And, I'm seldom here - to sleep, otherwise - like in Toronto - I'm roaming the streets, exploring.
When I am here there's a few things. The guy that's forever on his computer - doing what? I don't think he's left the building in 3 days. There are the people that share my room - 1 who seems to never go out, the other leaves early and is back around 4:00.
This sharing a room with men who's names I don't know, I find it despairing. It would be despairing if I did know there names - I'm merely a private person, and hate the commonality of shared sleeping or living arrangements.
Nonetheless, in the common area, reading my book, trying to ignore the euro-trash that accumulates in such places, the little Napoleon in the kitchen (short- French - with attitude to spare - although his cooking smells amazing), the perpetually drunk Brits and Aussies and various other slightly-more-respectable nationalities, sitting next to a couple of guys, they begin chatting to me. About their day, they'd woke up, dropped some acid, took some shrooms, headed on down to Stanley Park, were impressed by some drop-dead goddess of a woman that picked up the shit after her dog. For some reason it amused them greatly, they kept coming back to it, probably you had to be there. At the moment they were cracking open their umpteenth beer, rolling a joint on the table, telling me about their lives, then coming back to the woman who was beautiful - just gorgeous, and they watched her pick up her dog's shit - "just like that" - don't you know, a little gesture - I break for a cigarette. Outside, been drinking away with them, don't want to get too carried away or even try to keep up - these guys, clearly the pillars of their communities - really, I attract them. And I meet Tom, from Calgary, he's here - well, he doesn't say, works in geology in Calgary. And we're chatting and he's telling me he was doing Cocaine earlier and I'm incredulous - here? There's probably no real Cocaine for a few miles - what kind of shit was he snorting - he's not chewing his cheeks or grinding - none of the tells - and - before you know it he's telling me he's not feeling so well and does a nosedive into the pavement. Hits it hard, right on his head, before I can react or catch him. I sit him up and call 911.
8 minutes on hold.
8 fucking minutes on hold.
"We're experiencing higher than average call volumes..."
I hang up.
He's conscious - tells me he's feeling better, take him into a bar. Buy some nachos - can't leave him like this - don't want him just dying, out of the blue, and so sit with him, listen to the band, watch the people.
He's feeling fine, fine, and then - again - not so much, and he's more fortunate than I, he calls 911, gets through, the police are there in a minute, and he gets in with them to go to the hospital.
Never a dull moment.