The Time We Got Chased By A Syringe Wielding Junkie

I’ve never really been overly phased by the homeless in Vancouver. Growing up here has actually prepared me quite well for future encounters with panhandlers and the like - dismissing them with a slight arrogance in cities such as Rome and New York was a breeze. To me the crackheads, skids, methheads, bums, buskers, hookers, and dealers in this city are the same as some discarded McDonalds trash on the side of the street. Except for the fact that they can talk and as the case was last night, chase you with a syringe.

The route we had selected to our dive bar du jour had taken us to Main and Hastings, the epicenter of vacant stares and shuffles. Though every Vancouver resident has driven through this part of town few actually put their feet to concrete. Sure we had stumbled about it a few times although we were in a far more intoxicated (read: obvlivious) state.

With the Balmoral sign looming overhead I think both Ali and I realized that yes, this is the shit. Not the shit as in the shit or the shit as in the Full Metal Jacket sense but simply, the shit. Pure shit. A festering melting pot of disease, addiction and lost souls. Fuck the grade nine girl with no one to sit with in the cafeteria, listening to Evanescence doesn’t make you a lost soul. Living in the middle of this does.

Anywho just as we realize this out from the shadows pops a junkie with a freshly loaded syringe in his hand. He drools out something along the lines of “drugssss”, Ali tells me to watch out and I jump a little. Needless to say, we quicken our pace. We turn around and the junkie is stumbling after us, syringe held out in front of him like the Olympic torch. Needless to say, we jog a bit. We cross the street and duck in to the Vancouver International Center For Contemporary Asian Art. It looks like an opening, people are drinking Granville Island honey lagers and mingling. They’re sort of looking at the art, but I can tell they’re not looking outside.