Down in Vancouver and Out of Toronto

A friend of mine has taken an interest in reading. I've managed to steer him to a few authors I trust, starting with George Orwell. That's what brought tonight's topic in mind, a visit from a friend who just finished reading Down and Out in Paris and London. I saw a documentary on Orwell recently. When he referred to himself as a pamphleteer, I took it to mean that he saw himself as something of a literary victim of his age. (1930's and 40's: The age of shaping up or getting shipped out.) He is perhaps best known for his political satire, Animal Farm, (the pigs were the Bolshies) and cautionary tale, 1984, (Big Brother was Orson Welles), but Down and Out in Paris and London is more in the style of that 'new journalism' that followed with Wolfe and Thompson. It's his own life story about a rugged stretch of poverty, as he paid the price working people pay to pursue careers as independent authors. My friend thought Orwell fared better in Paris than he did in London. I thought they were both pretty bad. He was thinking of a notorious shelter described in the book in shocking detail. It sounds much worse than any shelter I've experienced. Vancouver shelters are generally safe. I had to stay in one about a decade ago. I took the bed closest to the door. Made sure I had a nice thick book to read, so I'd be the last one asleep. Oh yeah, and just to be safe, told them I was in there for crack. I wasn't. I overspent on a computer. It's funny, though, crackheads never want anything to do with other crackheads. It's a good way to be left alone if you're ever in that situation. A few years earlier, in Toronto, I racked up a little more street time. The winter was colder, but the shelter was fine. In fact, they trusted me in the food storage room on my own. We made our own pizzas and rented movies. I kept warm in the library by day. I even went on a date if I remember correctly. How spoiled can you get? It may have only been possible under a premier like Bob Rae. I'm responsible enough to keep a roof over my head most of the time, but I got off to a shaky start. Fortunately, I never fell into the habit of relying on a shelter. It's kind of tragic that some people might be a little too grateful for such facilities. And I must shake my head if I pass a food line and hear someone who just can't get over that soup and a sandwich might be free. Just learning it for the first time. Or worse, lying to gain your confidence. But in this land of abundance, the homeless get coloured food tickets, which are redeemable in either fast food, cafeteria food, or cigarettes from an overweight vendor. Five smokes for the pink one, or was that the blue one? Canada. My reasonably comfortable homeland.
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