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Arts & Culture Confessions from the DTES

Discussion in 'General Discussion' started by dtes14, May 25, 2014.

  1. dtes14

    dtes14 Guest

    People I see in my neighbourhood at night: the beggar, and the sinner, and the sad, and the drunk that drinks for sorrow, and the maimed, and the mad, and the starving, and the rebel who runs from cause, and the coward afraid of dying, and the child who cannot pause.

    They move amok just out of sight—some roam under the old moon too long. Some try and fail at being perfect, because we all love them more in thought and theory, but when it comes to reality, we say, "Move it along."

    They're like flowers on a wreath: beautiful, cut, dying, bound together each-to-each, bloom still intact, with days that are numbered.

    Their bodies heave like waves, pale limbs flung out of shadow.

    In spare moments, their minds are heavy-laden with memories: recalling when they roamed the land, making rhymes, singing songs, catching falling stars. Some lost pluck because they were flowers. Some held subterranean passions. Some believed love was a little thing.

    Now they live blue: blue voices, blues faces, blue obscurity.

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    As I was walking along Dunlevy, a voice rang out from behind the alley.

    "Hey, would you like some company?"

    "How old are you?" I asked.

    "Old enough to know better," she replied, "But too young to care."

    "No, I mean, how old are you really?"

    "I'm 47-years-old, and you look like you love MILFs."

    "Not a big fan of the young girls. None of them know what they want."

    "Ha! Yeah, I know what I want," she leaned into me.

    Instinctively, I stepped backwards.

    "Well, I'll tell you what. We don't have to do anything that you don't want. Come upstairs and I'll fix you a drink."

    After an interview with a social worker downstairs who took my name and number, I went upstairs. As I walked in her room, I noticed a stove next to a bed, and a bathroom just to the side. There were pictures of dolphins, and dolphin figurines, and dolphins everywhere. Right on the night table, there were three boxes of condoms and a 2L bottle of Jack's.

    "Forgive the mess," she said, "It just gets so busy here."

    "I imagine," I agreed absent-mindedly.

    "All right, it will be $20," she stated.

    "Wait a minute. You said I didn't have to do anything I didn't want. You also offered me a drink."

    "Fine. Here's an old Budweiser," she reached into the fridge and threw it at me.

    "Okay then, tell me about yourself."

    "What do you want to know?"

    "What did you do before you were here?"

    She reached under her bed, opened a silver box, and showed me a certificate. A BA from UBC. She once was a teacher. On it said her name: Angela Pollock.

    (This isn't her real name.)

    "Where did you teach?" I asked.

    "Here, there, everywhere. Why do you want to know?" she parried.

    "Did you teach high school at Cambie in Richmond?" I inquired further.

    "Uh, yeah, I did," she confirmed.

    "Shit!" I exclaimed, "You were my teacher! Class of 2000."

    "What's your name?"

    "Adam Chong."

    (Also not my name.)

    ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    I remember Mrs. Pollock well. She was my social studies teacher. She was a strict disciplinarian who always kept her hair in a bun. Always had an icy demeanor too.

    There were rumours about her, unconfirmed. Some classmates said they often saw her at the Liquor Store carting away big jugs of wine in clusters. One friend I knew said that she gave him detention one time, and when they were alone, she made a pass at him.

    I never believed it. Almost all guys my age wanted to fuck a teacher. And Mrs. Pollock, she may have not been the most pretty teacher, but she had those eyes.

    Naturally, you often hear stories about how people end up down-and-out here on Pain and Wastings, but Mrs. Pollock? No, this couldn't be happening, and she surely couldn't be here in this squalid room asking $20 for god-knows-what.

    ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    As I was thinking backwards, I felt fingers jiggle my pants.

    "What is this?" asked Mrs. Pollock, "Are you trying to play pool with a rope?"

    "Uhhh..." I tried to collect myself.

    "Oh, don't try to change things now that you think you know me."

    "What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded.

    "Oh shit!" she realized, "You're feeling bad because your teacher's a whore. And now, don't feel angry because I said the word 'whore'. I'm a whore. W-H-O-R-E."

    "Well, how did this happen?"

    "Shut up!" she yelled, "You don't know me. Actually, I know more about you than you will ever know about me."

    "Like what?"

    "I see the signs," she explained, "The red skin, the thin arms and legs, the extended stomach, the nose growing out of your face."

    "And?"

    "Go ahead. Have another drink."
     
  2. flutterby

    flutterby Active Member

    If everyone got 10 free or nearly free visits to a psychologist per year under MSP, many lives would be a lot different.
     

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