When the Alley Meets the Wall

When the Alley Meets the Wall

 "A man needs two things...a good pair of work boots and a good mattress , because if you're not in the one, you're in the other..."

  An Irish mason's wisdom, handed down to an apprentice. 

 *******

 

 By the end of the coming hour he’d be invited by a moment in time to toe a needle thin line between life and last breath, but as his work boots took an extra-long stride over a stream of steam and piss running straight across his path to the sidewalk, other concerns were underfoot. A panhandler had obviously just finished-up his task in hand, and was giving himself a public shake or two in the morning mist before tucking-in. He’d marked his territory on the closest of the large, white columns in front of Waterfront Station. The scene was the first thing Smitty noticed coming through the far left of the station’s main doors.

 

 Walking past the man, he offered a suggestion.

 

 “Maybe put that away before those doors open again.”

 

He’d been first off the Sea Bus, and first out the doors, but

a wave of people was soon to follow.

 

“Sorry bud…” came a chuckled response, and then...

 

 “Can I get a smoke?

 

Smitty stopped walking and turned back to face the man, pulling a cigarette from a brand new pack in the breast pocket of his plaid work jacket. “Sorry bud,” he said, mocking the man’s recent apology with  a friendly enough laugh, “Last one.” 

 

 A group of passengers walked through the doors, re-focusing the panhandler’s attention.

 

 “Watch your step!” Smitty said loudly, pointing to the cold November pavement. “This guy just took a piss there.”

 

 Commuters muttered morning responses, and diverted their feet accordingly. The panhandler half-smiled, half-grimaced at them silently, while Smitty lit his smoke and headed east hoping he’d cost the guy a twoonie or toke.

 

 He was foreman on a job for one of the city’s masonry outfits, and was four months in, on a five month gig. With work winding

down, for the past month it had only been the two of them on-site. Paul Muclahy was a good-natured Irish mason, with fifteen years on the wall. Like a lot of Brits and Irishmen in town, he’d come for the B.C. boom, and stayed for the beauty, if not the rents. The two men laughed a lot, talked a lot, argued once, forgave once, and had become fast friends. Their work involved restoring a hundred-year-old brick “heritage building,” to be used as low income housing.  Paul offered expertise and built walls, while Smitty dealt with communications, paperwork, and labouring for Paul. The site could shake your nerve and shock your senses, so the two men fought to keep the oneof the latter that mattered most; their sense of humour.

 

 

Smitty’s walks to and through the Downtown Eastside reminded him he was entering a semi-gentrified neighborhood that invited ideology, and then laid it to waste. He’d seen people squat for sidewalk s***s, and countless addicts and self-medicators shooting the stuff on mid-morning stoops, becoming stumbling and mumbling jaywalkers lost entirely in inner-trips, while ignoring the one they were actually on. Crack-pipes cost a quarter in local vending machines.  Walk-in clinics offered clean needles, and immediate care for an overdose. Anything and everything stolen or salvageable could be bought on the streets, including your own tools (taken off your site, a block away, two hours before). It was often a harsh place,  and although not without acts of kindness and its own sense of community, by the time Smitty crossed Carrall Street -where West met East Cordova, and he was just steps from work- he’d side-stepped apiss, three syringes, and six requests for a smoke or change.

 

 It was five to seven AM.

 

Paul had already arrived with his tea and Smitty’s coffee; Smitty bought at lunch. The morning routine extended to a sidewalk greet with two foremen from the site that Paul was standing with, and the day’s first update on their mental tabs of neighborhood “handout requests.”

 

 Reaching for his coffee, Smitty went first. “I’m at six already.”

 

 Paul laughed, and responded, “Three…but I took the bus.”

 

 Smitty exchanged nods with the other two men, but didn’t interrupt further, since Chuck was mid-story about an eighteen year old day-labourer who’d walked off the job. He’d witnessed a junkie have a buddy shoot him up in the neck, while seated on the pavement in the back alley.

 

 “Jaysus,” Paul cringed. “Can ya blame the lad?”

 

 Gerry offered his nickel’s worth, since two cents rounded down to

worthless.

 

“They shouldn’t be sending these kids down here…he’s probably layin’ in bed right now, sucking his f****n’ thumb, and

shivering...”

 

 Paul jumped in with a tale to change topic and mood, involving a 22 year old masonry apprentice named William - a Jehovah’s Witness- with an abundance of confidence and faith; he needed them both to work with masons. The lunch room had been packed, and he was getting razzed for not being allowed to “have so much as a tug, or dip inthe harbour” before marriage. Will was defending his beliefs, when in a display of great craicmanship, a mason named Mick Gaynor, from Cork, interjected with a softly spoken seasonal classic, amidst the crude…

 

 “You know, Will… Even Santy-Claus comes once a year.”   

 

 Four men joined late in the lunch room laughter, as they walked into 1225 East Cordova smiling.

 

 Smitty received a text.

 

 “Pallet of concrete. Ten minutes. Front or back?”

 

 Smitty responded, “Back Alley.”

 

 He paused to sign- in, and noticed that the safety officer hadn’t yet. There was no one to notify of the delivery. He stopped to request use of a day-labourer to help unload the truck. Chuck offered him a guy “in fifteen, for fifteen.” Smitty headed for the back door.

 

 Paul signed in, and headed up to the dreary fourth floor and out on the scaffolding, overlooking the alley. He wanted to check how the previous day’s work had withstood the overnight chill. He took a sip of his tea, and looked down to the alley four floors below. His eyes scanned, and then set upon a perfectly still man, sprawled out on his back, laying in a puddle of last night’s rain, with half-soaked hair and closed eyes. He wore an over-size, done-up black trench coat, and jeans.

 

 Paul stared.

 

Smitty opened the back door a minute later, and walked out into the quiet alley. He cringed at the smell of piss that always greeted them in the alley. Gerry called it “The Urinal.” In an hour it would be a hive of recyclers, construction workers, and…  

 

 Paul called down immediately. “Smitty…would ya look at this disaster?”   

 

 Smitty swung his head left, focusing twenty feet away, and joined Paul staring at the body. Neither could tell if the man was breathing from their distance. Smitty considered getting the safety officer, remembered his absence, and slowly walked over to the disheveled junkie, his mind racing. He approached cautiously, staring at the man, looking for the rise and fall of his chest. He looked up at Paul, who read histhoughts.

 

 “Not as much as  a twitch,” the Irishman said.

 

 They’d been taught to roll any person they encountered in such a state on their side, so they couldn’t choke on their vomit. They were also taught that “disturbing” a junkie wasn’t a great idea, since everyone reacted differently to sudden wake-up calls, leaving him with a conundrum and a body. Even standing over him, Smitty couldn’t see any sign of life. He decided to find out if the man was alive, without putting himself at risk. He kicked him softly on the bottom of his sneaker, and stepped back out of kick reach.

 

 Nothing.

 

 Smitty’s heart sank, and he could feel a nervous sadness set it. He let ten seconds pass, looking down at the still unmoving man.

 

 Then he kicked the bottom of his sneaker again, only substantially harder…

 

 The leg shook, and went limp.

 

Three seconds past.

 

Suddenly, the man’s head turned slowly to the side, and he groaned.

 

 Smitty sighed hard. He gave the man some time to gather himself, and then asked if he wanted an ambulance.

 

 “No ambulance,” came a groggy yet firm response.

 

  Then, slowly, a hand reached up in a silent request for Smitty’s.

 

 Paul looked down and saw his buddy pause when the man’s hand reached towards him. He saw Smitty reach into his back pocket for his work gloves, put them on, and then-reach down to help the man to his feet. It was a wobbily process, that ended with two men standing. Smitty held him upright, slowly releasing his shoulders as the man steadied himself. Face to face, the men exchanged words Paul could not hear clearly. The man in the trench-coat slowly turned to walk away, then paused, and turned back,seemingly having a final thing to say.

 

 He heard Smitty laugh loudly in response.

 

  Paul watched him watching the man wander away.

 

He called down… “What the f**k could you be findin’ so funny?"

 

 Reaching for a smoke, Smitty looked and then called up.

 

 “Seven!”