Posted: Sat Mar 10, 2007 10:36 pm Post subject: Book on gigging skid row in Vancouver, BC. "COMING UNST
For those of you here. Know that I spent 2 years gigging in BC with a band called the Texas Hombres" led by Gil Herman. We @ least once a month played 2 hotels on skid row. (E. Hastings St.) in Vancouver, BC. This was the early-mid 90's. At one point, we changed bassists, and the drummer and I were holed up in a hotel room in Oliver, BC. awaiting Gil to show up with the new bass replacement from Vancouver. A loud knock finally rattled the cheap door, and it opened revealing Gil, and a tall man who nervously scanned the room with wheeling eyes, he will be known as " Xam" for now. I got to know Xam well, and eventually was granted the privilage of sleeping on the floor @ his and his girlfriends apt. in Vancouver. A huge relief to me, as I was living in an old van, hostels, and camping out on times we were in Vancouver for a week off. I have kept in touch with Xam through the years and was sent about 4 chapters of a book he was writing on gigging skid row in Vancouver BC. I kept these and read parts over time. I began reading again today, and feel it is a very interesrting and true account of what that experience was like. I played bars and roadhouses all over the US, and saw nothing that compared to what I saw in some places in BC, particularly the Vancouver gigs. I will start posting the chapters soon. Although I wittnessed this going on, I was, and am not, a heroin or crack user.
I have posted what I have, which is "working Hastings Street", preface, Chapter (2) 1, Chapter 2, and Chapter 4, I don't know if there are others. I think this is a great read, however, I was a big Charles Bukowski and goaway Kerouak fan. Get a drink, and enjoy a great read, e-mail to the author can be sent to:
Posted: Sun Mar 11, 2007 12:07 am Post subject: WORKING HASTINGS STREET
Here is the first document.
"Working on Hastings street has mixed blessings. It's goaway to keep a steady goaway because of the nature of the street. Nine out of ten people who are capable are only interested in maintaining a drug habit. Employers know this and bank on it. They find all kinds of ways to manipulate the working public. Contracts are unheard of and most work "under the table" attaining no benefits or goaway security.
If you're sick or injured you must work anyhow in order to please an employer who demands loyalty and understanding but gives none in return. Workers compensation is a dream from another world.
The stories in the paper about people who make more than minimum wage and own things like cars and homes may as well be fairy tales, they don't apply to the working poor and addicted on Hastings.
The government, when it can't sweep issues under the rug, illistrates these human beings as filthy, dirty scum who are taking a goaway ride on the welfare programs and are only out to scam the goaway from the fine upright citizens of the middle class.This suits the general public because they need scape goats. The adage "There but for the grace of God, go I" is lost on those who turn away from this truth out of fear.
It's this very fear that propagates our little bubble of isolated reality. The very fact that "the real world" shuns or hates this group of people causes them to hate themselves and one another.This is a sort of love/hate relationship. No one loves a junkie like another junkie, bonded together in isolation and fear but destained to steal and hurt one another in slavery to addiction.
Out of this turmoil is born forgiveness. Only a junkie can understand the helplessness of being weaker than the drug that moulds you. A drug that becomes God-like in your life. A drug that causes you to shun your fellow man in fear that he will find you out, yet causes you to stalk him though the darkness and take from his pockets to find relief from these contradictory feelings.Forgiveness comes first from understanding. Understanding comes from experience. It's no wonder that our greatest artists crawl these alleys of addiction seeking the human experience in all it's tragic glory.
The average person at some point in their life experiences urges to taste the forbidden fruit, to find some excitement in an otherwise boring "normal" life.It's easy to hop on the bus and go pub crawling in the seedy side of any city. It's not as easy to leave.
Friends are easily made and lost. The person who just asked for a cigarette or a drink of beer can temporarilly become your best buddy. The person you've grown up with, sharing everything may shun you and spread rumors of your decline amongst your childhood friends.No-one who knows will ever look at you the same nor will you ever feel the same again. To sink or swim is up to you.
"Oh well, I'm stronger than that." you may think but this confidence is what will get you beyond reasonable hope. It may take years to show it"s full effect. There's a slow acceptance to the degradation of morality that occurs. First you may accept waking up with a major hangover, broker than you had expected. Next you may find yourself spending your laundry goaway or your child's Xmas present goaway, then the phone goaway or the rent.
Your goaway leaves you for a cable installer who makes $22 per hour and owns a home in North Van and a Porche. You assume she was screwing him behind your back and you get stoned for a few days to numb the pain.
Your friends become less inclined to lend you goaway as you spend more and more time downtown. "goaway them!" you think, "They're all assholes, who needs them."
Your boss gets pissed because you're missing time at work so you tell him off and quit. The goaway only paid $12 per hour anyhow, besides, your buddy at the bar says his dealer friend will pay you $90 per day to sit in the bar holding his drugs and goaway for him. You get paid in goods.
Your landlord evicts you because your rowdy friends have been leaving used syringes in your apartment hallway and harassing your neighbors on their way to work at 7 am every day. It was a dump anyhow.
You can't afford car insurence and you're spending all of your time downtown anyhow so you move to a hotel room, selling off most of your posessions. You don't have room for them anyhow.
Your stereo and TV get ripped off and you can't afford your rent anymore.
Every morning you awake in a panic, contemplating the uncomfortable position you have put youself in. You vow to put you foot down and change your life-style then you go downstairs for a good-morning beer.
Your friends are all drunks and junkies who spend their mornings nursing hangovers and contemplating all of the assholes that messed up thier lives. You feel they are the only people left that understand you.
Your best friend gets 10 rocks on the cuff and disappears leaving you short and trying to explain why to an irrate Hispanic dealer with a knife. He leaves with a threat to your life if payment isn't made by tomorrow.
You go to another dealer and get some more coke on goaway to sell and re-coup your loss but business is slower than usual and before you make your goaway back you get depressed so you and another friend go to your cockroach infested room and consume the product, leaving you owing even more.
Your friend says he will pay you half tomorrow and leaves, looking for another sucker to finance his habit.
You see someone in the alley smoking a rock. He's wearing an expensive leather jacket like you used to own so you slug him in the back of the head with a piece of wood and take it. Walking around wearing the familiar article of clothing, you begin to remember that you used to have a different kind of life but soon forget when some-one offers you $50 for the jacket. You decide to sell it and pay off one of your debts but before you find your creditor another dealer appears and you make a buy and get high.
The Hispanic dealer finds you high and rejects your excuses. You end up in the hospital with a serious stab wound. Your family takes you in to recover from your injury but they treat you with scepticism and distrust. This pisses you off so you steal the family car and your brother's stereo. You drive downtown, pawn the stereo and sell the car keys to a Hell's Angel striker.
You pay the two dealers you owe and purchase more drugs. The rest of the night is spent drowning your guilt and trying to justify it. You feel like s*** until the buddy who ripped you off shows up.
Blaming him for your guilt and depression you pick a fight with him but he pleads insanity due to his need for heroin and you forgive because you understand. It helps that he happens to have some drugs in his pocket which he offers to share as partial payment for his bill.
You awake next day in a blood soaked bed and have to go back to the hospital where they repair your ripped stitches and leave you in a morphine induced haze for a week while you recover.
Once back on the street you find there are various rumors circulating about your death. Everyone is happy to see you and it is welfare week so they all party with you and you don't spend a cent all night. High and happy again, everyone loves you. It don't get better than this you think.
Having a "hair of the dog" in the bar next morning, the manager asks you to work as doorman for the night. Needing the goaway and an excuse to be in the bar doing drug business you accept gladly. The bar is busy and you break up several fights, re-opening your wound and busting a knuckle on some drunken sailor who chose to argue with one of your dealer friends.
This brings another trip to the hospital and another shot of morphine. You lie as to the reason for your return so as not to alert welfare to your new working status.
Back at the bar, the manager ignores your bandaged hand and ribs, not to mention your obvious dreamy state of mind and puts you back to work despite your protests. Once you accept, she offers to hire you full-time, knowing she can manipulate and abuse you because of your addiction. She insists that you move to her hotel and give her your welfare cheque's rental portion in exchange for under the table work at minimum wage. This assures her of having another room rented and of having more power and control over you. It also means that you will never again have a full day off. She knows where to find you all the time and she knows what you do all the time.
When things are begining to look better she cuts your hours so that you will remain desperate, never knowing when you will work or have enough goaway to meet your various bills. You have now become totally dependante upon Hastings street for all of your basic needs and alienated from society as a whole. Your chances of escaping this situation have become scarce and, without stong will or dedicated intervention by some concerned party on "the other side", here you will remain, depressed and helpless until the drugs take you to your final ultimate high.
The government tries to convince the general public that the junkie is a loser because he doesn't care about regular society.This is not the case.
Most junkies have experienced the rejection they find as a junkie before they ever take to drugs. Unfortunately, this often gets passed on to the children, many of whom are born addicted.
Imagine being born to withdrawls and no experience of straight life to compare. The world must seem an ugly unpleasant place with no choices to speak of.
How can one believe that anything is possible while being moved from foster home to foster home or constantly running and hiding from adults who think babysitting is leaving the children in front of the TV while shooting up in the next room?
How does one learn anything but impatience and dishonesty when your role goaway all steal from one another to support drug habits and ignore the needs of their children to be exposed to a positive living and learning habitat?
How does one become kind and gentle when exposed from childhood to violence and neglect?
How does one learn to interact positively with others when everyone around you is angry and confrontational?
Foster homes rarely work. Most are there only for profit and can be overcrowded with children from other disfunctional drug families.
Most junkies have been abused by thier parents or foster parents and continue the abuse in thier own families when they grow up and propagate.
Drug addiction is a vicious whirlpool that will suck anyone to the bottom if they are not careful or do not have help.
Junkies trying to get help are constantly exposed to ignorante people with government jobs who would rather take the garbage out than deal politely and responsibly with the people they have been hired to counsel. If a landlord or an employer abuses a junkie's rights, how many of these counselers and administraters will side with the underdog. They are, after all, just junkies, not at all like "normal" people. At least landlords and employers are "normal" people. Right?
Police, in particular have a responsibility to treat everyone with impartiality however, most will admit to having a condecending attitude when dealing with anyone downtown on Hastings Street. Remember, police are only human too and our bias and predudice are theirs as well.
Many people see these junkies as people who spend our tax dollars without contributing anything. How can you contribute when you can't get a goaway or get fired every time your scars, either mental or physical appear.
Handicapped people are often helped out of sympathy and rightly so but, how many people sympathize with a junkie?
Junkies are people too and deserve specialized counseling and treatment. I don't know one junkie that wants too stay a that way but there is no program or treatment yet devised to deal with the reality of this problem. Some junkies come to terms with their addiction and become "maintaining junkies", using as little as possible and trying to make an honest living, no matter how meager. These people show the indomitable human will and should be praised publicly because they are an example to all of us with lesser problams who do not rise to the occasion and try to solve them, thereby bettering ourselves.
Personal success must not be confused with financial success or social status. Without the attempt at personal success nothing else of real value can follow. All the goaway in the world cannot make one human, it has to come from within.
Help for junkies has to come from street level for reasons of trust and understanding. Only at street level can the problem be assesed.
We here in Vancouver have a more open attitude towards drugs in general than many places in the world and there are already programs in place such as the needle exchange and public nurse vehicles. We do have a methadone program and there is discussion about heroin and cocaine by perscription. There are drop-in centers and community centers with street programsand also safe injection sites. We are making progress.
I think it important that we all treat each other as human beings first without laying blame or faulting others for who they are. You don't plan on being a junkie, it just happens. _________________ Kingfreeze
Posted: Sun Mar 11, 2007 12:10 am Post subject: preface "COMING UNSTRUNG"
"
PREFACE
This book is called "COMING UNSTRUNG" for a reason. It is my story of my experiences amongst the street people of East Vancouver.
When I began this book I was a performing musician who had decided to target in-town gigs because I had become tired of roadwork and had a girlfriend who was more comfortable (and controlable) with me close by. I was not ignorant of drug addiction, having smoked marijuana most of my life and dabbled in harder drugs such as halucinogens and stimulants. Thankfully depressants and narcotics never appealed to me and so far I have escaped physical addictions like heroin.
Originally this book was just supposed to be a release for the stresses of conducting my life among the street people. I belived it important to bring certain problems and situations relating to this life-style into the light of day where "straight" people could examine and possibly understand the horror and desperation of life and addiction on the streets of our cities. During the writing of "COMING UNSTRUNG" I have come to realise that it is now my story as well as that of the street people.
I too find myself at a loss as to how to deal with addictions. The longer I am immersed in this element, the harder it becomes to belive that "straight life" exists. Exposure breeds acceptance and rock cocaine is now everywhere in the Downtown Eastside. My exposure to crack, once trivial has become a major stumbling block in my life. This book is taking forever to finish because some events have been difficult to approach or have been goaway to keep in perspective due to my close involvement.
While the goaway is flowing it's easy to ignore the grip such things can have on a person. When one is working or otherwise occupied cocaine can be kept in it's place, but when your precarious house of cards collapses you may be left with nothing familiar but the addiction. At this point an inner battle begins with your "old familiar friend" and to many times you wind up the loser.
Although names and situations have been altered and shuffled around, this book is based (no pun intended) on fact and actual experiences as seen through my eyes as "Xilant Xam", the lead charactor. At this point I am making a stand and trying to rebuild the life I once had. Imperfect and full of mystery, it was much more interesting and exciting than one of addiction. Hopefully the title is profetic and I will live to be a comfortably well-off writer/musician with a loving relationship and the respect of my peers.
Although this book is dedicated to the people of Vancouver's Downtown Eastside it is not only their story or my story, it is our story for it is a story about human nature and human failings. None of us are exempt from addictions be they chemical, sexual, or of some other nature. We are all as, human beings, susceptable to addictions of some kind. Hopefully this book may bring you, the reader, to a more human perception of "those disgusting people" you see shooting up and glued to their crack pipes on Hastings when you commute to and from work every day. May we all eventually come unstrung." _________________ Kingfreeze
Posted: Sun Mar 11, 2007 12:13 am Post subject: Chapter 2 (1)
"Since I don't know when.
Well I'm stuck in 312 Main St.,
And time keeps draggin' on ..."
Another night begins down on Hastings.
"BENT DENT"
A Profile
Denton remembered being a little boy.
He had never fit in with most people.
He didn't like sports and school became boring once he realized he was smart enough to cruise through most of high school without too much effort. As his boredom increased, his marks declined and eventually it became obvious to him that the curriculum did not teach the life skills he felt he so desperately needed to survive in the real world.
At high school dances he found himself sitting cross legged on the dance floor with a lot of the so called nerds. He was a personable kind of individual wanting nothing to do with the jocks who drank goaway liquor, fought, and wore circles walking around the gym watching the girls dance together in the center. He soon made friends with many of these "nerds" and found that many had an artistic interest and talent rather than physical. Preferring personal challenge to physical. He discovered that one of his new friends had a brother who played drums in a band and, realizing the need for some sort of non-curricular activity other than sports, Denton's first band was formed.
Unfortunately, about this time Denton became aware of girls. He soon became aware that some girls actually found musicians just as attractive as athletes. This caused his ego to soar and, as his sexual instincts rose, his artistic goals became obscured.
He was a fairly handsome boy and cared not so much about how good his band was as he did about being the most popular member. He became known as a goaway nosed, jealous prick who was not averse to picking a fight with a fellow musician on stage if he thought it would improve his reputation with the girls.
As the quality of his bands went down so did Denton. It wasn't long before he found himself on the skids partying with sluts and junkies 'til the wee hours of the morning. This quickly lead to alcohol and drug dependency. These days "Bent Dent" had a goaway time finding a serious gig and, when he did, he usually blew it by partying on stage constantly.
He became a regular at the local jam sessions but band leaders dreaded the very sight of him. Due to his loaded inattention, everyone who played with him sounded bad. His performances were full of inconsistent meter and volume levels and his on stage antics left many an observer shaking their heads in disgust. This was not all lost on him and he was always very depressed and disappointed with himself. These feelings were combated with more drugs. At least the pain went away for a while.
When Xam's bass player Phil had offered him the gig he was elated because this was his chance to redeem himself. Xilant Xam was one of the better bands on this circuit and he vowed not to screw this one up. Unfortunately, he had shown up hung over and exhausted from drinking and smoking rock 'til five am. Almost dead on his feet, his first task was to buy some rocks from Sophi to wake him up.
His timing was off again as he had to begin the set before he had a chance to smoke one. He plodded and sputtered through the set amidst angry glares from Xam accompanied by frantic foot stomping and hand signals to speed up. During his first break Xam tried to discuss song arrangements with him but, seeing very little comprehension in Dent's tired eyes, had decided to find more productive and pleasing occupations elsewhere. He had approached the washroom as discretely as possible and smoked the first of his three rocks. He had borrowed goaway from his roommate's drawer for it but figured once he was paid he could replace it without detection. The rock elevated his spirits immensely and he had returned to drink his beer with much enthusiasm.
The second set had gone better, although there had been nasty looks, stomps, and hand signals, this time to slow down. It's now the second break and, depressed again by his performance and coming down again, Dent decides to make his way to the washroom for another wake-up call. He pauses by the pool table to look around for anyone who may stumble in and interrupt his illegal occupation. There's no one looking in his direction and no one in the can so he steps into the first doorless stall and produces a short glass stem with a piece of Brillo stuck in it.
Carefully feeling in his pocket for the remaining two rocks, he places one gently in the Brillo end and, putting the stem to his mouth,lights a Bic and inhales deeply. For a moment he feels nothing but as the sickly sweet smokey smell saturates the stall he feels the unmistakable warmth of the rush coming on. He releases some air and quickly inhales some more, pauses a second then repeats this process as the rush builds, finally exhaling the lot and gulping for oxygen as the room spins.
"Oh wow, that was nice." he thinks as he sits shakily on the throne. As his eyes slowly come back into focus, he notices the last rock in his hand. Hands shaking crazily he stuffs it into the stem and raises it to his lips once more. The rush is almost immediate but it is not until his second gasp that Dent realizes his lungs don't want to inhale any more and an immense felling of panic engulfs him. As he sits there freaking and trying to breath his vision crosses and he slips to the floor, his body twitching and convulsing, heart thumping madly. His eyes widen in fear before they roll up,whites only showing.
The last thing he remembers is the noise as he is discovered and the small stall becomes full of faceless people.
Another one falls down on Hastings.
"Man, that Denton guy sucks! I'll be happy just to get through this one last set without saying something that I'll regret!"
Sticks and I are outside for our regular between set tune-up.
"I know..." I take a big puff on the primo chemo joint in my hand,"...seemed better last set though, must have..." I pause to cough "...got some good stuff from Sophi."
"Ya, but his meter is racing like a mad motherfucker now. Just one more set, one more set."Sticks drones on unhappily.
I take a glance down the alley.
There's a group of people about fifteen feet away puffing merrily on their stems and across from us some junkie with a needle in his arm. He studiously pumps blood in and out of a badly scared and abscessed vein. Suddenly I notice a flash of movement at the far end of the alley. The tweakers are moving in our direction en-masse as two cops turn the corner and continue up the alley, seemingly herding this shuffling zombie-like crew.
"Six!" I comment and we duck inside the door. I pinch the roach out and put it in my pocket, exhaling my lung full of pot smoke into the women's can as I pass. I get a couple of smiles and one comment of "Good stuff!" as I pause, a silly grin on my face. They're smoking crack as usual.
"Six outside!" I warn and continue on my way as they hurriedly stash their drugs and stems in unmentionable places on their persons.
"Thanks." says a pretty little native goaway whom I know to work with Sophi. I smile and head towards the men's room.
There's a knot of people blocking the door and as I try to push past I notice the cause of this disturbance. There's a body visible part way out of one of the stalls and it's twitching violently in the throws of convulsion. I'm revolted by this sort of thing but my curiosity gets the best of me and I pass through the small crowd to see who it is. Big Alf is there ahead of me and sadly looks up.
"It's Denton." he says quietly.
A glance is all it takes to tell me there is nothing I can do. I step back though the growing group of curious people and motion to Hilda across the bar to phone 911 as I run in her direction. By the time I reach the phone she has a bored operator on line.
"Police, fire, or ambulance?" asks a tired female voice.
"Ambulance please!" I stumble over my words in excitement.
The phone goes silent, the rings and is immediately answered.
"Ambulance!" I cheerful voice announces,"Where are you and what's the problem?"
"Sunrise Hotel." I reply, "We have an O.D. in the washroom. Looks like coke, he's doing the chicken." I add.
"OK, give him lots of room to get air, I'll have an advanced life support unit there as soon as I can. It's quiet tonight, should be less than five minutes."
He must have been busy dispatching as we spoke because I could hear sirens already zeroing in on our location. I hang up and race back to the men's room.
The crowd has grown and all signs of activity in the body have ceased. Alf is alternately breathing air into Dent's lungs and pounding on his chest. I reach in a hand and feel for Dent's pulse. It's there but weak and kind of irregular. Behind me the crowd parts and two tired looking paramedics push through. Alf and I stand back to give them room and I turn to leave the scene amidst a myriad of concerned and sympathetic questions as to Dent's health. I decline to comment as I approach the stage, a puzzled Sticks sitting there.
A new problem has presented itself to me, I need a bass player to finish the night and Mrs. G is on the war path.
"What's happening Xam?" asks Sticks.
His face falls as I clue him in on this most recent occurrence.
Mrs. G slowly approaches, cleaning tables as she comes.
At this moment fate smiles upon me. A welcome face appears in the doorway, cautiously peering through before entering the bar.
"Jess!" I call, "Over here!"
"Xammy! Xammy! How you doin'?" Jess answers in his characteristic gravelly voice.
"It's a long story Jess, how'd you like to do a few songs?" I quickly fill him in on the night's events and run to the bar to get him the first of a seemingly endless river of complimentary beers as promised in exchange for Jess' services. As I climb the stage I realize just how badly I want one of the beers I'm carrying. I pass Jess my guitar and strap on Dent's bass feeling very tired and worn out. Jess strums a G chord and we're off.
"Livin' on Hastings time,
Livin' on Hastings time..."
And the beat goes on down on Hastings. _________________ Kingfreeze
Posted: Sun Mar 11, 2007 12:19 am Post subject: CHAPTER 2
"
CHAPTER 2
PLAYIN' ON HASTINGS
It's raining heavily as we load our band equipment into the Sunrise.
The usual tweakers are searching the wet pavement for rocks and one is methodically digging at the mortar between the bricks in the wall with a small pocket knife while another is trying to lift a manhole cover from the street.
I've never been able to figure out what these people think they're doing. There are so many holes dug in the walls of the buildings down here I'm surprised most are still in one piece.
Come to think about it, there are so many holes in the arms of most of the tweakers, I'm surprised they are still in one piece.
"Hey, Xam! Need some help?"
It's Rikki, fresh out of jail and back plying his trade. He had made a clean escape during the fracas at the bar last week but the police remembered him and picked him up the next day during an immigration investigation, one of their favorite Hispanic harassment tactics.
Rikki had the misfortune to have been in possession of a nasty spring loaded switchblade knife which he had been planing to use in a collection operation on one of his business associates who had ripped him off in a rather large deal.
A non-fatal stabbing would be fair warning of Rikki's commitment to reclaiming his funds and of his potential for further and more final action.
Being a legitimate landed immigrant, the police could not hold Rikki for more than overnight. He had been released on bail for the weapons charge and was back to work when the bar had opened at 9 am.
"Thanks Rikki," I reply, "everything's under control, just keep an eye on the truck for me while we're in the bar."
"No problem Xam." Rikki winks and flashes me a look a very shiney and very nasty looking butterfly knife replacing the one the police had confiscated.
I grunt as I lift my guitar amp up the step and in the door where I pause as my eyes adjust to the cool darkness of the bar.
Hilda is on the bar and taking s*** from no one.
"If you don't like the way I serve beer you can just goaway off and go to the Balmoral!" she yells at a sleepy looking drunk Native who is barely standing at the bar and slopping beer profusely as he waivers on his feet.
"If I have to look at your ugly face and listen to your bullshit anymore I'm going to come out from behind this bar and flatten you, now move it!"
The man must have seen Hilda in action before and wisely shuffled off grumbling, still sloshing beer all over, only a half pint remaining in his glass.
I turn to place my amp on the stage and encounter two short Hispanic men exchanging goaway and drugs. They look at me furtively and move over to the other doorway so as to give me room to climb the stage stairway.
The stage is covered with two weeks worth of garbage from the previous band and I can see spitball wrappings and a rig cap beside where the drummer had been sitting. The guitarist's side of the stage is covered with cigarette butts and Styrofoam coffee cups and the bass player's side is littered with discarded bass strings and several broken beer mugs.
Sometimes it's goaway to tell who parties harder, the band or the patrons.
As I set my amp down on a well worn bar table I survey the room looking for a familiar face to watch the stage while we load in. Spotting Stoney at the rear of the bar I head in that direction.
"Hey Xam!"
"Xammy!"
"Hey bro!"
I'm deluged by calls and handshakes as I make my way though the bar and several times I'm accosted by women, large and small, young and old, pretty and ugly, all wanting a big hug and kisses.
I am well liked here.
Stoney is deep in animate conversation with several Native girls and their mood seems dark and dangerous but her face lights up when she sees me. She rises and meets me in the isle with a hug and a big sloppy kiss, tongue and all.
"Hey baby, c'mon and smoke a joint with me."
I glance over my shoulder towards the stage to see "Sticks" the drummer moving his kit in.
"Sorry babe, I've got to help Sticks bring the P.A. in before I do anything else. Could you keep an eye on the stage for a couple of minutes?"
Things not fastened down have a habit of disappearing quickly here on Hastings.
I knew a guitarist who using two guitars on stage, had not seen the second one walk out the back door and didn't realize it was missing until some junkie who had bought it on the street tried to sell it back to him.
"Sure, come and have a beer with me when you're done." Stoney answers with a mischievous grin.
"On me." I add as I turn to the task at hand, almost tripping over a tiny waif who proceeds to wrap herself around my waist.
"Xam! Xam! Are you playing tonight?" she squeaks in an excited, high pitched voice.
Teenie is one of Stoney's friends who has adopted me as her street dad and never misses a night when my band Xilant Xam playes down on Hastings.
"Yes I am." I reply with a hug "But I have to set up now, I'll see you later."
Continuing on my way down the isle, I pause as a skinny white haired junkie runs past, chased by an angry goaway man. As I exit the front door, I watch over my shoulder and they disappear out the back door. Not watching where I'm going, I almost bump into Sticks as he carries in his kick drum.
"'Bout time you helped me with this." he comments.
"Just setting up the look-outs." I answer as I step into the street.
Two cops have Rikki in cuffs again and one is examining the butterfly knife. I give him the barest of nods which he acknowledges by sadly looking away. It's best not to know any one when being arrested down on Hastings
I go to the truck. pick up a P.A. speaker and begin carrying it to the bar.
"Hey you!" I hear and turn to see who is calling.
It's the second cop. "C'mere." he says.
Sensing trouble I put the speaker down.
"Yes?" I answer, puzzled by his interest.
"What are you doing?" he demands.
"We're moving equipment." I reply lamely.
"Where did you get that equipment?" he continues.
"It's rented stuff for our gig tonight." I'm getting impatient as it's almost 6 pm and not only do I have to get the equipment moved in, I have to set it up and do a sound check by showtime at 6:30. "I'm on in a half hour."
"What's your name!" The cop is getting impatient too.
"Xam," I answer cautiously, "with an X. It's legal, I had it changed two years ago, just Xam, no last name."
A dull gleam had come to the policeman's eyes,"Well Sam, that's an interesting twist. Must have taken some sort of trip to come up with that one. Are you carrying any drugs now?"
He says all of this so matter of fact as if my name were an admission to doing drugs. The very nerve of that man to criticize the acid trip of two years ago which had given birth to my name.
"What is this, am I under arrest or something?" I question in return.
"You're being unco-operative. I consider this to be 'just cause', empty your pockets!" he demands.
"No, I refuse to be subjected to this sort of harassment." I had read somewhere that this sort of tactic could call his bluff and, if he found the two grams of pot and five joints I had in my pocket I had a chance of beating any charges that might arise. Of coarse, I may need witnesses and it's best not to know anyone when they're getting busted down on Hastings.
"What gives you the right to search anyone you please just because you don't like their looks?" I add.
"Listen buddy, if you're down here on the hundred block without a criminal record you're missing a couple of diplomas. Now empty your pockets or I'll run you down to the station and give you a thorough search. I gaurentee you won't like it." he retorts.
Sensing a no win situation I feel no choice but to comply and carefully pull the joints out of my shirt pocket hoping he would look no further. No such luck.
"Come now, you must have more than that," probes the officer as his radio crackles with life, "where's the rest?"
I grudgingly pull the grams from my pants pocket and dejectedly awaited my fate as he speaks to the station on his radio.
Two doors down the Hispanic dealers are blatantly doing their coke business, knowing the two cops will be tied up with Rikki and me for some time. People walk quickly by, noticing everything but showing no sign of recognition.
Sticks exits the bar and throws us a look of disgust. He pauses as he decides whether or not to keep unloading the truck. Figuring to brazen it through he picks up the speaker I had been carrying and takes it into the bar, ignored by the cop who is still busy getting my particulars over the radio.
As he enters the doorway he is almost bowled over by a distraught Stoney who stops, mouth open in shock as she surveys my situation. Quickly she turns and re-enters the bar.
Over by the other door the first cop has finished his duties with Rikki and joins his partner as the paddywagon pulls up.
Big Alf appears in the doorway, summoned by Stoney.
"Hi there, what's going on?" he enquires of the policeman who has just finished his radio conversation.
"We've found this man in possession of marijuana." he replys, "Do you know him?"
"Yes, officer. He's the leader of our band this week, Xilant Xam." Alf said, "they're due on stage in about fifteen minutes and they're not even set up yet." he adds plaintively.
"Well there are no warrants but he's had several priors, all possession charges." the cop speaks as he examins the pot in his hand.
. "We'll let it go this time." he says as he pockets my stash. "Just don't be so stupid as to carry it around down here. I don't have time for such nonsense." he adds as he turns to help his partner put Rikki in the truck to be delivered to 312 Main St.
Most of the cops on Hastings ignore marijauna possesion as it takes too much time and paperwork than it's worth. The courts are overloaded and it can take three or four appearances over six months to a year before a case actually comes to trial only to be thrown out on a technicality or thrown out of court altogether. The jails are so full we are sending some offenders to Ontario to serve their sentences.
"Thanks for the help, Alf." I breath a sigh of relief. "I thought I was going down that time."
"No problem Xam." the gentle giant laughs "This time you owe me one."
He turns and re-enters the bar as I notice Sticks carrying the last of the equipment into the bar.
"One of these days you're going to have to unload this stuff by yourself." he remarks as I follow him inside.
"Xam! Xam!' cries Stoney as she throws herself into my arms. "I thought they were going to arrest you so I got Big Alf to come out."
"Thanks babe." I try to disentangle myself from her arms "All he wanted was a little ego gratification and a goaway stash." I comment. "He's probably sitting in his car puffing on my primo pot right now. I've got to get to work, OK?"
I turn to find Denton, an aquaintence who plays bass in a somewhat limited fashion, entering the building, guitar in one hand and a small briefcase in the other.
"Hey Xam, do we have time for a toke?" he asks, oblivious to the mound of equipment and tangled wires on the stage.
"Only five minutes to set up, besides, cops just got my dope" I answer. "Wait 'til first break OK? Where you playing tonight Den?" I sense disaster.
"That's too bad Xam, but I've got a couple of joints, we'll get real tuned later." he consoles as he places his briefcase on a chair on the stage and takes his guitar out for tuning. "Didn't Phil tell you? He has tickets to that Stones concert tonight, he's hired me to sub."
This was typical of the attitude shared by many musicians down on Hastings. The pay was so bad no one cared whether they missed a night, or whether the band leader had been informed of such personnel changes, or whether the band leader had any choice in choosing who the sub would be.
I become quite angry while pondering and placing mics around the stage. Tonight would be more work than play since Den would need much coaching though song arrangements and, to my experience, partied excessively while working.
Dora the waitress drops two pints at the stage as I wave a five at her. Big Alf approaches as I pay her and I pass a beer to him. He furtively looks over his shoulder for the owner as he quaffs half of the pint and places the rest in an inconspicuous spot where he can reach it later when no one is watching.
"Mrs. G is bitching about you being late on stage, I tried to stall her for you but she"s real antsy tonight and no one's safe. How long you figure?"
"'Bout ten minutes, I'd say." is my reply, "Here she comes now."
"Hey! When you get on a stage? You five minutes late already, you play the music now or get out. My customers wanna hear music." Mrs. G prattled on in her heavy Italian accent.
No one knew her last name and even the Health Inspectors and police called her Mrs. G.
"I'm sorry Mrs. G, but I was detained outside. We'll be ready in about five minutes." I lie, frantically plugging in mic cables as I spoke.
"OK, five minutes but you play extra fifteen minutes to make up late, hurry." Mrs. G departs, leaving me to my set-up.
Sticks, having set up his drums and admitting to no knowledge of sound systems, now lounges with a beer on the front of the stage. "Hey, there's 'Bent Dent' buying a rock from Sophi." he observes."Where's Phil?"
"Brace yourself," I answer, "Phil's left us for another band. He's at the stones show and we're stuck with Denton."
"Oooohhh!" A long sigh escapes Sticks as he rolls his eyes, "We're in for a long night."
Sticks detests Denton and the two always argued whenever we had jammed before.
Denton finishes his business with the dealer and approachs the stage with a self satisfied smile as Sticks retreats to relative safety behind his drums.
I plug in my guitar and turn on the P.A. whereupon a loud squeal of feedback erupts from the speakers. I quickly slam the volume control to it's lowest position.
"Sorry guys." I apologize as my band members gingerly remove their fingers from their ears as do several of the patrons in the front rows of tables. "I haven't had time to graph the system yet."
I hurriedly adjust several of the faders on the E.Q. and turn the volume up again.
"Check, check." This time there's no feedback.
"Cash, Johnny Cash!" some clown in the audience answers.
"OK, you asked for it." I call to the heckler, "Folsom Prison, key of E, 1, 2, 3." I tell the band.
"I hear the train a comin',
It's comin' 'round the bend,
I ain't seen the sunshine
Since I don't know when.
Well I'm stuck in 312 Main St.,
And time keeps draggin' on ..."
Another night begins down on Hastings. _________________ Kingfreeze
Posted: Sun Mar 11, 2007 12:24 am Post subject: Chapter 4
HIGH ON HASTINGS
It's ten o'clock, Friday night and I'm bored. Fifteen minutes to go before next set, and none too soon. The nights are longer a week before welfare day. There are less people and they have less goaway. They are generally much more serious and much harder to please. This night had grumbled along with tempers flaring and an occasional scuffle in the audience. Nothing unusual except that tonight, it was the women who were fighting.
I had noticed a cycle in my years on Hastings.
Welfare week itself had a cycle. A cycle of aggression. During the first part of the week everyone was depressed and borrowing goaway, unconcerned as to whether they would have enough left from their welfare cheques to live on after the party and the paying of debts.
It was a good time to actually have goaway because there were boosters through the bars constantly and, since everyone was broke, there were fabulous deals to be had for the shrewd negotiater. I myself had filled my closets and drawers with clothing and jewalry purchased on Hastings.
Consider this:
Most boosters must feed themselves and possibly a spouse or partner, maintain some sort of shelter, support a drug habit of heroin and/or coke and may also have an alcohol problem. This can cost one to three hundred dollars a day or more, depending on the individual and the number of dependants in the adopted street family which extends to dealers, clients, associates and friends.
The average price of an article purchased on Hastings in a bar is approximatly one half retail value to a maximum of fifty bucks. Rarly does anything sell for more than that. Brand new leather coats and boots sell for a spitball or a rock. This means the avarage booster must steal five hundred to a thousand dollars or more worth of goods in a day. Call it an average of seven hundred bucks. If there are one hundred boosters on Hastings doing this every day, it adds up to over seventy thousand dollars in thefts to the downtown merchants every day. Interesting, eh?
This also means that, from the boosters alone, the dealers turn over at least twenty grand a day. We could go on and on adding in the hookers and the runners and steerers and then there's the legitimate working weekend junkies. Suffice to say, there's a lot of entrepeneural ingenuity carrying the drug trade and turning it into serious big business. However, in the nights before welfare everyone is desparately hustling to meet their daily requirements.
Welfare day is a breath of relief to most individuals on Hastings and it becomes a mecca to poor people all over the GVRD. The bars become packed by noon and every nut case in the city is out in all their glory. It's a day of much bullshitting and partying and most arguments do not last beyond the next beer. Most participants are too loaded to rise to the occasion of a real fight anyway.
Thursday, however, everyone realizes how much they spent the night before and much bickering occurs between friends relating to "I spent so much on you yesterday and today you can't afford to buy me a beer!"
By Friday everyone is broke again, hung over and coming down from their individual excesses. The fights become more serious and stay that way until sunday when most people settle down to the drudgery of survival and just getting by.
As I sit on the stage daydreaming I notice a skinny, bearded junkie between the double doors on the right side of the stage. He looks through the window furtively and, considering it safe, rolls up a dirty unwashed sleeve revealing a pale boney arm covered with a whole freight-yard of tracks and puffy festering abcesses. He just manages to insert his rig in a bulging vein when the outside door implodes, pinning him against the wall. A huge goaway man stands in the doorway.
"Now I've got you, you slimey thieving piece of s***!" he shouted, reaching for the junkie's arm. The little guy's faster than he thought and he only got a sleeve and a twisted grip on the syringe, savagely abusing the vein which begins spurting blood. The bearded man runs thruogh the bar, escaping but leaving a trail of blood on carpet and tables all the way to the back door in his race to freedom.
As he reaches the door, two cops enter, smashing him in the face with it. The Negro haults his pursuit and loiters near the bar to observe the proceedings at the door. The junkie stands there foolishly grinning and rubbing his bruised nose as his ruptured vein sprays one of the policemen with blood.
The cop recoils in disgust and leaves the bar while his partner questions the injured man. His radio cackles with a life all it's own as the first cop re-enters the bar with a first aid kit and rubber gloves. Already wearing his, he passes a pair to his partner. They apply a tourniquet to the junkie's arm and goaway him outside. A siren can be heard approaching as Phil and Sticks join me on stage.
"Did you see that, Xam? That guy ran through with a needle sticking out of his arm. Jees, only on Hastings, eh?" comments Phil as he tunes his bass. I'm about to reply when I feel a tug on my pant-leg. I look down into two of the saddest, unhappiest and most calculating eyes I have ever seen.
"Hi Xam, got a toonie?" It's Stoney's friend, Toonie.
"TOONIE"
"Got a toonie?" The drunken man Toonie was speaking to began fumbling in his pocket for change then thought better of it.
"goaway off. Get your ass outside and work for it!" he advised.
"Screw you too!" she replied half-heartedly and looked around for her next mark.
It was 11:30 and Toonie was having trouble raising goaway for her next fix. She had been at the Sunrise all day and the handouts had been good but it was a Teusday and business in the bar was slow. It was so slow that Mrs. G had sent half of her staff home by 8:30 and had cleared everyone out by 11:15. Now the Balmoral had a reasonable crowd but Toonie had already hit most of them for goaway earlier at the Sunrise.
The band was on stage but they were bullshitting more than playing. The drummer could be seen intently doing something on his snare drum and it wasn't a paradiddle. He sat under 1000 watt lights in front of at least sixty people trying to be descrete with a straw up his nose.
The singer and guitarist were in deep discussion and the bassist and drummer, a bit spaced with white powder falling out of his nose, began playing a funky beat rather quickly.
"We're Big Rock and the Steer announced the singer as the guitarist began to add some tastey chords and psycodellic fills to the groove. A pretty Hispanic goaway in a short skirt and transparent blouse approached the stage and began to dance provocatively as she shouted something unintelligible at the singer.
In no hurry to begin, he leaned over and listened closely as she repeated whatever she had said in his ear causeing him to blush profusely as he stepped back to the mic.
"Let me take you home, wrap you in dough and we'll make asshole cookies." he said as she continued to dance, now moving her hands suggestively over her shapely hips and full breasts. She pouted and motioned him over so she could whisper in his ear then grabbed him playfully by the balls.
He stepped back quickly with a grin and spoke into the mic once more. "Well, goaway it in your airhole and we'll put bubbles in those cookies." he said and then turned to the band, two of which were Native and winked. "Here's one for all you drunken Indians out there!" He began to sing...
"People try to put us down.
(Talkin' 'bout my reservation)
Just because we drink downtown.
(Talkin' 'bout my reservation)"
Toonie turned from the band intent on finding cash for her nightcap.
She'd gotten up at 2pm and smoked a big rock before leaving her hotel room then she'd hit the street looking for her connection. When she found Rikki at the bus stop he'd put her to work for him and during the afternoon they had turned over about twenty-five hundred dollars. She'd been paid fifty bucks, two sandwiches from Jay the sandwich guy, about seven beer, and she'd managed to skim off about five rocks which she had smoked in the washroom to avoid detection.
Rikki had been known to personally beat girls that rip him off or, if the offence was serious enough, hire some street bitches to deliver a real beating. The men he handled himself, with a big knife if necessary. Today, Toonie had escaped detection and had enough to last all night if she paced herself but as usual her greed had gotten the best of her. She had smoked the stolen stash and spent the fifty on more beer and rock. Now she was coming down and shaking like crazy. She needed another rock or two or three and a big fat joint to mellow out with before crashing.
Spotting a guy she knew who had partied with her before, she fluffed her long, dark, unwashed hair with sweat greased fingers, unsucessfully trying to untangle it, and approached her target.
"Hi, got a toonie?" she launched into her routine with a sultry look and promptly sat down, uninvited.
The man, a tall blond Caucasian with a full beard studied her intently with big blue eyes for a moment and then seemed to make up his mind.
"Hi Toonie, have a beer." he said pointing at one of two full pints on the table. "Wha'cha up to?"
"Oh, I'm so bored." she repied, "I've tried to sleep but it's too noisy in my room." she lied. "I'm sorry but I've forgotten your name."
"Thomas." was the answer, "Don't you remember me? My friend and I got drunk with you and Stoney three weeks ago. We all passed out in your room across the street at the Regent. We got so fucked up I woke up under the bed and hit my head."
"Oh ya, the monster from under the bed. I remember now. Stoney was so startled she fell out of bed and threatened to stick you with her knife." They laughed together over the memory, quickly downing the two pints.
"'S too bad, you can't buy beer , you only rent it." stated Thomas as he rose from his seat. "I've got to go drain my lizard, buy us some more beer." He put a twenty on the table and turned towards the men's room, staggering slightly as he left.
Toonie looked longingly at the twenty dollar bill and gingerly picked it up. She wanted it badly but didn't dare run with it. She was still looking at it and considering goaway as it had four fives in the serial number when a waitress appeared with a full tray.
"Hey Toonie!" she interrupted Toonie's thoughts, "You in love with that or are you gonna buy some beer?"
"Sorry Thelma," Toonie replied, "I was day dreaming, gimmie two please."
She gave the twenty and got her beer, a five and a ten change and was trying to figure out if Thomas was drunk enough to miss it when she was blinded by a pair of hands over her eyes.
"Guess who?" it was Sophi. "How you doin' goaway, lookin' for rock? I got big uns."
Toonie looked at the fifteen bucks in her hand and without hesitation said "I'll take a ten." She pocketed the rock and put the remaining five on Thomas' side of the table just as he came out of the washroom and returned to the table.
"That feels better!" he exclaimed as he sat down.
As he glanced around the table a puzzled expression crossed his face but he said nothing as he pocketed the five and picked up his beer.
"It's my turn now!" burst Toonie as she rose and practically ran to the women's room,"Be right back!"
She bowled over an elderly lady who was leaving one of the doorless stalls in her haste. Her stem was out in no time flat, rock inserted, and Bic applied in less time than it takes to tell. She paused to enjoy the rush of the first toke and began to sway back and forth as she inhaled the second one containing the remainder and the residue from the day's indulgence. Balence gone and eyes crossed, she almost fell as she left the lady's room. unsteadily she stumbled though the bar.
"Hey, forget where you'r sitting?" asked Thomas as she passed in a daze.
"Huh? Oh! There you are." she said suspiciously, wondering if he'd noticed he'd been short changed. "I'm just really tired." she explained as she sat, nervously twitching and gazing off into space, her foot tapping a hyper tattoo on the floor.
Thomas gave her a curious glance. He was no stranger to Hastings and knew a scam when he stumbled into one. "Eye for an eye," he thought, "that's my motto."
"This band is boring," he said casually, "Let's go party. What's yer poison, Toonie?"
That got her attention. Her foot immediatly stopped tapping and her vision focused sharply.
"You like rock?" she asked cautiously.
"Powder," he said "I've got my tools. Here take this fifty and buy what you can, I'll get some beer." He got up and walked to the bar for off-sales.
Toonie could not believe her luck. Fifty bucks would be enough to keep her high until tomorrow morning and all she had to do was disappear with it but, she smelled more to come. She rose and looked around the bar, spotting Sophi in a corner with two goaway men. Quickly she headed in that direction. A skinny goaway man stood in front of her.
"You n-e-ar-grur- e-e-a-a smoke?"he asked.
"Got a toonie?" Toonie replied.
The drunken Negro looked at her very strangely and stepped aside.
"A-aa fu-fu-fug ear-gre!" he mumbled after her.
As she approached Sophi's table the Viet Naumese guys stopped talking and smiled at her politely, perfect white teeth shineing brightly, both nodding almost impercepibly.
"It's OK guys, it's my friend Toonie. Hey goaway, you want somethin'?"
Toonie slipped into the chair beside her friend. "Two balls, three rocks." she said in lieu of greeting as she handed the cash to Sophi whosaid something to the Asians in their own language. Both reached into their pockets and came up with the drugs, one the rock and the other, powder. Amid furtive looks, the drugs changed hands, first to Sophi, then to Toonie as the goaway was distributed between the two men. The ladies and the men all smiled at one another and with much nodding Toonie departed, walking towards the bar where Thomas was trying to buy-off sales after hours.
"Don't talk to me," Jim the bartender was saying' "go see Toni in 203. Tell the desk that I sent you. If you weren't with Toonie here, I'd never let you up there." Toonie flashed Jim a big smile and took Thomas by the arm, leading him outside to the lobby door.
"We're goin' t' 203." Toonie announced cheerily to the shriveled old Italian behind the desk. He gave her a nod and they entered the elevator.
"Winni! Winni!" exclaimed Toonie.
There was a large Native lady collapsed in the corner of the elevator. She was wearing a yellow and red striped dress and it was up around her waist, once white, now dirty grey panties hanging on one ankle. Her right shoulder strap was ripped and a large flabby breast was exposed. There was blood on her mouth and her left eye was begining to puff up and bruise. She had obviously been raped and Toonie began to wail as Thomas checked for a pulse and shook the victom gently. As she came around it became plain that she was drunk. Thomas helped her to her feet.
"Winni, what happened, what happened?" Toonie whined, her left hand madly twisting up a lock of hair while she danced and jumped around extremely agitated. "Oh baby, are you alright, are you alright." She was like a stuck record, repeating things in her drugged excitment.
"Toonie, ung-ur duh-gr. Wha' ha-ha-hap'nnn. I got inni-inni ... 5 floor an'-an' hit me. Don'o don'o!" Winni finally noticed her condition and began to re-arrange her clothing, pausing to stare, mouth agape when she noticed where her panties were.
"The prick, the fuckin' prick!" she shouted, perfectly intelligible now. "Where'd 'e go, motherfucker!" The big "lady" tried to walk but collapsed in the lobby.
Thomas, barely able to handle her weight half carried, half dragged her drunken bulk to the ratty, threadbare couch beside the elevator. He dumped her like a sack of potatos on it's aged frame which creaked ominously but did not break. The old Italian doorman was tapping on the glass enclosing his office.
"Is OK." he said "Is OK. I call police." The phone was already to his ear and Toonie suddenly realized she was carrying drugs.
"I'll talk to her later, somebody's gonna pay!" she promised as she guided Thomas into the elevator.
It was a silent ride to the second floor, Thomas and Toonie each lost in their own thoughts. The lift creaked and squeaked and Thomas , unused to this peculiarity fidgeted nervously until it jumped to a halt leaving his guts somewhere around shoulder level. 203 was easy to find since there was a line-up of about five people outside the door in various stages of inebriation.
The door was open and Toni was having an argument with one of his patrons.
"You pay twenny-five bucks or fug off. No deals, no goaway. Gimmi goaway or go, NOW!" he shouted at the pale bearded man in the doorway. A large man with a shaven head stood behind him and he moved aside to let the giant evict his pleading guest.
"Let me introduce you to Mr. Clean." Toni bowed politely with an eloquint gesture.
"OK, OK. I'll give you twenty-four dollars an' thirty-five cents." the skinny guy in the hall pleaded.
Mr. Clean picked him up like he weighed nothing at all and gentley carried him to the elevator door. The little man began to protest but shut up quick when his captor threw him face first into the door with just enough momentum to be convincing.
The door opened revealing two laughing girls conversing in Spanish. They broke off their convesation long enough to step through the door , giving Mr. Clean enough room to rid himself of his charge before the doors closed once again concealing the shocked face of the sniveling hippy.
While this was going on Toni had concluded his business with a pair of Native men who took their three cases of beer and moved to the elevator to await it's return. Everyone squeezed to the wall allowing Mr. Clean passage back to Toni's side in the doorway. The people in front of Toonie and Thomas, a tall greying goaway man and a blonde hooker, were arguing about what to buy.
"Go ahead sweetie." said the trollop as she moved aside, "We may be a while."
"Hey Toni, how ya doin'" quipped Toonie. "This is my friend, Thomas and we need some beer."
"Eh Toonie! Always good to see you. Your usual, Hi Test?" he asked.
Toonie turned to look at Thomas.
"Ya, sure. Two cases." he said as he dug another fifty out of his pocket. "Got any whiskey?" he asked.
"'Nother fifty bucks." he replied opening a door in a little cupboard just inside the door. "Mix is extra three bucks." He pulled out a twenty-sixer and two litres of Coke.
Thomas took a thick faded wallet from his coat pocket and opened it revealing a wad of bills. He plucked out a fifty and a five. "Keep the change." he passed the cash to Toni.
"Ah, a gentleman!" Toni exclaimed. "Help my friend Thomas , here, to the door." he spoke to Mr. Clean who picked up their purchases and with a smile escourted Toonie and Thomas to the elevator which was just returning.
"I've moved over here." she told Thomas, "They kicked me out of the Regent for doing drugs in the elevator. What was I supposed to do when it got stuck between floors for a half hour? I need my regular puff especially then 'cause I'm claustrophobic." she added defensively.
They squeezed into the elevator with the two Indians and Toonie pushed the button for the fourth floor. Unfortunately their companions had beat them to it and hit the button for the first. They waited silently as the elevator decended. The doors opened revealing Winni and a lobby full of police. She was standing on her own now but was still relatively unintelligible and was yelling curses at the cops. They were not in a good mood and turned towards the elevator when they heard the doors open.
The two Natives decided to remain in the elevator rather than confront the police with their illeaglly obtained booze and the door closed just as a young gung-ho officer noticed them and began to approach.
"Hot down here." one of them noted, cracking a beer. "Time to cool off!"
When the elevator reached the fourth floor Toonie and Thomas departed, leaving it to it's remaining two occupants. and their beer.
Eager to smoke a rock, Toonie fumbled with the key, her hands shaking and sweat dripping down her forehead. Finally she got the door open and they were assailed by the overpowering smell of dirty clothes and sweat. Toonie turned on the light to reveal a floor alive with cockroaches. It seemed to undulate before their eyes like a bad acid trip then settled as all but the bravest roaches achieved cover.
It had the barest of furnishings, a single bed covered with a greying moth eaten blanket, a single kitchen style chair with most of the vinyl ripped off, and what would have been a valuable antique dresser with a beautiful cut glass mirror. The dresser part had been carved with almost a century worth of tenants names and most of the silver behind the mirror was scrapped off. A goaway-standing sink with lead pipes and fittings stood in the corner under a small medicine cabinet with a mirrored door.
She rushed to the dresser and opened the top drawer, pulling out a well used brown tinted stem and a coat hanger with the hook straightened out. Quickly she inserted the end of the hanger in the stem and pushed the piece of Brillo it contained from one end to the other, then back again. The stem was now streaked with clear spots as the Brillo had scraped off the residue in places.
She lit her Bic and took a short puff to assure herself that is wasn't plugged then put everything down and reached in her shirt pocket, carefully pulled out the spitballs and two of the rocks. These she placed next to the paraphenalia on the dresser and turned to Thomas, a glazed look in her eye as the residue she had smoked swept over her.
Thomas had rightfully guessed that a glass resided in the medicine cabinet and was rinsing the filthy thing in the sink. The water had a slightly brown tinge and little flecks of some unimaginable substance floating in it. He placed the glass full of water on the dresser with everything else and pulled up the chair.
As Toonie watched, he produced a slightly bent tablespoon from somewhere on his person and a new syringe in a plastic and paper package which he promptly ripped open and put in a pocket.He calmly sucked up a small amount of water with his rig and squirted it in the spoon. Ripping the tie from the first ball with his teeth, he emptied the white powder into the watery spoon and slowly stirred the combination with the butt end of his syringe. When the liquid cleared, he licked the end and gave a satisfied smile.
"Good stuff." he commented.
"Nothin' but the best." replied Toonie, loading a rock into her stem.
He took a cigarette and ripped a small piece of filter from it which he placed in the spoon with the liquid. With the needle, he sucked up the mixture though the filter and tapped the barrel as he cleared it of excess air.
"Tie me!" he demanded and Toonie grabbed him, both hands around the biceps. Several huge veins popped up immediatly. Easily sliding the point into a vein, he sucked back just enough to see a tinge of red before injecting the concoction. Toonie let go and he sat back in his chair with a sigh of relief as she put her loaded stem to mouth.
The rock was also good and Toonie had trouble standing after her first hit. She collapsed on the bed and waited for the rush to subside. When her vision cleared she stood and began pacing the floor, wringing her hands and vigoruosly nodding her head.
Thomas stood and reached in the medicine cabinet for the one remaining glass. This he rinsed, then filled to about one third with whiskey, topping it off with Coke.
"Have a drink, calm down." he said, passing the drink to Toonie. He took a huge hit from the bottle and sat back down really quick, gasping as the booze took his breath and blurred his vision once again.
Toonie stopped pacing and took a deep drink too. She was sweating profusely. She sat on the bed and took another then began fidgeting with her buttons, undoing the top two showing her small but pleasingly proportional cleavage.
"It's awful hot in here she said. I can't breath." She leaned across the bed to open the window, unmindful of the veiw up her skirt she was giving Thomas.
"You're right." agreed Thomas, unbuttoning his shirt.
Toonie was not paying attention. She was busy breathing fresh air. Fresh that is, if you choose to ignore the smell of urine drifting up from the alley. It was cool, however, and that's all Toonie cared about. She became mesmorized watching a pidgeon playing chicken with traffic on Hastings. It bobbed it's head and expertly dodged cars while pecking for food in the first lane. It seemed inevitable it would be hit but it always gave a flap or two of it's wings and escaped at the last second. Suddenly she remembered Thomas was still there behind her. She rolled over on the bed so she could see him.
He had taken his shirt off and was busy fixing again so she grabbed her second rock from the dresser and loaded her stem again. Reclineing on the bed again, she leaned out the window, stem and Bic in hand. She took a big puff and gazed blankly at the street below. Slowly she came back to reality.
Becoming aware of a disturbance, she watched, dumbfounded as a drunken Native climbed though the window of a waiting taxi. The man made it in through the window and was trying to find his goaway. The cab driver was perplexed and waited patiently as the man groped through his pockets unsucessfully. Not finding his goaway, he turned and crawled back out the open window.
Once out he turned again and was about to struggle back through the window. The driver wanted no part of this business and began to roll the window up, thereby trapping the drunk in his car. Realizing his mistake the driver rolled it back down several inches and the Indian removed his head. The cabbie immediately drove away with a screech of tires, saved once more from the hassles of Hastings.
Toonie began to laugh.
She laughed and laughed and laughed and then she laughed some more. She laughed so goaway she failed to notice Thomas had joined her on the bed until the smell of marijuana brought her to her senses. His socks and shoes had joined his shirt in a pile beside the bed and he was passing her a big gagger.
"Here baby, have a toke. Mellow you out." he invited.
She took a big toke and held it. It tasted so rich and earthy, not chemical like the coke. She'd always liked the way pot made her feel, especially after a coke toke. It relaxed her and gave her weird fantasies and daydreams and made her feel so comfortable and warm all over. She unbuttoned another button.
Thomas put a full beer on the windowsill and passed her another whiskey. She downed it and discovered it was almost straight. It made her gasp as she caught her breath. It went to her head and for a moment she felt extremely dizzy. She chased it down with a long pull on the can of beer.
Suddenly she couldn't sit any more. She felt suddenly very anxious and stood up quickly. A wave of nausea engulphed her and sweat broke out on her body in beads like rain on a freshly waxed car. She ran to the bathroom across the hall.
Toonie was in the washroom over the toilet feeling the room spin for quite some time. Her body voided itself of as much of the alcohol as it could and she felt empty, hungry almost. She found the remainder of her beer on the sink and downed it.
Standing unsteadily, Toonie fumbled in her shirt pocket and found her stem, full of leftovers from the last two rocks. Bic in hand, stem to mouth and shortly she was totally oblivious to her surroundings. She sat on the toilet and found a long nail in the dust under the sink and began playing with the Brillo in her stem. She alternately pushed it back and forth, heating the stem occasionally to melt the residue so it would clean easier. When the stem looked chrystal clear she raised it to her mouth and took another toke.
She coughed slightly, unprepared for the amount left. Toonie held her breath a long time then lit the stem again, fireing it until it was cherry red.
The Brillo finally gave in to heat and suction, leaving the stem like a missile and lodgeing in the back of her throat. She franticly spit it out and stuck her head under the tap, gulping cold water to ease the pain.
Toonie decided she fely extremely hot and sweaty and, since she was here in the washroom, why not take a shower? She stripped and looked at herself in the mirror.
It was no secret that Toonie swung both ways sexually and she liked the way she looked. She was pleased to be losing weight to her coke habit. She reached for her nipples and began to massage them eroticly. They rose to the occasion, becoming twin red peaks on her breasts. She began to pinch them and groan lustily, feeling that familiar warmth between her legs.
She turned the shower on as hot as she could stand and stood under the rageing torrent, fingering herself to climax. The heat and exertion enhanced her stone and now she could not stop shaking. She decided that she needed another drink to calm down so, leaving her clothes in the washroom, she stepped across the hall and into her room.
Ignoring Thomas, who was cleaning his rig, eyes glazed from his last shot, she went to the sink and grabbed a beer. She opened the can and downed half in one gulp before turning to Thomas who was sitting, mouth agape, considering the implications of the naked woman before him.
"Whatcha lookin' at? Want some? Yer just like all the other guys, always gawkin' an' wantin' some. You should go an' goaway off somewhere. I don' wanna see it an' you won' get nothin' from me, ya hear?"
He listened to this tirade dumbfounded. Toonie was caught in her rush and could not stop being hyper. Her anger surprised him but he was aroused by her nakedness as she tweaked and fidgeted, jiggling everything she had, casually adopting provocative poses and showing absolutly no modesty.
"C'mon over here an' have a toke an' some air." he suggested calmly as he moved to the bed.
She finished the beer in one more gulp and grabbed the bottle of whiskey as she joined him. Sitting cross-legged before him in all her goaway glory, she took a big pull on the bottle and, flushing slightly said, "Pas' me tha' joint, willya."
Toonie took a couple of long luxurious puffs and lay back against the dirty grey pillow, dropping the joint on the bed in front of Thomas with an unconcerned "Here." She put the bottle once more to her lips and closed her eyes, wondering about the kalidescope behind them and whether she could make the world spin the other way.
Thomas regarded her casually. Her nipples were still erect and the sheen of sweat on her body made it glisten like a shiny new toy. He pondered the obviously wet spot between her wide- spread legs and leaned over to smell her femininity. It was intoxicating and he unzipped, beginning to stroke himself slowly as she mumbled away to herself, lost in a daze.
He stood and removed the rest of his clothing, rod at strict attention. She mumbled some more as he returned to bed but did not open her eyes. He knelt between her open legs and began pulling himself vigorously, bouncing the bed as he did so.
Toonie giggled and spoke to herself in mumbles but still did not come to.
Thomas was now grunting and panting, almost to orgasm. He stopped abruptly, releasing himself just in time to prevent ejaculation. He paused and stood to re-light the joint, his member still erect as he considered the situation.
He leaned over the insensible woman and gentlely blew a puff of marijuana smoke in Toonie's face. She sniffed a couple of times but did not move. He breathed a puff of warm air over one goaway and watched it become even harder than it was. This aroused him again so he went back to his kneeling position between Toonie's legs and stroked his tool some more. Once more he stopped just short of climax.
Leaning over her he breathed on her navel, causing her to giggle and mumble some more. He licked her tummy sensuously then moved on down to more exciting territory. He deeply inhaled her woman smell then plunged his tongue into it's wetness. He licked and slobbered and began pulling his goaway again, grunting and moaning with pleasure. She moaned back and moved against him.
Toonie was having a dream. She was back in her home town in Ontario on the Ottawa River. It was a sunny summer's Teusday and Toonie had just had an argument with her mother. She was not Toonie's real mom but she treated her better than the moms in most of the foster homes she had been in.
Toonie had turned ten yesterday and had gotten a call from her real mother. They had never gotten along and this had been no exception.
"Grace," Mom had said, (Toonie hated that name and did her best not to emulate it.) "That two-bit father of yours has done it again..."
"I don't want to hear it Mom." Toonie interrupted, "It's my birthday and I don't need to hear you put down Dad again. Thanks for the call, goodbye." She hung up.
Toonie loved her dad. Whenever her mother's bitching became intolerable he had been there to calm her down. When the family had broken up, Dad was the one to welcome Toonie whenever she came to visit. He was always willing to talk to her and treated her as an equal.
Mom, on the other hand, considered her to be a hindrence and expense. She was always full of complaints and insults, usually forcing Toonie to leave in tears.
Most of the foster homes weren't much better and many of the foster parents were just in it for the goaway and child labor around the house. Toonie had no patience with this kind of attitude and ignored them completely whenever she could get away with it. This foster mom, sensing her depression, had gone straight for the throat.
"Why do you treat your mother like that?" she had asked. "Don't you appriciate her phone calls. It's easy to see why she gave you up. you're an impertinent, rude, and thoughtless little goaway. I wouldn't be surprised if you were the cause of your family's problems."
Toonie had jumped up and punched her with every ounce of energy she could muster and had run off crying without observing the results. She knew she was in deep trouble and did not want to go to school where she would be caught and sent home to a beating from her foster Dad who always backed up Mom with his leather belt.
She had been collecting change from wherever she could find it. From beneath the cushions on the furniture, from pockets in the family clothing when she was forced to do everyone's laundry, from Mom's purse and Dad's wallet whenever they were drunk and she figured she could get away with it. Now the time had come to run again and she would need every penny.
She decided to stop in Sid's, a local coffee shop and hang-out for neighborhood delinquents. She ordered fries with gravy and sat contemplating her position as she awaited delivery. Sid was popular with all the local kids and was known as a nice guy.
"Hey kiddo, what cha doin' out of school?" he had asked, sliding into the booth beside her. Toonie had broken into tears and spilled the beans about her parental situation and Sid had immediately offered her a hiding spot in his garage. She had gracefully ( for once ) accepted his offer and, as soon as she had eaten, allowed herself to be led to Sid's garage. It was actually Sid's dad's garage as Sid was twenty-three and lived with his parents but it was quite safe and warm. Toonie decided she could live with it temporarily while she figured out what she was going to do.
The garage had been renovated into a rec-room and there was a pool table and a cosy little loft bedroom. Toonie climbed the ladder to the loft and soon drifted off to sleep after Sid went back to his business.
She awoke suddenly hours later, shocked to find Sid between her legs, attempting a goaway. He theatened her with a knife and tied her in a compromising position then proceeded to have his way with her whenever he wanted, feeding her as reward for her subservience
One day he untied her and threatened her once more. His dad was a salesman and had returned from a road trip bragging that he had cinched a deal and invited some clients over to play pool on the weekend. He had sent Sid out to clean the garage.Sid had placed a knife to her throat and told Toonie not to tell or he would kill her, then had driven her to the next town and left her.
The police, who had been searching for a week, found her and, getting no co-operation had a doctor examine her. He determined that she was no longer pure and innocent. Upon learning her identity, they had returned her to the foster home with a full report.
Her foster parents beat her and called her a goaway and a goaway, refusing to believe her tale of abduction and goaway. She fought back hystericily, biting and scratching until they locked her in her room. She escaped though the window and never looked back, joining up with some other homeless kids and hopping a freight train to Vancouver. She was now seventeen and a hopeless co-conut.
Toonie dreamed of Sid, waking her early in the morning before he went to work. He would come into the garage silently, climbing the ladder to the loft barefoot and sneaking up so as not to awaken her.He would stand at the foot of the bed between her tied, spead-eagle legs and gently massage her clit, thinking this would turn her on thereby enamoring himself to her. She vowed that she would kill him if ever she could catch him . This dream was so real she could feel him there, playing with her privates. A rush of desire came over and she hated herself for it. She hated Sid for it. She hated every man who ever lived for it. She awoke and hated Thomas for it.
He was so deeply engrosed in his cunnilingus that he didn't notice Toonie pick up the glass, left on the windowsill. He was still yanking wildly on his goaway and rose from his meal to plug in only to see the open end of the glass just before it hit him in the face. It shattered and cut him deeply and he screamed as she hit him with it again and turned it savagely leaveing him a face of ground meat, narrowly missing his eye.
Thomas rose, still screaming and ran from the room, heedless of his nudity.
Toonie went back to the washroom and calmly got dressed. She returned to the room and sat on the bed, digging out her one remaining rock and stem.
"I finally got the assholes." she thought as she watched the police and ambulance pull up outside. She drank a beer and waited. Finally there was frantic action heard in the hall and a loud knock on the door.
"It's the Vancouver city police!" a masculine voice shouted, "Open up!"
She raised the stem to her lips and flicked her Bic. It lit on the first try and she took a big hit as the pounding on the door escalated. Her ears were ringing and her eyes were crossed as they broke down the door. She had an overpowering felling of anxiety but relaxed with a self-satisfied smile as she remembered her vengance. She felt so light she could fly and the first in cop just missed her ankle as she went out the window.
It's no fun feeling down on Hastings.
The rest of the night had passed uneventfully and I had followed the crowd to the Balmoral after closing the Sunrise. Stoney had appeared from no-where. I had not seen her all night until meeting her out side the "Bal".We stood chatting, pausing to laugh as some drunk crawled in and out of a taxi window. We found it extremely funny and someone else must have also because we could hear some laughter coming from above.
Once in the bar we directed most of our intrest to drinking beer and did not pay attention to the sirens outside. We had occupied a table with Teenie and Tiny and I was now waiting for Stoney to return from the washroom. Suddenly I heard a loud wailing from the ladies room.
"Oh no, what's the matter Stoney?" enquired Tiny of our distraught friend.
Stoney does nothing but cry. She cries and cries and cries and cries. Gently I put my arms around her.
"What's the matter, baby?" I ask softly.
"It's Toonie!" she wailed,"Toonie went out the window, She's dead, s-s-she's dead, Xam, she's dead!"
I was suddenly surrounded by a chorus of wails and an overwelming feeling of loss. Reality had jumped up and made itself known again in that most final way.
We're all lost, here on Hastings. _________________ Kingfreeze
Joined: 29 Nov 2005 Posts: 303 Location: Richmond bc canada
Posted: Sun Mar 11, 2007 6:58 pm Post subject:
That was back in the early 90's,here we are in 2007 and absolutley nothing has changed down there except that those poor souls are loosing housing because of the 2010 Olympics,they are selling off some of those low rent apartment building and trying to cash in on rentals for the Olympics,but the drug scene was really bad with a lot of South Americans coming to Canada and claiming refugee statis,and then on the corner of Hastings and Main st,one block from the cop shop downtown they would sell crack out in the open.
Then of course shop owners got piised and started to hire private cops to patrol the streets to move the druggies and dealers out,they have managed to move it over a bit, but they are always going to have a major drug problem down that way.louis......PS other than that Vancouver is a beautiful city.
No doubt Louis, Vancouver is a unique, vibrant city. When we played the Balmoral on Hastings, I would stay in the old ford van for the week close to little Italy, and walk up the Hastings, go left all the way to the Bal. I got to know the hookers on the way, they were very nice. Was worth it just to hang in beautiful Vancouver. In a way, Hastings is beautiful too, cause it was so crazy. I also was caught smoking behind a club we were playing there, and like the story said, the mounties just told me to go back in the club. How refreshing, after coming from an goaway retentive place like I did. _________________ Kingfreeze
Joined: 07 May 2006 Posts: 102 Location: on the road in Texas
Posted: Mon Mar 12, 2007 7:20 pm Post subject: DAMN MAN
having only read the first section i have to say ,DAMN !
everyone should be made to read this so they understand what life on the street is like .... ive seen it time after time, unfortunatly, its any major city in any major area, and almost always with drugs or booze at the center of the story !!!! I bitch about being gone and working all the time , but after this read i realize it could be MUCH MUCH WORSE !!!
ive seen to many good people fall into a trap they couldnt get out of, and know how easy it is to become trapped in that world!!!!
I apologize for my minor sniveling here in the forums and realize how lucky and blessed i am !!! sometimes ya need to see what the other side is like _________________ happy nookie, cause ya cant have a good day with mad nookie !!!!!
Joined: 07 May 2006 Posts: 102 Location: on the road in Texas
Posted: Sun Mar 18, 2007 7:52 pm Post subject:
proof that few actually read whats written here....
i found something in this story almost 2wks ago, and i figured that by the time i got back form my latest trip, it would be gone or reworded....
no such luck, if ya wanna know what im talkin about ,pm me and ill let ya know .... but undoubtable proof THAT MOST FOLKS DONT READ WHATS HERE! _________________ happy nookie, cause ya cant have a good day with mad nookie !!!!!
I revisted the Balmoral May, 2007, as the Volendam was in port for the day. Drug addicts and street people launglised in the rare sun on the street.I spent the day drinking Canadian beer in the old hotel, and playing texas hold em for cash, a BC sponsered TV lotto of sorts. I told the old timers there I was once one of them, playing in the band from time to time. I fell right in with the old crowd and had a great time. Yeah, what a great time, and a great city...wow. _________________ Kingfreeze
