Back Alley Man

 

 

I just realised yesterday the world is [also] divided between people who prefer the back alley, because of all the mysteries and ‘down to earth’ expressions they can find, and people who prefer the main road, because of all the compulsion-triggers they can find.
And I realised I’m a back alley man, and proud of it.

In the back alley I often find people scouring waste bins. Yesterday there was a guy who had scored a vacuum cleaner and was proudly testing out each attachment, but more often you meet people walking parallel to main street, often with backpacks on, people who don’t want to be mingling with ‘consumers’, ‘mainstreamers’, ‘gentrifiers’.

I’m most definitely a back alley man, until I really, really have to go to the main street to get to my main street destination.

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Throw the first stone, you fool!

Back in the days of delusion, I would have pointed out the juxtaposition of a young addict and a poor man carrying his wallet in the form of a bag full of empties, sitting next to each other on the 19 trolley like they were doing tonight, as a blinding call to dignity.

Look! That young man is eating the smarties and nuts he dropped on the floor, staring at the rubble in his hand for whole minutes until he falls asleep, only to wake up at the next stop and pretend he knows where he’s going, but he, he is going nowhere.

Look! the poor worker, living off empties, seem to have it figured out, no matter how obviously non white he seems, with all the struggle that it entails in a colonial society, he’s going to see this through, and as a white colonialist I’m proud of his aspiration to join the privileged society, I would welcome him gladly in the club of hollow values I smile about and proudly share with my peers, provided he’d be another one of us good people, patting each other on the back.

I bet he’s got kids at home to whom he teaches the value of hard work, and a beautifully natural south American wife with a laugh as rippling as a forest creek, who he only snaps at every now and then, when she pines a little too much for a life of comfort.

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But like the song says ain’t it like most people, we like to talk on things we don’t know about.

The assumption behind the judgment is that there’s a system worth fitting into in order to find the realization of human aspiration, and that such system can be expanded to welcome everyone who tries to ‘conform’ to it, according to their capacities.

It is said that the system is quite flexible. Provided you create something that can be sold, you can be an artist, even a vinyl record salesman. Every step, every lasting achievement, is ultimately successful if it transfer wealth from others onto you. Everything else is regarded with the affable sympathy of superiority.

Even a construction worker, with his theory that justifies what he does commercially, and therefore his very struggle, will look down on people who do not “earn a living”.

So that’s the system – and let’s leave its workings for another dreadful day.

Then there’s everything else, and it’s a lot. It’s most, no matter what they tell you. All of our life is the experience of emotions, with brief, satirically devolved  summaries of our income and expenditures.

Today, I would tend to say the man collecting empties is a fool, and the young addict, an abused soul.

But that would be wrong, too. Ultimately, whoever is going to be welcomed by loving arms once he gets home, is doing it right. My guess is neither.

 

 

Transactional Altruism

I get out of work around 10:30 pm, music between my ears I walk towards Main street.

I walk past a large guy smoking and sitting on a bench, who I’ve seen at least twice before around the neighborhood. The first time I saw him I had just met Dan, a colleague from LA, on the trolley. We had gotten off the trolley together, and this large guy on a bench, sitting as if he was there just waiting for people to get off at the stop, had asked for money. Dan breezed by as if the wide sitting mass wasn’t well delineated against the building, and headed to grab a coffee at the local hipster cafe. I noticed the same behavior I have pretended a million times, and felt guilty for the both of us, so I stopped, and gave the guy two bucks.

He did not thank me the thankful way a toonie buys amongst beggars. I did notice. He was kind of pissed at me, and of course I was buying a smile and a feel good hipster feeling, so I felt the feeling and dopamine anyway and screw the guy, what can I do. I slightly resented him the way you and I – salaried employees and slaves of slaves of the slaves of the capitalism pyramid, resent a bad purchase.

So tonight as I passed he raised a finger to grab my attention and I smiled and made a sort of facial body dance that in my mind was the physical equivalent of the sound “hey, you cool, I cool, but sorry I have no change”.   Which was sort of true, because I’ve been running on debit card for a couple of days. Sort of.

He did not seem to hear my face, and kept moving his lips and finger at me, with increasing urgency. I was already past him, and could have just looked ahead and moved on. But I stopped, moved my soundproof headphones off my ears, smiled and walked back, apologizing for not hearing him.

So he said:

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I don’t know about you, but as an introvert, I do not fare well talking rationally to strangers and/or under psychological pressure, pressure which I was indeed feeling, because of the conflictuality inherent in wanting to help the guy vs. the uncouth salesmanship of his poverty and indigence.

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I smiled again, put on my headphone, and headed across the street to wait for the bus. The audacity! He did not understand the bourgeois, cashless predicament I was in, but seemed pissed at me again. I did not bother to hear or go back to ask what he said.

I had created a story to justify why I refused him help, and I acted the part I had written for myself, what else was there to do!?

The story, of course, was that I had no change, otherwise of course I would have given! And I communicated that narrative to him, so that all involved now had the chance to buy into it, and commit to the story.

Except none of it was true. And I had to stand about 10 minutes across the street waiting for the 19 trolley, trying to convince myself that it is normal to help in exchange of something, something that man was quite unwilling to sell.

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After about a minute, I purposefully put my hand in my jeans pocket, and felt some change. I crossed the street again, and approached the guy: “Hey, I found some change!”

He was not impressed, plus he had his own sense of guilt to juggle, for having told me off a minute earlier.

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Of course I had lied again.

The real change was in my coat pocket, I knew it because I had put it there the day before when I forgot my Compass card at home. Here it is. A meal.

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We are all very busy justifying our lack of humanity, our rejection of brotherhood, and of those – if any – who will ever read to the end of this, most will think I’m making too much of a deal of denying help to a man who is obviously not selling anything, just asking, and is even more obviously tired and pissed about having to ask, just like you and I would probably be after half a day of begging.

“panhandling is such an embarrassment”, told me an insanely tall and big young first nation man asking for a meal I bought for him a week ago. For twelve months he had begged and roamed the town homeless, and yet it was better than back home, because “the sea, and the mountain”.

 

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The ‘big deal’ is about us, the slaves of capitalism, and the way we’re being well trained as guard dogs of the rich’s wealth in exchange for their scraps.

That’s also why when I get home every night, I can’t but trade sleep for drawing.

 

Comic Artist Pizza

There are a couple of great folks working at Pizza Viaggio  on Denman, and making the most authentic tasting Italian pizza I’ve found in the neighborhood… He’s from Mozambique, with a contagious laugh, and she is… not sure where from as she’s always in the back, but she’s the one decorating the pizza boxes I bring home… more and more elaborate every time  – a cartoonist, an actual human being who communicates instead of ‘transacting’…

Every time I get a pizza I wonder what she’ll draw on it, this is the last one I got….

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