Sue hung around with some of the guys I partied with. She was nice looking, around my age, and had her own car, but I’d never spoken with her before. I placed the banana in my pocket and went to the backroom and got busy with the rest of my work.
I never called.
A few weeks after the banana incident, my buddy Jeff was having a house party, since his father was away on business.
“No girlfriends,” he ordered. “Just bring drugs and booze.”
“Roger that,” I said.
I asked Karen if it was okay for me to go. “It’ll give you the chance to hang out with your girlfriends,” I said. She was more than happy to do that.
When I got to Jeff’s the windows were rattling to a base line so loud I thought they might shatter when the beat dropped. One of my buddies was spinning the turntables, people were grooving in the kitchen and living room, and I saw a few people out back giving each other massages in the hot tub. I could tell everyone was high on coke and E by the size of their pupils and how confident they were in their conversations.
There were a bunch of girls I’d never seen before, but Sue was there. She came over right away.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“No worries,” she said. Her jaw was grinding and I knew it must be from a recently consumed E. She disappeared into the kitchen and re-emerged with a beer and placed it in front of me as I took off my shoes. “My little produce boy.” She tapped my bum.
I jumped and smiled awkwardly then moseyed my way over to my friends. Sue melted into the crowd.
By four a.m. I was blitzed off my face and out back trying to cool down. The drugs were super powerful; my skin was goosebumped and sensitive to the touch, and my hair stood on end. I gulped a mouthful of water, poured the rest over my head, and sat down on a garden bench to let the night breeze do its work.
Sue appeared from around the garage and sat next to me. It was clear she was tripping hard, her eyes two pools of India ink. She nudged close and ran her fingers up my spine and through my wet hair, sending shockwaves of pleasure to my toes. Before I knew it, we were upstairs in bed together.
When I emerged from the bedroom, I was ashamed, because I’d betrayed Karen. She was the one person who’d loved and trusted me—the only person I’d ever opened up to. I didn’t talk to anyone as I put my shoes on, gathered my things, and caught a taxi back to Brampton.
When I got home, Grandma was up. She handed me a note from Karen, asking me to call so we could have brunch that morning, and asked, “What’s wrong, Jesse? You don’t look well.”
I couldn’t look her in the eye. “Nothing,” I said, pulling away. I dropped my hoodie and went to call Karen.
She answered, “Hi, baby,” her voice so sweet I almost died.
Without a pause, I said, “Karen. It’s over. I’m breaking up with you.”
There was no noise at first, then a terrible, “No!” She said it over and over, then started saying, “Why, why, why?”
I could hear her crying. I’d never heard someone cry like that before. I swear I heard her heart break right then. I was so ashamed, and I couldn’t even tell her why it was over.
I hung up and tried to catch my breath. Grandma cracked the door and came into my bedroom with soft moccasin steps.
“You’re making a big mistake,” she said. “Karen’s a wonderful girl.” She shook her head and placed my hoodie on the dresser. A little baggie of coke tumbled out onto the carpet near her feet. I looked down and she gasped. She knew instantly what it was.
“Cyril,” she called, panic in her voice. “You better come up.”
He rushed upstairs.
When he saw the bag he yelled, “You’re just a fucking asshole like Sonny, to shit all over love like that.”
I backed up into the corner.
“Pack your things. You can’t stay here anymore.”
I saw how hurt the old man was and tried to speak.
“But—”
“No. You knew the rules.”
I realized then that he’d meant what he’d said all along about drugs.
I remember leaving that night with my stuff in four black garbage bags, frightened of what the future held.
I remember a week later losing my job at the grocery store.
I remember catching a ride out west with one of my buddies.
I remember asking Josh if I could stay with him.
The rest is a blur.
THE STOLEN STREETS
1997–2008
WINDIGO
the long dark winter is ever-consuming
defrost the cold hunger with firewater and skin
meat is scarce on the trap line
but, still, i hunt these alleys.
my fingers claw at the glass
and peel away the label.
i imagine icy northern lakes
abundant with pike
but these fish escape me too.
starvation sets in.
breath freezes
in january’s wind.
lost and alone,
wandering.
i swill back the pain; it burns and it belches
rage and despair
leaving only a windigo
who cannibalizes himself.
ADRIFT
LEEROY DROVE DOWN HASTINGS STREET looking for a safe place to park. He’d come out west a few weeks after I did. He just showed up looking all desperate, with no money, just his father’s Pontiac 6000. Josh took pity on him and let him crash on his couch until he found a job, but things went south fast—two days fast—as they often did when we were together.
Rain doused the windshield, and the wipers moaned back and forth, the friction hypnotizing me. Grey clouds obstructed the sky above. It had been raining since I’d arrived a month earlier, and I wondered if the city ever saw blue skies or the warmth of the winter sun, or if the mountains that ringed Vancouver were only a myth—I had a hard time believing they were there.
Hordes of homeless junkies slinked down the street, their skin greyer than the clouds and concrete cityscape. They moved like zombies, half-dead, lurching, and hungry. One bag lady pulled down her pants and pissed right there on the side of the road. No one seemed to care, but Leeroy laughed.
“What the fuck?” he said. “Where are we?”
I tried to laugh but a feeling of dread came over me as she lost her balance and fell over in her own urine. A scrum of people congregated on the corner of Main and Hastings—they darted their heads about and I knew they must be engaged in some sort of drug deal. One of the men yelled and shook his fist, clutching something. His voice was guttural, it sounded torn to shreds, like he’d just drunk a bottle of Drano. His clothes hung off his body, more rags than anything. Another man hollered and the group pounced, arms and legs flailing wildly. The rough-voiced man was consumed by the swarm of violence. I rolled down my window to get a better look and the group scattered, leaving him prostrate on the sidewalk.
“Where the fuck are we is right,” I said, squinting to see if he was still breathing. I noticed a pool of blood spreading near his face, a blankness across his eyes. He looked dead, but they all appeared dead in their own way, and the majority of them looked Indian. I’d never seen so many Indians in one spot before, except when I was a kid. I’d also never seen such squalor and despair; in suburban Brampton, places like this didn’t exist.
“We’ve got to pick a spot soon,” Leeroy said. “We’re gonna blow through all the gas and we ain’t got no money left.” His left leg was bouncing up and down and he kept glancing in and adjusting the rear-view mirror. I chewed my knuckle down to the flesh. Josh hadn’t warned us of any of this when he’d kicked us out.
“I should arrest you both,” he’d screamed. He’d come home early one night from his shift and found me and Leeroy smoking pot. “I’m fucking RCMP! What’s everyone going to think?” He charged into the room and wheel-kicked my face, sending the joint flying and an explosion
of ash and embers into the air. He moved like a black belt after years of tae kwon do. Leeroy cowered beside me on the couch.
It’d never really dawned on me that my older brother was an officer of the law and that I shouldn’t be getting high at his place. Even his red Mountie uniform hadn’t convinced me. To me he was just Josh—I acted as I always had, stealing his clothes and disrespecting him like the little brother I was. I’d even nicked his badge on occasion and went around telling everyone I was a cop so I could get on public transit free of charge, pick up chicks, and eat complimentary meals at local restaurants after I assured them that I’d protect them personally.
When Josh found out, he wanted to arrest me for impersonating an officer, but I talked my way out of it somehow. But stupid me, I kept pushing the limit. No wonder he went Jackie Chan on me for the pot.
Leeroy pulled into a lot near a river and turned off the car. The engine sputtered, followed by a hiss and a cloud of steam from under the hood. I thought it was the radiator. Leeroy reached into the glovebox and pulled out a map of the Lower Mainland that I’d pinched at a gas station.
“This car isn’t in good shape,” he said as he spread the map out across the dash. “I borrowed it before my dad had the chance to get it serviced.”
“I heard him yell at you when you phoned home last week. He sounded upset that you borrowed it.”
Leeroy glared at me. I thought he might hit me, but he furrowed his brow and busied himself with the map.
I kept pressing. “You must’ve done something pretty serious.” I waited for his answer, but he ignored me. He turned over the ignition and it clicked a few times. The interior lights dimmed and flickered, then went black. The car battery was dead, that much I knew. We were stranded.
“Fuck,” Leeroy yelled, his voice raising high.
I decided not to enquire further about the trouble he’d fled. “Where are we?” I asked, surveying for street signs. I could make out a couple, plus there was a huge white bridge off to the left. I grabbed the map and searched, trying to pinpoint our locale. Leeroy stared out his window and lit one of our last smokes.
“Here we are,” I said. “New Westminster and that’s the Fraser River. I think that’s the Pattullo Bridge.” I glanced over to see Leeroy was crying. He turned his head when he noticed me.
“Yeah,” I said, peering out over the river. “At least we found a good spot.”
By the third day, food had become a major problem. Every store we went into had floor walkers who followed Leeroy and me whenever we tried to steal even one bag of ramen noodles. We figured it was because of all the addicts who tried to do the same—stores in BC had way better security than out east. I got caught at the Army & Navy and was issued a promise to appear by a policeman, which I tore up the instant I got released.
“We’ve got to think of something quick,” Leeroy said as I emerged. “I’m literally starving.”
I examined his face. His eyes were sunken, and the metallic, sweet smell of starvation wafted off his breath. The taste on my tongue told me that I emitted that same odor.
Leeroy’s solution was to call home. We ducked into a nearby phone booth, and he went first.
“Hi, Dad,” he said. “I need help. I’m homeless in Vancouver and have no food.” He sounded pitiful.
I could hear his father’s voice booming. Leeroy’s shoulders slumped and he hung up. “He told me to figure it out on my own. You try.”
I dialled home. It rang a few times before someone picked up.
“You have a collect call from Jesse Thistle,” the automatic operator voice said.
The line clicked and my grandmother answered. “Jesse,” she said. “Don’t ever call here again.”
“But, Grandma—”
“No. Your grandfather was clear: you’re not welcome.”
I couldn’t believe what she was saying.
“But I’m starv—”
“You are on your own now—this isn’t your home anymore.” Her voice was shaky like it was when Yorkie died, and she’d bawled in the kitchen.
I heard my grandfather’s gravel yell in the background. “Is that the asshole?”
There was a muffled sound, then his voice blasted in my ear.
“Don’t ever call here. Don’t ever come here. Don’t even think of here. Josh told me what happened—you are not part of this family.” He slammed the receiver into the cradle. I slid down the side of the phone booth and hid my face in my knees. Leeroy didn’t say a word.
The second week sleeping in the car with no food, I started to panic. Home would never be there again for me, nor would Karen—I still loved her beyond words. The dual losses were like my rudder had snapped off, without warning. I was adrift somewhere in the middle of the ocean and there was no search party coming.
Sleep was impossible. I was overheating, even when I took my clothes off and kept the car windows down in the zero-Celsius winter air. Leeroy complained of the same intense heat.
One of the local street kids told us we were overheating because we were in ketoacidosis—our bodies were too acidic and were digesting themselves, muscles and all.
“You could die from it,” he said. And that it was impossible to steal in Vancouver because we looked like “starving crackheads, like all the street people.” It didn’t help that I was Indian, he added.
The kid’s name was Troy. Leeroy got along with him right away and invited him to stay with us in our car. To my dread, Troy slept in the back seat with me, a space already too cramped. Dude smelled like a sewer, and when I complained, he said I smelled even worse. I found that hard to believe.
Troy knew more about the street than we did. He was like Leeroy and never spoke about what he’d done. I knew not to ask. The other good thing he brought was his knowledge of where to sell stuff—clothes, primarily. He had a connection at a local pawnshop. I’d purchased stylish stuff with my produce job money, and piece by piece we sold my clothes and bought food—it lasted maybe three weeks until I had nothing left but one T-shirt I wore, a pair of pants, my sneakers, and a Canada soccer jersey.
Troy introduced us to job agencies and cheque-cashing places, two things I didn’t even know existed, and we were always the first, along with the other immigrants and newcomers, at the job agency counter at five a.m. to get general labour jobs. We dug ditches, packed shipping containers, moved furniture, and whatever other shitty hard tasks most Canadians didn’t want to do. When we got our cheques—$25 each for eight to ten hours—we’d cash them in.
“To work like a slave only to have the temp agency take half,” Leeroy complained, counting out his dough and eating our regular bag of fast food, “then the cheque place gouges us even more. Where’s the security?”
“That’s how it is for young guys with no education in Canada,” Troy said. “They made it this way—our greedy parents. Next, all the jobs will be temp.”
We soon learned of a better spot where we could get picked up and toil for the day for better money. The work was much more dangerous—moving heavy cabinets that weighed nearly a thousand pounds each and took four men to move. When Troy lost his grip and one came crashing down on me on a stairway, I quit on the spot. We never did get paid for that job.
We moved on to demolitions of old homes. We got no masks, respirators, or protective gear of any kind. At the end of one day, after weeks ripping down plaster walls at various different places, my chest hurt. I coughed into a tissue and noticed a splash of blood and some yellow stuff that looked like booger cornflakes. The immigrants I worked with said they coughed it, too, said it was from all the asbestos.
“What’s asbestos?” I asked. No one told me.
At the end of the three weeks, the job was done, but the employer didn’t show up. We didn’t get paid.
That was tough. We were trying our hardest, but we were getting ripped off, getting little sleep, rest, or comfort in the car, and we were still wasting away. Soon we gave up getting up for work and just sat in the car.
Troy coughed on me a couple times. I never got as sick as they did, but a few weeks later, my hair began falling out in clumps, and so did theirs, like shedding cats in spring. The cap on my front tooth broke off. It took a brittle piece of the bone under my nose with it, leaving me with a grey-and-black jagged-toothed smile. I never realized how important my smile was until then—the loss seemed to suck the joy out of interacting with anyone, more than even the starving situation did. I just couldn’t smile without feeling horrible about my already dishevelled appearance.
I stopped smiling altogether.
END OF A FRIENDSHIP
LEEROY AND I WENT OUT begging. Troy had fled the week before, down to the East Side where there were food banks, churches, and shelter beds. But there were also all those zombies and hard drugs, and street people were dying there. We’d decided never to venture down there—we had a difficult enough time staying alive where we were. We’d been homeless for just over four months and were barely hanging on.
We returned to the car defeated, with no money, to find the back window shattered, glass peppered all over my sleeping spot. Night was falling and it was particularly cold for May. The intense heat of ketoacidosis had given way to an intense chill. I cleaned the glass away and tried to go to sleep, but my spine and hips were bending and shattering like layers of ice smashing up on a lake shore. I prayed for morning and the sun to warm me—I waited and waited. When light started appearing on the horizon, I sat up and peered out over the Fraser River. A bunch of logs drifted by, the movement rhythmic and silent as they floated off to their destination.
From the Ashes Page 13
