarls, as if he just took a gulp of sour milk. “O.K.” I say, knowing that he has no idea where a bible might be, “if you ever want to read it together or talk about these things I’d be happy to do that with you”. He looks up having obviously had enough of whatever it was that I was doing to him “Well that’s kinda private don’t ya think?” “I suppose it is what you want it to be Gary” I respond defensively. “Maybe you should just leave me alone” he charges, as if his patience had just been tested to its outer limits.
I dismiss myself casually with a less than optimal sense of having engaged Gary in matters of the heart and of having supported him in his recent ‘conversion’. The nice thing about Gary is that he forgets as often as he explodes and will transform into a sweet mannered gentlemen for brief but refreshing moments.
I roll Gary to his bed as he sits weary on his worn-down walker. Gary is a crusty, grumpy, soury, cantankerous, vulgar old man who finds his manners and charm when wine or cigarettes are involved. Upon arrival at his room we discover a piece of mail on his pillow. We are both pleasantly surprised, me moreso, as I read the return address to Gary. Remaining unphased although eager enough he opens the letter and peers at it. It is clear he cannot read it so I volunteer to read it to him. He accepts my offer relishing the fact that its ‘he’ who is giving ‘me’ permission. Atop the left hand corner of the letter is a picture of a middle-aged, attractive, accomplished-looking, black woman whose credentials and academic degrees surround her profile like a sea of flash bulbs going off. She bears the title “Dr.” and is the ‘President’ of “Deeper Life Christian Ministries”.
The letter opens “Dear Mr. E,…we are excited to hear that you have decided to accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Saviour."” I read on with delight, “This is the most important decision you could ever make and we are here to support you as you begin to grow in your faith.”
At this juncture I pause to allow for any comments that Gary would like to make. He says nothing but sits on his walker looking interested and filled with pride. Not being able to help myself I ask him, “Gary…did this happen recently?” Hoping for some elaboration Gary retorts, “Yup”. I continued on, “The Christian life is a journey and requires that one be fed by healthy practices such as prayer, Scripture reading, and fellowship. It is our hope that you would join a Christian church, be baptized, and begin to follow Christ. Our ministry is here to help you in your new life with Christ. Again, I pause and query, “have you been baptized Gary?” He exclaims, with characteristic sarcasm, “Well of course…a long time ago.” I respond generously, as I have become quite fond of countering Gary’s rude disrespect with a somewhat less obvious sarcasm of my own. I ask, “What led you to make this kind of decision?” I begin to feel pastoral impulses gearing up. Yet at the same time I am conflicted as I am face to face with someone who regularly and most energetically calls me a “#$# bastard” followed by a lewd invitation.
Here is a man who, when it comes to shower time, spits, swings the shower nozzle, strikes out, hoping against hope to connect. Indeed, a man who throws wine at us while uttering insult upon insult at the only people on this earth who care for him, with the exception of the good folks from Deeper Life Christian Ministries. But back to my question to Gary.
His response revealed some reflectiveness, some consideration, some hope for change, for improvement, a side of him that I knew nothing of. He explained, “Well I’ve gotta do something. I can’t just die like this…in this hell hole…somethings gotta change. So I’m gonna try this. “Sounds great” I replied with keen interest, “Do you have a Bible?” “Yes, of course I do!”, Gary blurts. “O, well where do you keep it?” I ask, thinking that perhaps we could read a passage or two about being kind and respectful. “It’s here” Gary says, pointing to the bedside table. “No, it’s down there” pointing toward the office, “with staff” he snarls, as if he just took a gulp of sour milk. “O.K.” I say, knowing that he has no idea where a bible might be, “if you ever want to read it together or talk about these things I’d be happy to do that with you”. He looks up having obviously had enough of whatever it was that I was doing to him “Well that’s kinda private don’t ya think?” “I suppose it is what you want it to be Gary” I respond defensively. “Maybe you should just leave me alone” he charges, as if his patience had just been tested to its outer limits.
I dismiss myself casually with a less than optimal sense of having engaged Gary in matters of the heart and of having supported him in his recent ‘conversion’. The nice thing about Gary is that he forgets as often as he explodes and will transform into a sweet mannered gentlemen for brief but refreshing moments.
Later that afternoon I had occasion to offer Gary two of his cigarettes and a glass of wine. This time I bask in the warmth of his appreciation, “you’re a good man Glenn…exactly what I wanted”. His tone suggests that as far as he’s concerned he is amazed that I would know ‘exactly’ what he wanted. As if I was a prophet…a graduate of ‘Gary’s School of Faith’.
I sit in Allen Gardens relaxing on a park bench before my shift. I watch the activity, take note of those I recognize, I observe the loungers, those who come here to buy and sell goods or services. The greeness of the grass, the aged trees, the lushness of the canopy above me -- we are wet with moist air. Dogs with owners, bicyclers, roller bladers, scooter drivers, birds, squirrels, the elderly with canes walking slowly, the joggers jogging, police snaking through in cruisers, drunk men loitering noisily, staff combing the park for the injured and sick. Everywhere people linger smokin, arguin, laughin, cursin. A ragged lot of ruffians camp on the church steps uttering vile and angry words as they share smokes and drink beer beneath a monstrous sign which reads, "For the wages of sin is death but the gift of God is eternal life through Christ Jesus our Lord."
Bernie
Two police officers bring Bernie up to the third floor supporting him each step of the way. Bernie is covered in dirt, is soaking wet, and pickle drunk. The police give a brief account of what happened and then leave. Since they witnessed the whole thing we believe we have an accurate account of this peculiar incident.
The police officers were sitting in an unmarked car on George Street presumably watching for criminal activity when they observed a small Asian woman in front of a nearby house spraying her garden house into her garden where our own Bernie lay face down in the dirt. Upon investigating the situation the officers learned that despite every effort the woman could not arouse Bernie from his stupor and so began to spray him with ice cold water from the hose. Her innovative tactic proved efficacious as eventually he began to groan and then regain consciousness until in the end he was walking…with the support of the officers. Amazingly, upon his return home, Bernie headed straight for the wine line. Shortly thereafter he passed out for the night.
The police officers were sitting in an unmarked car on George Street presumably watching for criminal activity when they observed a small Asian woman in front of a nearby house spraying her garden house into her garden where our own Bernie lay face down in the dirt. Upon investigating the situation the officers learned that despite every effort the woman could not arouse Bernie from his stupor and so began to spray him with ice cold water from the hose. Her innovative tactic proved efficacious as eventually he began to groan and then regain consciousness until in the end he was walking…with the support of the officers. Amazingly, upon his return home, Bernie headed straight for the wine line. Shortly thereafter he passed out for the night.
Last night Albert arrived by police as he had drunk himself into a disoriented state. I went to gather him from reception downstairs. He moved very slowly with great effort as I took him by the hand and arm in arm we went back to the third floor, an act which turned out to be significant, as we will see later.
Albert sat on the couch in the foyer and began to moan like a sick moose. All he could say was, "Albert" and "food". In the midst of him shoveling down his fish and chip dinner he arose from his chair, leaned heavily on the table, spread his legs and proceeded to piss on the floor in front of Fred, Craig, Greg, and me. As I urged him to close it off preemptively the meaning of the word 'futility' crystalized in my mind like a water droplet turning to snow so I simply left the area. To save Chester his own feeling of futility I grabbed a mop. Arriving back on scene Albert was still moaning and grimacing as only he can do and while mopping I resigned myself to rehashing the basic principles of harm reduction in my head.
Later, while rolling Albert back to his room in a wheelchair he repeatedly expressed the desire to, "make love". So, the order of desires as I added them up was, "beer", "food", and then "sex". Arriving at his room it was only a matter of time before Albert posed the question to me, "would you like to make love?" Startled, I declined without comment. When putting him into his bed he took a good look at me before realizing that I was in fact the wrong gender for him. Regardless of the gender mix up the proposal was something of an oddity for me.
Albert sat on the couch in the foyer and began to moan like a sick moose. All he could say was, "Albert" and "food". In the midst of him shoveling down his fish and chip dinner he arose from his chair, leaned heavily on the table, spread his legs and proceeded to piss on the floor in front of Fred, Craig, Greg, and me. As I urged him to close it off preemptively the meaning of the word 'futility' crystalized in my mind like a water droplet turning to snow so I simply left the area. To save Chester his own feeling of futility I grabbed a mop. Arriving back on scene Albert was still moaning and grimacing as only he can do and while mopping I resigned myself to rehashing the basic principles of harm reduction in my head.
Later, while rolling Albert back to his room in a wheelchair he repeatedly expressed the desire to, "make love". So, the order of desires as I added them up was, "beer", "food", and then "sex". Arriving at his room it was only a matter of time before Albert posed the question to me, "would you like to make love?" Startled, I declined without comment. When putting him into his bed he took a good look at me before realizing that I was in fact the wrong gender for him. Regardless of the gender mix up the proposal was something of an oddity for me.
There are two incidents that I want to put on record.
The first, is the time I was called on the radio to come to the parking lot. It was late afternoon on a Sunday and I responded to the call thinking that perhaps I was blocking someone who was trying to get out. When I arrived at the parking lot I beheld two staff members standing around my car one of whom was pressing up against the passenger door. As I got closer I saw that a portly disheveled stranger was sitting in the passenger seat and that C, the staff member who called me, had him trapped inside. The man had been going through the parking lot looking for unlocked cars. He had gone through my CD's, few of which had much street value in his estimation, and rummaged through my belongings and loose change. Being caught red-handed by C the man began to plead insanity and behaved in a developmentally delayed manner. When it was clear that the police were called he changed his presentation and became sharp tongued and quick witted.
His motivation for stealing became apparent as I found a crack pipe in my back seat later that day. I had visions of trying to explain myself had I been pulled over and searched by police for any reason. Several months after this incident I was going through reception and a man approached me, extended his hand, and offered a heart-felt apology for going through my car that day. He said of crack, "that $#$ makes you crazy."
The first, is the time I was called on the radio to come to the parking lot. It was late afternoon on a Sunday and I responded to the call thinking that perhaps I was blocking someone who was trying to get out. When I arrived at the parking lot I beheld two staff members standing around my car one of whom was pressing up against the passenger door. As I got closer I saw that a portly disheveled stranger was sitting in the passenger seat and that C, the staff member who called me, had him trapped inside. The man had been going through the parking lot looking for unlocked cars. He had gone through my CD's, few of which had much street value in his estimation, and rummaged through my belongings and loose change. Being caught red-handed by C the man began to plead insanity and behaved in a developmentally delayed manner. When it was clear that the police were called he changed his presentation and became sharp tongued and quick witted.
His motivation for stealing became apparent as I found a crack pipe in my back seat later that day. I had visions of trying to explain myself had I been pulled over and searched by police for any reason. Several months after this incident I was going through reception and a man approached me, extended his hand, and offered a heart-felt apology for going through my car that day. He said of crack, "that $#$ makes you crazy."
The second incident is a story that demands to be recorded and preserved as third floor folklore. It was relayed to me by eyewitness, Mr. H. It is the story of Jimmy's burial service. The funeral for Jimmy was well attended as he was much loved in the shelter and was a long time friend of many old timers. After the service, while all were invited, it came down to Jeff and James, who attended the burial. There were also two staff members, namely, K and T, who went to the gravesite.
The two clients had taken the early part of the day to prepare for the difficulties that lay ahead in the only way that they knew how. Which brings us to the graveside on an overcast inclement day windswept by gusts that proved to create troublesome conditions for the brief but sacred moment of burial.
The ground was wet from earlier rain. There was green astroturf carpet surrounding the hole presumably to improve the standing conditions and to keep people from becoming muddied, or from slipping while carrying the casket. Once the casket was transported to the grave by two funeral staff, two shelter staff, and two wobbly clients the Ark-like procession, led by the minister, came to a halt. Soon the somber sanctified words of the Christian burial began. Not long into the liturgy Jeff, shuffling on the green carpet, caught a lip and found himself reeling and then lunging to regain his already compromised balance. Despite great effort he landed face down on all fours in the mud outside the carpeted area. As K described it, Jeff was a fraction of a movement away from falling headlong into the empty hole. Watching this spectacle and near disaster brought swells of laughter which the onlookers valiantly suppressed so as to maintain the dignity of the occasion. Turning away from each other they managed to contain themselves, unlike Jeff, not known for composure at the best of times, who cursed up and down reviling the wrinkle in the carpet, the mud, the wind, even the tragedy that made the occasion necessary.
The minister lumbered on tunneling his vision on the task at hand, sprinkling the holy dust onto the casket as it was lowered into the ground. At this point an inspired James R. decided to participate in the ritual by scooping a handful of mud and smearing it on the shiny casket.
Before anyone went any further, before anyone got hurt, before a full scale bastardization of sanctity erupted the service ended, people brushed themselves off, headed for their cars, and held firm to the truth that despite the goings on Jimmy was honoured, dignity was bestowed, and respects were paid. Some would argue that perhaps it was a most fitting ceremony for Jimmy who, in his lifetime, saw and participated in his share of obsurdities.
John, while sitting with Dr. S. in the counseling office, spotted a pretty pink pill lying on the ground. To Dr. S.'s shock and horror John reached down, fingered the pill and popped it in his mouth. He then spotted a couple more pills under the table but they were swept away by staff before he could get his hands on them. Such a scenario is anathema to most and certainly to medical people everywhere but for John finding an unattended pill was serendipidous. There are so many reasons why one should not pop an unknown pill found on the ground. But then we are talking about a guy who mistook Windex for Listerine and found himself describing his symptoms to Poison Control officers.
A 69 year old man lies in his hospital bed doing all he can to retain the fragments of himself. Amidst episodes of schizophrenic obfuscations he holds tight to his wishes to not have his toes amputated. He slowly eases into the discharge planners plan and feels relatively safe for the moment. Until four white coated penguins come to tell him they're going to cut off his gangrenous foot. Hysteria erupts through the lonely hallways of the homeless, next of kinless, aged man's heart. What little ownership, what remained of his possessions, namely, his own body, was being taken away. The penguins in white coats walk out indignant at the man's obstinance and lack of cooperation. "Send him out then", the white coats cried, "If he won't let us take his foot". The shelter workers come back to a man frenzied. They start again from the beginning. They sit with him for a while listening to his protestations, giving him back his right to govern his own body. Slowly, in his own time the man…
Sanitizer
Shelter worker G sits with Allan in the waiting room of a medical clinic. Allan is a man of few words. He dresses warmly all the time and has a simple schedule which includes very few appointments. G, a worker known for his gentle kindness with folks like Allan, watches as Allan spots a hand sanitizing dispenser on the front counter of the clinic. As if struck by sheer genius Allan bolts for the sanitizer and pumps vigorously until he had a handful. He then pulls out the waist of his pants, shoves his hand down into his groin region, and begins lathering what one can only hope is a benign rash or case of dry skin. Behind the counter the clerk's face transitions from abhorence, at Allan's most unorthodox, if not disturbing display of personal care, to shock and disbelief as an onlooker in the waiting room inspired by what he had seen rises from his seat heads for the sanitizer and has his own hygenic session with his private parts.
Kevin calm and in his normal state of mind, which is enough for him to deal with as it is, apologizes for his disruptive behaviour while he was high on crack the day before. He then asks if we could go shopping for a jean jacket.
We left the oral surgeon's office and headed west down Danforth in the back of a taxi cab. Little J sat motionless and silent, his mouth packed with gauze, looking pained, even stunned. My Punjabi friend just had 8 teeth extracted from his mouth. 8 was not what J had in mind when we left that morning for his appointment and thus he refused to sign the consent form for the extractions. He argued that he only needed 4 teeth out and went on to identify them for the surgeon. A time of negotiation followed by intensive counseling ensued wherein I exhausted all arguments of logic, which included the trustworthiness of the dental profession, before dipping into shelter worker persuasiveness which involved a promise of 8 bottles of beer. One for each tooth. He signed the consent form and 30 minutes later we're in a taxi back to shelter. However quiet he was he had it in him to let out meager little moans each time we passed a beer store. He'd look at me with clear big eyes that said, "Renege on our deal and you're through". Back at the shelter, when the gauze came out, he immediately upped his demands stating that a Super7 ticket be thrown in as well.
Looking out the counselor's office window I saw Jeff begin to seizure in this wheelchair and then teeter head first into the pavement with no break in his fall. A large pool of blood immediately seeped outward onto the concrete. Jeff is in a wheelchair because he lost part of both feet due to frost bite last winter. I had just gone downstairs with him where he registered to vote.
Yesterday Tom walked right into the tree that I was leaned against as I ate my lunch in Allen Gardens. Tom arrived at the shelter several days ago and has been so doped out that he is disoriented to place and time, he walks into things like the walls and trees, he cannot hold a conversation without falling into a stupor, he drools continuously with his head permanently slouched. When aroused he maintains some level of consciousness for about 30 seconds before he nods off or wanders along like a zombie. Whatever he's on it is strong and he's on a lot of it. Dr. S is even querying narcolepsy he's so stoned.
Peter came in for his 4:00 appointment in an impaired state. He pleaded and cried saying that all he wants is a dog. He sobbed, "I want something to care for."
Ray walks into the counselor's office with certainty. Predictably he asks, "where's Kath?" to the room at large and proceeds to sit down in the chair by L's desk. He has his own names for everybody. Names that remain consistent over years. He sits and waits in silence for L to return to her desk. When she does the two greet one another in friendship. Jokes are told, songs are sung, and then L goes to get Ray some food and a coffee. While she is out Ray begins to cry. Stan comforts Ray until L comes back with the food. She finds Ray in tears and asks as only one seasoned in this work could do, "Why do you always cry when someone does something nice for you Ray Ray?" No answer…
George greeted me with "Good morning doctor! I need two prescriptions from you…one for Dr. J. Park and one for me." "What does Dr. Park need?" I ask. "Stool softener" George replies, with confidence.
Gaunt he ambulates with head stooped low -- drool spills from his lower gums as he sits asleep in the chair beside my desk. Aroused he falls back into a snowy stupor. The investigations begin to uncover his drug use: percocet, oxydocone, methadone, valium, crack cocaine for recreation, dope for breakfast. Gone are the days of tying off his arm for heroin -- track mark mania. The man lies down on streetcar tracks because he's sick and is asking for help. I see him shufflin along the hallway against the wall with his head dropped. He's partially conscious…partially screaming for help.
Police Relations
Standing on the sidewalk outside the shelter a cop stares me down like a rabid dog and then confronts me with aggression and orders, which I compliantly follow. But I'm proud of staring back in indignation and of saying nothing. Indeed, aggression arose in me to meet the ragged fury in him. I've seen that cop do drug take down's before and I detest his swagger and arrogance. Six police officers equipped with weapons held a man face down on the street and pounded on him as it 'appeared' he was resisting. This rabid dog saw that I was watching perhaps a little too closely and singled me out among the crowd as the lone staff member and ordered me to stand back. Later he approached me again to tell me that should I come close to watch he would charge me with 'obstruction'. The raw power of his controlling ways turns my stomach and makes me mourn for all those who've been carted down to Cherry Beach.
"You make a good counsellor but a bad trustee" Tom slyly smirks after I refuse him $5 to buy Coco Puffs knowing the various temptations that lurk between here and the grocery store.
Last night in a state of drunken disrepute Robert bounced off walls in his scooter and had to be hailed down by a stream of staff. In resisting their efforts to mitigate the wreckage left in his wake he broke the swivel and the reclining capacity of his seat and slid headlong to the floor. His keys were then confiscated. As staff tried to help Robert into a wheelchair he began to lasoo his catheter bag in a final act of defiance while proclaiming that the end is near and that God has given him a prophetic calling to defend the waterways against Al Kaeda. Never before have these things been witnessed.
Work Environment
A black iron barred fence guards the cigarette stain yellow-bricked four storied building that stretches like a warehouse down George Street. Locked gates and doors are operated by people who stand behind unbreakable glass and talk through small openings. The sign upon entry reads "No Weapons Allowed" followed by the fine print which works out the details of the above dictate. A man stands on the sidewalk out in front of the buildings entrance grasping a long white cane in one hand while stretching out the other as he winces, cocks his head, and screams, "####" over and over without stopping. Behind him a man approaches slowly in a wheelchair propelled by his skinny bandaged legs. He is hunched over completely so that he has to lift his large pock-marked head in order to see straight. He is without the ability to straighten up and as he creeps forward he begins to tell the yelling man to "shut up". He further elaborates by then yelling "shut up you dumb ##$ shut up you dumb ##$" over the already disconcerting screams of the blind man. Burn wounds cover the hunched man's arms and legs. White gauze pads are rolled between his fingers.
Upstairs in the shift leader's office a heated discussion arises between staff and a man with a gnarled anklebone regarding the dispensing of money. "I want $5" the warped-legged man demands as he comes forward in his wheelchair. "No money today Andrew" the shift leader replies, "you need to slow down on the weed today." "Gimme $5" Andrew insists this time sounding more threatening. "Sorry Andy I can't today" comes the gentle voice. Next the man with the warped leg stands and hoists his wheelchair above his head in effort to see it land on dear K. Unable to keep the chair hoisted he lets it down but retains the armrest, which has broken off. He waves it above his head and screams out, "I'm gonna kill you" as K then ducks outta the way and manouvers to restrain the man. K now has the man pinned against the whiteboard as another staff arrives, fleet of foot, to assist in putting Andrew face down on the ground whilst they then wait for others to arrive.
Two doors down a resident with a portly physique and quite unsteady on his feet sits in a red storage bin on the ground as if about to toboggan down a snowy hill but instead is passionately singing a series of Beach Boy hits from the 80's. A caseworker in the same office plugs one ear and repeats a question about 'cause of death' into the receiver held to his other ear.
"Change Your Name"
A young to middle-aged native man named Carl, while walking downtown, spots a row of Harley Davidson's parked outside a bar. Upon looking closer Carl sees that the name, "Satan's Choice" was written on one of the gas tanks. Struck by this brazen defiance, and in defense of his 'Heavenly Family", Carl's term for God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Carl is smitten with a conviction to respond and proceeds into the bar.
Immediately he is approached by a 'gang member' and Carl indicates that he'd like to speak with the 'president' of the gang. The man tells Carl that the president was tied up at the moment but would see him when he's free. Carl was pleased with this outcome and subsequently accepted a beer offered to him by the aforementioned gang member. While waiting Carl also played pool with the gang members, another gesture of goodwill, which further confused but ultimately pleased him.
When the president was free Carl was brought to sit next to him at the bar. The president's first gesture was to offer Carl another beer, which he eagerly accepted. Not to be distracted by the gang's generosity Carl blurts out his reason for being there, which was to protest the gang's name and make the request that they 'change their name'. After wading through his theological argument, which was no doubt absorbed by the gang leader, Carl felt listened to and affirmed in his concern. No promises were made regarding an impending name change but the conversation ended in mutual respect and a feeling of great accomplishment as Carl left the bar.
Before leaving, however, Carl proceeded to ask the gang for a loan of $5 which he would be sure to pay back by dropping it off at their clubhouse. The gang would have nothing of the sort and were happy to offer it freely. Carl left proud and courageous but oddly surprised by the gang's kindness and reception. In his words he was 'ready for a beating' when he entered the bar but now feels accepted by the gang yet resolute in his religious conviction that they should change their name.
Immediately he is approached by a 'gang member' and Carl indicates that he'd like to speak with the 'president' of the gang. The man tells Carl that the president was tied up at the moment but would see him when he's free. Carl was pleased with this outcome and subsequently accepted a beer offered to him by the aforementioned gang member. While waiting Carl also played pool with the gang members, another gesture of goodwill, which further confused but ultimately pleased him.
When the president was free Carl was brought to sit next to him at the bar. The president's first gesture was to offer Carl another beer, which he eagerly accepted. Not to be distracted by the gang's generosity Carl blurts out his reason for being there, which was to protest the gang's name and make the request that they 'change their name'. After wading through his theological argument, which was no doubt absorbed by the gang leader, Carl felt listened to and affirmed in his concern. No promises were made regarding an impending name change but the conversation ended in mutual respect and a feeling of great accomplishment as Carl left the bar.
Before leaving, however, Carl proceeded to ask the gang for a loan of $5 which he would be sure to pay back by dropping it off at their clubhouse. The gang would have nothing of the sort and were happy to offer it freely. Carl left proud and courageous but oddly surprised by the gang's kindness and reception. In his words he was 'ready for a beating' when he entered the bar but now feels accepted by the gang yet resolute in his religious conviction that they should change their name.
Carl has repeated this story to me over 100 times.
"I've got supersonic blood pressure" Doug reports to the ER nurse as I sit with him until he is successfully admitted on a Form 1.
My Boy
His big barrel stomach rolling back and forth across the bed, eyes closed, moaning, agitated, 33.8 degree body temp., legs bloated, delirious. Robbie cried when I visited him at SMH today. He didn't know quite what happened and listened intently as I told him how we found him virtually unconscious in his room. Tom was with me and together we all discussed the various causes of Robbie's LOC and subsequent delirium. Tom suggested that he ate too many jelly beans, as Robbie's sweet tooth is no secret. Robbie then accused Tom of spiking his jelly beans, as Tom's long and involved history with drugs is no secret either.
Whatever the case Robbie is doing better but still needs medical help. A hot flash of memory brings him to tears of pain. He recounts the suicide of his girlfriend Linda who jumped in front of a subway train. He recounts that I told him to look up at the stars when he misses Linda at nighttime and know that she is watching over him. He then jerks back to a conversation he had with D or C last week. Then back again into a grueling story that recounts the abuse that he suffered at the hands of his step mom. Then confused again and I hold tightly to the railing of composure.
Whatever the case Robbie is doing better but still needs medical help. A hot flash of memory brings him to tears of pain. He recounts the suicide of his girlfriend Linda who jumped in front of a subway train. He recounts that I told him to look up at the stars when he misses Linda at nighttime and know that she is watching over him. He then jerks back to a conversation he had with D or C last week. Then back again into a grueling story that recounts the abuse that he suffered at the hands of his step mom. Then confused again and I hold tightly to the railing of composure.
It's GST time and Eddie F. has been calling 3-4 times a day for the past week. Finally, the cheques come and Eddie is eager but there are two obstacles. First, Eddie has been drinking listerine all day and can barely communicate. Second, Eddie cannot come within 100 meters of the shelter due to an incident with a manager that involved spitting and exposing his genitalia.
Eddie, always conscientious when it comes to his legal obligations, is insistent that he cannot come to shelter and asks if I would meet him somewhere. I suggest that we meet in front of Filmores but Eddie is convinced that it isn't a full 100 meters. I assure him that it is well over the distance required and tell him that I'd meet him at 4:00 pm. Eddie repeats the time and place about six times until he is satisfied that it has stuck as if he is accustomed to this particular method of remembering.
Walking south on George Street I begin to feel like I'm doing something shady. Perhaps I'm uneasy with the way this hand off could be perceived. I'm delivering an envelope to a suspicious looking character, on a drug riddled street corner, outside a strip bar. So I take the envelope out of my pocket and hold it openly even waving it slightly as I walk so as to counter any signs of secrecy. After all I'm only acting as mailman.
Eddie comes out from around the Filmores entrance as he sees me approach. I identify him by his unique posture, his toque, his trenchcoat, his rainboots and his knapsack. The smell of listerine assaults me as we greet one another. He shakes and kisses my hand repeatedly thanking me for the delivery. He takes the cheque indicating that he had bills to pay. I wish him luck and feel good about this ever so small act of helpfulness. Believe it or not it is these little exchanges that make me feel most real, most alive, and most satisfied.
Not Outta the Woods Yet
He still wasn't outta the woods yet. We knew it when Tom, in good faith, tried to do his own laundry and got the machines mixed up. As it happened Tom somehow mistook the dryer for the washer and began to fill the dryer with water from a nearby hose. Once he had sufficient water in the dryer he added his clothes, turned it on, and went back to bed. Not long afterward flooding began. Water seeped out into the hallway and down into the administration office on the second floor. The dryer fluttered and spurted and finally shorted out. When the incident was discovered there was shock and amazement. When had happened came to the surface people thanked their lucky stars that no one was seriously injured. The dryer needed to be repaired. An edict was issued that clients should be supervised at all times when doing their laundry. Tom was banned from the laundry room altogether. When reminded of this incident Tom says, "I made a mistake…what'd ya want from me?"
Graeme is on one of his many outings this time to the Eaton's Center supporting his 'honey' as the ever servile ladies' man is wont to do. She's shopping for jewelry, and the like, which is an experience Graeme compares to 'being in hell'. So, he does what comes naturally for him and heads to the washroom, finds a stall, and taps into a mickey of whiskey that he's brought along for this very reason. Sort of like how a hiker might pack a water bottle and a power bar.
While enjoying his beverage Graeme responds to nature's call but is splashed by a wave of sobriety when he realizes that neither his stall nor the one next to him has any toilet paper. In his ever so careful way of maneovering himself through this world Graeme finds himself on his hands and knees, pants at his ankles, crawling into the Ladies washroom next door. He claims to have signaled a warning shot before entering to ensure that the coast was clear. Nonetheless, he is halfway into the nearest stall when a women steps out of a stall further along, observes the naked rump of a portly man on his hands and knees and screams to highest heaven for help. In the end, Graeme finds himself explaining his compromised position to the mall security and was only saved from further investigation due to the corroborating testimony of his 'honey' who had to be brought in as a witness.
Sitting in True Love Café at Dundas and Sherbourne with some friends I was shocked to see John stumble through the door and plop himself onto the couch opposite us. He was bundled up like the abominable snowman--a snowman with a full day's buzz happening. A slight wave in John's direction prompted him to begin a tirade against someone who had apparently stolen his GST cheque. A smile in John's direction and the accompanying glances of my friends prompted an ever so familiar roll of the eyes.
It became apparent that John came inside for a rest but also to do a little more drinking as he uncovered a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the inner pocket over his heart. After some time he then went and purchased a small bottle of orange juice and returned to his seat. As he prepared to mix his drink I slipped into the seat next to him on the couch and began to engage him asking, "John what's a guy like you drinking rubbing alcohol for?" Holding the rub in one hand and the o.j. in the other John began to think and reflect. The thinking he was doing took all his concentration and prevented him from mixing his drink. A question or two more and John was fully enwrapped in explaining an injustice that had been done to him and how staff had been screwing him over with regard to his ODSP cheque.
A quick jab of a request for a sip of his drink revealed that John had lost track of the plot as he handed over the drink muttering, "You know I'd always share with you…" I then read the label to him, "For external use only. May be deadly if ingested." John replied, "What'd ya think I'm trying to do?" With that I lowered the bottle out of sight and listened as John rambled on about his plight in this world. Soon he became absorbed in his swirling life and sat motionless as I got up to pay the bill, throw out the rub, and leave with my friends. He waved goodbye as he sat restfully on the couch evidently having forgotten what he was doing there.
It became apparent that John came inside for a rest but also to do a little more drinking as he uncovered a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the inner pocket over his heart. After some time he then went and purchased a small bottle of orange juice and returned to his seat. As he prepared to mix his drink I slipped into the seat next to him on the couch and began to engage him asking, "John what's a guy like you drinking rubbing alcohol for?" Holding the rub in one hand and the o.j. in the other John began to think and reflect. The thinking he was doing took all his concentration and prevented him from mixing his drink. A question or two more and John was fully enwrapped in explaining an injustice that had been done to him and how staff had been screwing him over with regard to his ODSP cheque.
A quick jab of a request for a sip of his drink revealed that John had lost track of the plot as he handed over the drink muttering, "You know I'd always share with you…" I then read the label to him, "For external use only. May be deadly if ingested." John replied, "What'd ya think I'm trying to do?" With that I lowered the bottle out of sight and listened as John rambled on about his plight in this world. Soon he became absorbed in his swirling life and sat motionless as I got up to pay the bill, throw out the rub, and leave with my friends. He waved goodbye as he sat restfully on the couch evidently having forgotten what he was doing there.
Robin’s Proposal
Several days back I was sitting at my desk as I prepared for the psychiatrist’s clinic that was to begin momentarily. Beside me, my colleague T, was embroiled in a curious conversation with one of the clients who we had slated for the upcoming clinic. Robin, who is known for histrionic behaviour, disclosed to T in a semi secretive, yet secretly obvious way, that he was engaged to be married to a woman. He spoke with great joy and excitement. T did his very best to handle the delicate situation knowing that in all likelihood this was a fabrication yet also aware of Robin’s sensitivity should he not be taken seriously. However, the discussion was taken to another level when Robin asked T if he would be his best man in the wedding.
I began to very much enjoy listening in on this interaction as, if the past is any indication, it was bound to become quite animated. T gracefully deflected the proposal set out by Robin to be his best man and in response delicately suggested that Robin see the psychiatrist. The last time we had Robin see the psychiatrist he kicked and screamed and squealed like a stuck pig protesting that he was perfectly fine and that what he needed to do was get down to the church to pray with ‘the brothers’. When we finally coerced him into seeing the shrink he rambled on for an hour and held up the clinic so that others had to wait a week.. T’s attempt at having Robin seen again quickly began to spiral downward as Robin stomped and stormed out of the office indignant that his ‘best man’ thought he needed psychiatric attention. Later when reflecting on this little man T revealed, “I’m not equipped for Robin.” “What would being ‘equipped’ look like?” I asked. The stories that could be told about this fellow especially as they pertain to his arch rival / best friend Ivor are legion.
I began to very much enjoy listening in on this interaction as, if the past is any indication, it was bound to become quite animated. T gracefully deflected the proposal set out by Robin to be his best man and in response delicately suggested that Robin see the psychiatrist. The last time we had Robin see the psychiatrist he kicked and screamed and squealed like a stuck pig protesting that he was perfectly fine and that what he needed to do was get down to the church to pray with ‘the brothers’. When we finally coerced him into seeing the shrink he rambled on for an hour and held up the clinic so that others had to wait a week.. T’s attempt at having Robin seen again quickly began to spiral downward as Robin stomped and stormed out of the office indignant that his ‘best man’ thought he needed psychiatric attention. Later when reflecting on this little man T revealed, “I’m not equipped for Robin.” “What would being ‘equipped’ look like?” I asked. The stories that could be told about this fellow especially as they pertain to his arch rival / best friend Ivor are legion.
