Haunted movie set: squeamish in Squamish

As part of our "staycation", Bill and I took a drive to Squamish, B. C., for a two-way mini-vacation. We rode the Sea to Sky Gondola, dizzily but beautifully, up the mountain (which mountain? All I know is, my ears were popping), then down into the mines, where it's dark as a dungeon and damp as the dew. 

And by God, I went on my first suspension bridge! I always thought I'd have to be blindfolded like a horse, but I made it. It has a very thick cable to hang on to, and is more stable (speaking of horses) than I thought it would be. No way do you stop to get photos on this thing, however, so that's not me.

The whole day was nice, with its moments of giddiness. For some reason, the ascending gondola seemed to be going at a tremendous speed, which queased me out a bit.  Descending, it was gently floating down. So I didn't have that tingling feeling in my fingers and toes. I was no longer squeamish in Squamish.

Great big truck!  Wheels go all the way across the sky. What can it mean??

My friends Bobby Orr and Jack Miner at the Britannia Mine Museum, once a working copper mine, now a spooky relic/tourist attraction with lots of strange vibes around.  A bit squirmy to go underground in a sort of metal train thingie, which would have been nicer without the 400-pound woman jamming me into the side of it. Sorry, it really did take away from the experience. I likely had about 1/3 the room I needed to be comfortable and bear bruises today. 

A sub-mo-chine gun? No, it's a drill. Really old. The really old ones kicked up so much dust that the miners died. It was a horrible life. They had to demonstrate every bit of deafening machinery in the tunnel. By then I really was squeamish in Squamish.

I'm not sure that hard hat is on right. I don't know why it's so imperative that we wear one, unless gigantic hunks of rock sometimes come hurtling down and pound people into the ground like a tent peg.

Now this was the best part. You can't begin to get the idea of the scope of this place - it is huge, cavernous, and like something out of a Terry Gilliam cartoon in its elaborate grotesquerie. They did something-or-other here. This is frequently used as a movie set, earning the facility a nice piece of change. This could double for any abandoned factory. It is both creepy and cool, and at one point I turned my head and kind of said, mentally, "hello". Someone was "up there", but I did not get the creepy feeling I sometimes get (like in that goddamn coffee shop in Vancouver that had been converted from an old warehouse). I think there is such a thing as a happy shade. 

If you've read this blog at all, I mean followed it, and I just realized the "views" I get here are mostly from me going back in to edit the piece, you'll recall my Gershwin's Ghost experience. I am not a medium, but I do pick up strong impressions which were entire discounted by my so-called medium friend.

Then he died. Dropped down in his tracks, just like that. Funny, because I've never cursed anyone before.

Really Stupid Picture!

Special bonus video. Oh, all right - it isn't so special, but here it is.

Heaven. . . I'm in heaven

MARS ATTACKS!

Bus People: a novel of the Downtown Eastside PART ELEVEN

This is a serialized version of my novel Bus People, a story of the people who live on Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. The main character, Dr. Zoltan Levy, is loosely based on author and lecturer Dr. Gabor Mate. It's a fantasy and not a sociological treatise: meaning, I don’t try to deal with “issues” so much as people who feel like they’ve been swept to the edge of the sidewalk and are socially invisible/terminally powerless. I’m running it in parts, in chronological order so it’s all there, breaking it up with a few pictures because personally, I hate big blocks of text.

Bus People: a novel of the Downtown Eastside

Part Eleven

"No one is as capable of gratitude as one who has emerged from the kingdom of night." Elie Wiesel

Szabó

The surgery on his back is completely successful, going more smoothly than anyone could have anticipated. His spirits go through the roof.

Then something happens that nobody ever counted on.

For no reason anyone can comprehend, his immune system crashes. A massive infection erupts in his body, and Szabó sinks into a coma. The anxiety on the ward is a palpable thing, for this is the same hospital where Szabó refused to die a couple of years ago, and some of the same nurses attend him. This time their prayers are reversed: Szabó, please live. Dr. Levy keeps vigil, sitting beside his bed and talking to him, on the remote chance he can hear him from the other side.

The other side is a strange place. Not that he can see again, it’s not like that, but still there is light, cold and brilliant and enveloping. He wanders around in it, directionless. Am I dead? he wonders, then realizes how ludicrous the question is.

Then the strange thing happens, the one that no one can agree on because everybody saw a different thing.

This old, old woman, nobody knows who she is or where she came from, shuffles into the ward in the middle of the night, past the night staff, nobody sees her, she’s so tiny anyway, maybe only four feet tall, her spine bent like a wishbone, and once she is in Szabó’s room, she pulls the red kerchief off her head and drapes it over Szabó’s ruined face. Then she somehow manages to kneel, resting her head on the edge of the bed.

In the wasteland he wanders through, Szabó sees a shape, not a shadow but something solid moving in the overwhelming light.

Szabó seems to rouse, to awaken for a moment, emerges from the kingdom of night, and knows that someone is there.

He puts out his hand and touches the top of her head.

He knows who it is.

Sometimes remembrance and loyalty is so strong, it assumes the form of a human being. His mother risked everything to get him out of the work camp, the place everyone said was “not so bad as a concentration camp”, not quite so soul-destroying. Then why did her small son look like a ghost; why was he afraid to speak for so long?

In the morning, the staff find an old red kerchief lying on the floor under the bed. Nothing more. Then a nurse says, “I think I did see someone, though. . .”

“Oh, I did too! Just out of the corner of my eye.”

“You couldn’t have. How did she get in?”

“You didn’t see anybody, come on. Cleaning staff, you know they wear these things.”

Szabó is awake.

The infection is gone: just gone, wiped completely clean. Nobody can believe it, but it’s true.

Magolna Szabó would have been ninety-seven years old. He knows she couldn’t have come to him, it was impossible, but he felt her. The line between reality and need blurred for just a second, long enough for her to slip through. Or was he hallucinating from the coma, seeing things, even though he doesn’t even have any eyes?

In any case, he’s sitting up, the staff is standing around him and having a little party because he’s finally awake. If he had a mouth, he’d be smiling.

Zoltán Levy goes home, pours himself a shot, downs it. Stands still in the kitchen for a moment, his brain whirring. Then rummages among the CDs. Rips the cellophane off a copy of Don Giovanni he stole, maybe thirteen years ago. He has at least six versions of it, he loves Don Giovanni and identifies with him, though he almost never listens to it. Loads it on to the player and begins to sing, no, bellow along with it. He knows he has a terrible unmusical voice but doesn’t care. It’s loud and strong, and he feels like celebrating.

Aggie

Portman Hotel
December 21, 2003

I hate Christmas. Hate it, hate it, hate it. ‘Tis the season to be jolly, my ass. ‘Tis the season to commit fucking suicide, if you ask me.

I remember one time years ago, I was in this psychiatric day program at Royal Columbian Hospital, I called it a “pogrom” rather than a “program”, but nobody got it, too bad Dr. Levy wasn’t around back then, he was still in private practice. Right around Christmas time the group expanded by a factor of ten, it just boomed, because people who are normally just miserable become intolerably miserable at this festive time of year.

We’ll hear those bells come jinglin’, ring-ting-tinglin’, too. Rum will flow like mother’s milk in households all over the nation, and curses will come down on little heads. Fists will fly, and Christmas trees will be smashed beyond recognition, along with small children’s hearts.

Innocence and evil dance hand in hand all through the merry month of December. They always do, it’s just that at this gut-lurchingly jolly time of year you can’t ignore it, it’s blasted at you from every fucking direction, from the first of October until the whole thing collapses on Boxing Day.

I just feel lonely, lonely. My insides feel hollow. I’ve lost touch with Sebastian, the magic is gone, I wonder what it was all about now anyway, that spell I was under when I listened to him speak to me across the void of 117 years.

I want to step through. Just step through whatever wall separates us now, and be with him. It’s only time, a mere illusion if the quantum physicists are right. Why must it have such power over us? Why must it flow only in one direction? Wasn’t Einstein on to something in believing it’s a whole lot more complicated than that?

Philosophers talk about how everything really happens all at once, or maybe has already happened. Can I jump backwards and enter the rhythm of another time, like jumping into a skipping-rope that turned in 1887?

Where did Sebastian live? What sort of work did he do? There is so much he didn’t tell me. The man is a complete mystery to me, but at the same time, I feel like I’ve known him always. He reads my thoughts and lays his hand on my heart.

I can’t see Cameron and Suzanne this year for Christmas, and maybe it’s just as well because once again, I can’t afford any fucking presents for them. I must be such a disappointment to them. The social worker says it’s too soon after the assault, the guy is threatening to press charges and drag me into court, and besides, she thinks I’m coping poorly these days, losing ground, and maybe she’s right, I don’t feel too shit-hot these days. If you were carrying the load I am carrying, you wouldn’t feel like showering or washing your hair or cleaning the place up either. When she saw the inside of my apartment the other day, I think she was a little bit shocked. It’s always pretty cluttered, she’s used to that, but she couldn’t help but see my new collection. What’s all this? Oh, those are cylinders. Cylinders? Yeah, old recordings. Antiques. But look at them all, Aggie. There must be dozens of them here. Do you spend money on these things? No, I get them for free. Aggie. Tell me the truth. Well, what do you think, that I fucking steal them? I didn’t say that. No, you didn’t have to.

That conversation was a deal-breaker, apparently. I’m supposed to go back and see Dr. Levy today, and I’m dreading it. I think I’m going to bail. He’s not going to get this, he’ll think I’ve gone ‘round the twist, out of orbit, completely beyond the pale. He is an awesome doctor, in fact I think he has the seeds of greatness in him, but this he will not comprehend, and I know it. I will have to go on without my pathfinder, on love alone.

The bus

Every December, Bert Moffatt decks out the Number 42 with antlers and holly and blinking red and green Christmas lights. He rigs up a sound system on the bus, so that the passengers can listen to “White Christmas” sung by Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney, Burl Ives’ “Holly Jolly Christmas”, and Nat King Cole singing, “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. . .”

His wife Sherry dresses up like Mrs. Claus, and hands out little cellophane-wrapped candy canes to the shiny-eyed children who get on the bus every day.

Szabó hasn’t been on the Number 42 for months now, and nobody is sure what has happened to him. He seems to have disappeared, gone underground. The corner where he used to sit and beg is vacant now. A busker tried to set up shop there one morning. Bad mistake: he was chased down the street by a wild-eyed woman with a backpack, shouting, “Get out of here! Don’t you know you’re standing on holy ground?”

A woman of about sixty, beaming as if the bus is her main source of joy, boards the Number 42 on the Thursday before Christmas, hand in hand with a young man with a bland vacant face and eyes that look vaguely stoned. She guides him to a place at the very back, and he sprawls over two seats, prompting glares from some of the standees.

Then he begins to talk, quite loudly in fact, in a gravelly voice remeniscent of Louis Armstrong. But the talk makes no sense, and alarms the people around him:

“Daw ideo bo,” he says. “Daw ideo, idugo, idugo bo.”

“Jesus, would you get a load of that,” mutters an elderly man sitting next to his very large wife.

“Should be in an institution,” she murmurs, shaking her head.

“Woka-ba vut, woka-ba vut, wa-hat fun, rowada wa-hat fun. Oh too goolaaaaaah, rowada ha-gat gaw! Wahat-fun, yebada wahat-fun.”

The talk has certain patterns in it, and some of it almost makes sense:

“Ba de may vaa, ba de may vaa, yebada wahat-fun, yebada va-too ma leff, va-too ma rye. Wabada wahat-fun, yebada va-too ma leff, va-too ma rye.”

“You meet all kinds,” the large woman says.

“On the bus? You meet lunatics.”

A man gets on at the next stop, not very clean, in fact he carries a strong waft of alcohol and pot around with him, and he looks angry, he comes on angry, and gets even angrier when he realizes that there’s nowhere to sit. He sees the young man hogging the two seats at the back and begins to push his way towards him.

“Oh-oh,” the large woman says. “Here comes trouble.”

“Buddy.”

“Debaga wa-hat fun, wa-hat fun, yebada va-too ma leff, va-too ma rye.”

“Hey, buddy. You’re taking up two seats here. Shove over.”

“Woka-ba vut, woka-ba vut.” The angry man tries to force him over with his body. But the young man with the language of his own will not move. He braces his body in the seat and holds on.

His mother, for surely she must be his mother to look at him the way that she does, feels apprehensive, but is not sure what to do about it. She tries to let him fight his own battles wherever possible. And God knows, he has to fight enough of them. The angry man keeps on pushing and pushing. He will not stop.

“Now wait a minute.” The huge smile has vanished from the sixtyish lady’s face. She gets up and strides over to the angry man.

“Leave him be.”

“Lady, he’s taking up two seats.”

“It won’t kill you to stand.”

“Yeah, well, just because he’s a fuckin’ retard doesn’t give him the right to – “
Smack.

The sixtyish woman can hardly believe what she has just done.

She has never struck anyone in her life before.

“Fuck off, lady! That’s it, I’m charging you with assault. I have witnesses here. Hey! You saw what she did!”

“Go ahead. I want you to. I want the whole world to know what my son goes through every day of his life.” The woman had no idea, when she got on the bus that morning, that she was going to say any of this. In fact, she didn’t even know she felt that way until now.

“People like this should be in an institution.”

“No. You should be put away for the rest of your life for what you did to him, humiliating him in public like that! My son has to put up with unbelievable abuse every day of his life. You have no idea, nobody does. He is my hero. He has more dignity and courage than you’ll ever have, you stupid arrogant asshole!”

“Oh lady, don’t break my fuckin’ heart!” He mimes playing a violin.

As always happens in these situations, the other passengers are sucked into the drama. The bus people clearly favour the woman’s side of the argument, and she knows it.

Bert Moffatt feels a migraine coming on.

The verbal slings continue. The young man with the language of his own is bawling loudly now, rocking back and forth, sensing the tension, but still refusing to move. The angry man body-checks him hard.

Then the busload of people gasp as a red figure hurtles down the aisle and tackles him full-force.

It’s Mrs. Santa Claus.

“Get off, get off, get OFF this bus,” she says with mounting fury, grabbing his collar and pulling him down the aisle.

“Christ, who are you?”

“I’m the spirit of Christmas Present, OK? Now shut up and behave yourself.”

The passengers, not expecting a holiday pageant to be included in their fare, stare in wonder and confusion.

“Bert, put this asshole off at the next stop.”

“Yeah, babe.”

Before they get off the bus that morning, a few of the passengers go to the back to congratulate the sixtyish woman (her name is Mrs. Edna Berry, and her son’s name is Randall, he’s 28 years old, and yes, he has always talked that way, he’s brain-damaged from birth, isn’t it remarkable?), and to tell her to stick to her guns. One white-haired old man in a long coat, his breath heavy with booze, kisses her on the cheek.

“Muh,” Randall says. Worn out by his ordeal, he’s reduced to monosyllables.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Berry.”

“Happy Holidays.”

“You’re a hero, Randall.”

“Don’t let the assholes get you down.”

“Muh.”

Mavis

Christmas Eve has no particular significance to Zoltán Levy, being a non-observant Jew, an agnostic. It only means more problems at work, the forces of addiction bearing down particularly hard on the terminally lonely. He bails out the Titanic with a thimble, like he always does, and somehow keeps it from going down altogether, though he is unspeakably weary tonight, just used right up.

He sits in front of the fireplace for a while swirling a glass of brandy, thinking about Ebeneezer Scrooge, and wondering if a Jewish Scrooge would play. Also wondering what sort of spirit would visit him on a night like this, the rain a pitiless black drone that likely won’t let up until June. Maybe a suicide, or a prostitute who ended her life on a pig farm.

He drags himself off to bed. The house falls quiet. Rosie flops on the floor, letting out a long wheezing groan of contentment.

The merciless assault of the rain nearly drowns out the rattle at the back door.

This time, entry is easy, for she has done it enough times to know how.

Mavis Potter has gained entry. No bag lady clothes this time, she’s dressed to the nines: a gown she wore to one of Charles’s things, a black silk that clings to her curves, well, it does now that she has gained all this weight, but she hopes that it looks sexy along with the tottering high heels.

In the matching black silk clutch purse is a fistful of raw steak.

Rosie lifts her head. She sniffs the air, begins to whine and salivate. She knows who it is, and what will soon follow. Her stump of a tail twitches in anticipation.

Dr. Levy snores.

Mavis sneaks into the living room. The fire has burned down to embers, bright sparks spiralling upward. She sees an old iron menorah on the mantle, hmmm, that’s new, or rather very old, probably from the old country, maybe a last gift from his mother, a nod to the festive season. But there are no candles in it. Impulsively she grabs it and holds it behind her as she sneaks towards the bedroom door.

It creaks open, and she pushes her way in.

Rosie whuffs, barks softly a couple of times.

“Shhhh. It’s okay, it’s only me.” The dog gobbles the bleeding handful of beef from Mavis’s hand, and licks her palm in gratitude.

She stares at Dr. Levy, sleeping like a little boy, his hand under his face. Her heart pounds and pounds at the sight.

Then.

Rosie lets out one short, sharp bark.

Dr. Levy’s eyes pop open.

Mavis takes an inadvertent step backwards.

His body jerks upright, all his senses on extreme alert. Confusion collides with sudden certainty as he rapidly puts the pieces together: the missing shirt, the camera, the greasy spot on the kitchen floor –

“Tán-tán.”

How does she know, how does she know that name?

“Who are you?”
Mavis Potter kneels on the bed. She encircles Dr. Levy’s furrowed face with her hands. Panic seizes him; he instinctively pulls his head away.

“Don’t,” she says.

She begins to undo the small satin-covered buttons on the front of her dress. They’re fastened with little loops, so it’s awkward. One button. Two. Dr. Levy is filled with apprehension, dismay and profound embarrassment.

The dress is now open to her navel, exposing a black bra. Then in the dimness of the room, Mavis catches a glimpse of Dr. Levy’s face.

What she sees turns her stomach upside-down with fury.

There is no mistaking that look.

It’s – pity.

Pity – for her!

“Please,” he says. “Let’s talk about this.”

Talk?
“Maybe I can help.”

That does it.

Dr. Levy sees the flash of the iron menorah swing upward in a swift, powerful arc and whips out his hand to stop it from crashing down on his skull.

Mavis flies at him, and for one insane second Dr. Levy thinks of Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. The dog begins to growl and snarl, showing its teeth. Mavis hurls the menorah at Rosie’s head, but it misses, bouncing off her back. Enraged by the blow, she leaps up on the bed and lunges, her teeth sinking into Mavis Potter’s throat.

“No!” Dr. Levy grabs Rosie’s studded collar and pulls, pulls.

“Let her go! Release! Release!”

Mavis goes limp and slides onto the floor, her body slack as a sawdust doll.

Rosie licks Dr. Levy’s face, whining softly, her stump twitching. He can smell the blood on her chops.

In two seconds, he overcomes the visceral churning in his abdomen and snaps into professional mode, in complete control of the situation. He calls 9-1-1, grabs his medical kit and begins to suture up the ragged puncture wounds in Mavis Potter’s throat.


Vester

A new identity is kind of like a new shirt: nice to look at, even impressive, but a bit scratchy and stiff, you have to wear it for a while, spill a little food on it, sweat in it, and put it through the wash enough times to soften it down so that it fits the individual contours of your body.

In a psychiatric ward on the other side of Vancouver, Mavis Potter refuses to remove a certain red shirt. In fact she refuses a lot of things, she won’t eat, she won’t talk, she won’t cooperate with the authorities, and she is barely sleeping, in spite of powerful doses of antipsychotic medication.

Vester has no idea about Mavis, but he does know that something’s up with Dr. Levy, he didn’t look very well at the last session, like he hadn’t been sleeping or something, his face sunken, his eyes glassy with fatigue.

But Vester has a new worry now: he hasn’t seen Aggie for more than a week. She’s just not answering, not answering his knock, the special one-two-three (pause), four-five knock that’s strictly their own. Is she holed up in there, depressed? Things aren’t going well for her right now, she can’t see her kids, and Christmas is always hard on depressives, it’s the final straw for a lot of them. But New Year’s comes and goes, and she still doesn’t answer. A hard knot of apprehension gathers in his stomach, and he wonders what to do next.

There’s no one to call, because Aggie doesn’t really have anybody. The social worker who treats her with such disdain isn’t exactly an ally, though she is supposed to be part of her “community support system”. In fact, Aggie never even refers to her by name.

Finally, on January 7, he goes and talks to Mrs. Strauss, the landlady. She looks concerned. Ah yes, Aggie, zis lady vith ze collections, no, no, I haven’t zeen her, haven’t zeen her in long time, vee maybe check?

Vester’s insides are churning with anxiety as they mount the stairs to Aggie’s apartment. He prays they won’t find something horrible inside.

The door creaks open; the air is completely still. The apartment looks normal, normal for Aggie that is, crammed with clutter, collections of this and that, knickknacks and bric-a-brac, china figurines of ladies in big skirts, bamboo bird cages with no birds in them, salt and pepper shakers shaped like people, old Pez dispensers of Disney characters, a bride doll that looks nearly new, and of course the Sebastian cylinders, all stacked up in a neat pyramid that gives Vester the creeps.

“Vhat are zese?”

“Uh. . . recordings. Aggie’s quite a collector.”

“Music?”

“No, these are spoken word.”

He plucks the top one off the pyramid and loads it on.

They listen.

It’s noise.

Noise, noise, noise.

Hiss, crackle, pop-tick, pop-tick, whumpita, whumpita, whumpita, noise and only noise, and no voice on it, no voice at all.

He tries another cylinder.

More of the same.

Vester and Mrs. Strauss look at each other.

He plays through enough cylinders to convince himself.

“There’s nothing on these,” he says. “They’re just blanks.”

“Yes. It is puzzle. Vhy she listen to zese?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Vee call police?”

“Maybe we should.”

The police seem suspicious, and keep asking him probing questions, as if he had something to do with the disappearance. They assume he’s the boyfriend, always the first suspect. It’s profoundly uncomfortable, but Aggie’s his best friend in the whole world, he has to try to help her any way he can. He even tells the cops about the cylinders, and they look at him as if he’s the crazy one. And it’s true, it’s a pretty bizarre story, sounds strange even to him.

Maybe she. . . went away? Where would she go? She has no relatives that she ever speaks of. And no other friends. Maybe she. . .no. It’s not possible. He shuts out the thought as too crazy even to contemplate.

Vester feels sick with apprehension and dread, for when a woman disappears from the Downtown Eastside, it’s always the worst kind of news.

Zoltán Levy

The fatigue is immense, pressing down on him so hard he can barely drag his body in to work on the Monday after Christmas.

But something tells him he needs to be there. He can’t get any rest anyway, his sleep is shattered, the appearance of the crazy woman in his bedroom has flipped a switch somewhere deep in his brain, and he can’t let himself slide into merciful oblivion.

There’s a long lineup of patients to see today. Minor aches and pains, most of them triggered by loneliness and depression. This time of year is particularly vicious and inhuman for the wandering strange, who seem to feel everyone else is having a wonderful time, their lives brimming over with good fortune, fellowship and love.

Then near the end of an exhausting day, three women suddenly burst into his office, their arms linked, joined together like a chain of paper dolls. Correction: three girls, as none of them looks much older than about seventeen.

In the middle of the chain is a hugely pregnant girl, her face contorted with pain and terror. She is flanked on either side by two professionals (their costume is unmistakeable), forming a kind of escort.

“She’s having it now,” says the red-haired girl on the left.

“Yeah. Like, right now. We can see the head.”

“Fuck,” the pregnant girl moans. “Ohhhh, fuck. . .”

“It’s okay, don’t be scared, I’ll take care of you,” Dr. Levy tells her, summoning up reassurance from a pit of exhaustion. “Take her in here and we’ll get her undressed.”

“Shit!” The pregnant girl leaves a trail of bloody fluid on the floor. The doctor knows that birth is immanent, in fact he can smell it already, and will not be held off much longer.

She barely gets a chance to settle herself down on the examining table before the entire head pops through. She screams and screams, and her friends try to calm her down, stroking her hair, telling her it’s OK, it’s OK, she’s safe now, the doctor is here, and she’s going to see her baby pretty soon, isn’t that awesome? Dr. Levy takes the infant’s dark wet head in his hands and waits for the next contraction. With a deep, growling roar, the girl bears down hugely, and the wet little body slithers out of her and into the doctor’s hands.

“It’s a boy,” Dr. Levy says.

“Sandy! A boy! A boy!”
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Sandy whimpers.

“He’s beautiful!”
“Let me see.”

“This is just so awesome!”

“He looks good.” The infant is surprisingly strong, with a high Apgar score. He guesses this isn’t a prostitute, in spite of her choice of friends. She seems too robust for that, and the baby is in great shape, eight pounds seven ounces of vibrant health.

He lays the infant on Sandy’s abdomen. She gazes at him in complete absorption and awe.

“Do you have a name for him?”
“Yeah. I think I’ll call him Anton.”
“Unusual name, for this part of the world. Is it in the family?”
“Yeah. You might say so.”

“Great. Look, Sandy, I’m going to get an ambulance for you now to take you over to VGH. But everything looks fine, Anton’s in really good shape. You must have taken good care of yourself.”

“My Mum helped me.”
“Good. Can she help you look after him now?”
“I guess so.”

“Because it’s really important that you have some practical support. A new baby is a big responsibility.”
“I know that.”

“Are you in touch with the father?”
“On and off. I don’t see him very often. I used to hang with him, but I couldn’t take it any more. He’s gone into rehab, I think. I wanted to get married.” Her face contorts with grief, and the red-haired hooker strokes her cheek.

“Bastard,” mutters the other hooker.

“One thing at a time. If he does get clean, see if you can get him on-side, because you’re going to need some emotional support as well.” The doctor scrubs at the sink, feeling the surge of elation he always experiences after a healthy birth.

Anton roots instinctively for his mother’s nipple. Sandy is amazed: “Look, he’s nursing already! Isn’t that great?”
“Awesome.”

“God, Sandy, are you ever lucky.”

“Yeah, I know.”
She watches Dr. Levy washing up at the sink, humming happily to himself. Oblivious. All she has ever heard are nasty remarks about him, about his heartlessness. But already she likes him, likes him a lot. She thinks he’s a decent man, he just didn’t know how to handle a family all those years ago, it was too much for him and he had no one to turn to.

As the ambulance workers bundle her onto the stretcher with her newborn son, Dr. Levy says to her, “I have a favourite quote. Do you want to hear it?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“It’s by Carl Sandburg, the famous American poet: ‘A baby is God’s way of insisting that the world continue.’”

“I like that. I think I’ll write it down.”
“Good luck, Sandy. Keep in touch.”

“I will. Thanks, Dr. Levy.”

He watches the ambulance go, grateful that he dragged himself in to work that day to be part of it, this relentlessly lifeward, crazy insistence.


Bus People Part One


Bus People Part Two


Bus People Part Three


Bus People Part Four


Bus People Part Five


Bus People Part Six


Bus People Part Seven


Bus People Part Eight


Bus People Part Nine


Bus People Part Ten


Bus People Part Eleven


Bus People Part Twelve

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What if they gave a writing career, and nobody came?

Except for the tip of the iceberg, this could be me.

Bus People: a novel of the Downtown Eastside PART TEN

This is a serialized version of my novel Bus People, a story of the people who live on Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. The main character, Dr. Zoltan Levy, is loosely based on author and lecturer Dr. Gabor Mate. It's a fantasy and not a sociological treatise: meaning, I don’t try to deal with “issues” so much as people who feel like they’ve been swept to the edge of the sidewalk and are socially invisible/terminally powerless. I’m running it in parts, in chronological order so it’s all there, breaking it up with a few pictures because personally, I hate big blocks of text.


Bus People: a novel of the Downtown Eastside

Part Ten

"No one is as capable of gratitude as one who has emerged from the kingdom of night." Elie Wiesel


Szabó

Szabó is struck with awe. He had no idea what strides had been made in the field of plastic surgery just in the few of years since the bleak day he blew his face to kingdom come.

A day would come when those strides would seem far less significant, but one breakthrough must follow another.

Dr. Kaplan reads him a report from a medical journal about a man so badly burned, there was to all intents and purposes no flesh left on his face at all.

Though it took six months, and must have been arduous and challenging, the man literally grew a new face for himself, from the skin of his own back.

A special tissue expander created a single, thick piece of skin, with its own unique blood supply, that would allow for “microvascular tissue transfer”. When the skin was sufficiently stretched and ready to be harvested, it was carefully removed and surgically transplanted to make a new face. They were even able to fashion him a nose, all in the space of a few hours. The entire procedure resulted in a face normal-looking enough to “pass”.

Szabó is getting excited. Dr. Kaplan cautions him that in his case, it will be quite a bit more complicated because he lost so much bone. But he quotes another article, about a woman who lost much of her facial bone structure to a particularly aggressive form of cancer.

Dr. Kaplan read him the report, wishing he could show him the photographs.

“A kind of replacement scaffolding made from a new type of polymer plastic that dissolves in 12 to 18 months was individually fitted to her existing bone structure, carefully molded from a cast of her skull. Bone chips were grafted on to the artificial scaffolding, and, remarkably, they began to grow, bonding themselves to the framework and gradually replacing the plastic as it was absorbed by the body. What was left was a new bone structure, almost identical to the one that had been lost.”

He has learned that the miracle is about to begin almost immediately, with the first operation on his back. Then multiple casts will be made of his ruined face. It would take time; it would take patience; it would take pain. But Dr. Kaplan is convinced that Szabó can have his face back, or at least a face he will be able to present to the world.

He will still be blind; yes. But something else has begun to happen here, something just as remarkable as the miracle of his restored face. He has begun to work in three dimensions. Clay first, though that was just a beginning; he is also interested in wood, in stone, in plaster, in wire, in fabric, even in soap – in fact, in every type of substance that can be manipulated with the hands.

He sits in the side room at the Portman and experiments with all kinds of material, producing sculptures that are weirdly inspired, far more powerful and original than anything he ever painted when he still had his eyes.

How does he know this? Dr. Levy tells him so.

“Tamás, I think it’s time you got yourself a place to work.”

But doctor, I have no money for this, I beg on streets, remember? This is not possible.

“Yes, it’s possible, in fact I’ve already looked into it. From now on, Tamás, you’ll be collecting a permanent disability pension from the government. Not much, of course, these things are never as generous as they should be, but you’ve learned to get by with so little, it’ll probably go pretty far. The first cheque will be issued next month, and until then, I’d like to give you a small loan to tide you over.”

Doctor. Is not possible, you are too good to me.

“Of course it’s possible, and I’d be honoured to help. It’s only a few hundred dollars, and you can pay me back from the proceeds of your first exhibition.”

This is all too much for Szabó; he feels completely overwhelmed.

“You no longer need to beg, Tamás. You’ll get your studio back, along with your dignity and your self-respect.”

Respect. Doctor, you are genius.

“No, you are, Szabo. You just didn’t know it until now.”

Mavis

In a comfortable suburb to the east of Zeddyville, another transformation is taking place, no less startling than Szabó’s reclamation.

The dark red shirt is beginning to smell, but Mavis refuses to take it off.

It is her Zoltán costume: now she can both see him, and be him.

She wears it under her normal clothing every day now, clothing which is slowly beginning to look less normal. The bag lady is spilling over into the librarian and blurring them together.

Where is Charles in all this? Mild-faced Charles, who after all has been married to her for years and years? He barely notices Mavis, has tuned her out and ignored her needs for decades, and besides, acting weird is nothing new for her, she was arrested a few years ago for flipping out in the bank, claiming she saw Clifford Olsen staring at her in the teller lineup.

Clifford Olsen: a vicious serial murderer of small children, one of Port Coquitlam’s two famous sons. The other being Terry Fox, a virtual saint.

Port Coquitlam: the home of the infamous pig farm, Willie Pickton’s death machine, a bizarre modern-day concentration camp for the women of the Downtown Eastside.

The stories out of Port Coquitlam were not to be believed, so no one believed them; and thus the casual extermination was allowed to continue, women’s throats slashed like so many pigs at the slaughter.

So many, the count always rising, that the total number would make your hair stand on end.

Mavis recalls the article on the front page of the Vancouver Sun, reassuring the good people of Vancouver that the human remains found in the pig feed posed no significant health risk to the population. Even though most of the missing women were racked with disease, the public could consume pork from the Pickton farm with confidence that their well-being would not be compromised.

So a hotdog made from a hooker was quite okay!

And yes, the Potters live in Port Coquitlam, in a new neighborhood of nice homes built atop Willie Pickton’s huge spread of land. It is quite possible that traces of human remains live below the Potter’s home, deep under the foundation.

Does Dr. Levy suspect anything? Yes. His nerves are on edge, his whole system is on high alert, and it is difficult to sleep without a nightly slug of Scotch and valium. He is not sure why. Nothing overt has happened, just a missing shirt and a greasy spot on the kitchen floor. God knows his work always entails danger, an eruption of random violence, a knife attack, contagion, a tiny pinprick through a rubber glove.

So danger is nothing new to him, in fact he thrives on it, seems to need it to feel alive. It’s ironic that he and Mavis Potter share the same addiction. He gets his daily fix in a way that does good, and she –

She now writes at least fifty pages a day on the book, which is clearly her masterpiece, already more than a thousand pages long, a huge sprawl of a manuscript that no publisher would touch, most of it concerning Dr. Levy, his private, innermost thoughts. She is him now, they have become one flesh, so she knows. And she has bagged her photographic trophy at last: Zoltán Levy looking into the camera, mildly annoyed, mildly perplexed, a haven’t I seen you somewhere before? look of puzzlement on his face, frozen forever in time. But he walks on, too busy to think about it now; he has places to go and things to do, patients to see, and no time to worry about some weird tourist out to exploit the residents of the Downtown Eastside.

As he strides along Hastings Street on the way to the Sunshine to see if he can talk a young mother of three into trying another course of methadone, he jostles against a young man walking the other way, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision. He dodges just in time, jumps to one side and walks on, but the young man stumbles, his balance thrown off.

He feels himself starting to sweat under his clothes. He knows who this man is, has heard about him, God knows, he’s a legend in these parts, in fact it’s a miracle he hasn’t run into him before, they run in the same circles, so to speak., but never before has he actually seen him.

So that’s what he looks like?

He saw a man who looked almost dried-up, black holes for eyes, in a kind of manic hurry like a windup toy.

In such a hurry that he doesn’t realize he has just run into himself.


Anton Lévai

It’s like looking at his reflection forty years from now, if such a thing were possible.

The same basic body type, lean and wiry and nimble, though Anton is a little bit taller, a little more filled out.

Unlike hollow-eyed little Tán-tán in his rags and tatters, Anton did not live through the abyss of the camps. Instead, he got it second-hand, the shock wave rippling down to the next generation, as it almost always does.

Without even experiencing his father’s presence in his life, he got it, right between the eyebrows, a direct hit.

Unlike his father, who must be tough as old horsehide, he never recovered enough to make a life for himself. Some vital piece was missing, or so damaged it just didn’t function.

His mother kept trying to bail him out.

“Anton, here’s fifty dollars.”

“Don’t give me that, Mama, I have a job now.”

“What kind of job?” Her voice was full of that heavy suspicion that drove him so crazy.

He did have a job, of sorts. School hadn’t worked out, he couldn’t concentrate enough to learn, and he didn’t seem to have an aptitude for anything, Anything straight, anyway. But he was good-looking in a Middle Eastern sort of way, and a great charmer, a natural con.

“Why don’t you call your father, Anton.”

“Why don’t you?”

“He won’t have anything to do with me.”

“Right. And he’s going to welcome me with open arms.”

“He might. You’re his son, Anton. How can you turn away your own son?”

“Fuck! He had no trouble doing it before.”

“That was different.”

“Why?”

“You’re a young man, you need help now, he’s a helper. That’s what he does.”

“Oh! So now I’m going to be his patient and he can cure me! Now he’ll talk to me because I’m a fucked-up addict!”

“He might.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk to him. He’s a killer. Everyone’s got him wrong.”

“But he helps people. He gets them clean. Everybody says so.”

“Oh yes, I’ve heard all about it. The Brother Teresa of the streets.”

“Just think about it, Anton.”

“I won’t.”

The hell of it was, he was his father’s son in almost every significant way. The forces that propelled Zoltán Levy into a brilliant career in medicine drove Anton Lévai nearly crazy, so he turned to a different kind of solace.

First booze and pot. Then LSD, a few dozen trips, most of them bad. Then cocaine, then crack, then crystal meth, his brain spinning a thousand revolutions per second.

And then he came to the very last stop.

The magic beanstalk twisted around him and lifted him up to a supreme, mind-obliterating high that he soon needed every day. Already it was hard for him to find a viable vein and was sticking the needles into odd parts of himself, wondering what he would do when they were all closed down.

Anton Lévai wasn’t a thief, he wasn’t a criminal, Annie had instilled too much decency in him for that. She had completely ruined him for a life of crime.

So there was only one thing left for him to do.

He sold the only thing he could think of to sell. The only commodity that he knew would never run out.

It wasn’t as bad as he thought if he was high enough. He did what they wanted and they had no interest in prolonging things, so it was fast. It was way better money than panhandling, and once he started doing it, telling himself each time that it was the last time, it was impossible to break away.

He even had regular clients. It was insane. He hated them, and went back to them just about every night and always did what they asked him to do.

He made attempts, took stabs at reclaiming himself, tried to write a book, put in a few months of clean time here and there in treatment centres and at NA meetings. Annie’s hopes would rise, then plummet. The addiction was consuming her too, only in a different way. He changed his name legally back to Lévai in some vain effort to reconnect with the family he never knew, the father who walked. When he learned, after the fact, that the surname was the same as that of a famous Jewish historian who had written The Black Book, the story of the Holocaust in Hungary, it seemed somehow even more appropriate.

Surprising that he never ran into his father before this. Perhaps some sort of primitive radar kept them apart. He is not surprised that Zoltán Levy did not see him, for Zoltán Levy has a huge capacity for not seeing what he does not want to see.

He wonders what to do about this, if he is called to do anything at all.

He wonders all the time, scraping through interminable days and hustling all night, casting around, his radar scanning the passersby for that certain energy, that predatory hunger that ensures he will always have an inexhaustible supply.

Aggie

Portman Hotel
December 14, 2003

I’m down today, way down. The custody hearing was the absolute shits, didn’t go well at all, I kind of lost it and started ranting and raving, I just couldn’t stop myself, I was so fucking frustrated at this stupid system that doesn’t let me see my own kids. So it looks like I won’t get to talk to Cameron and Suzanne for a long time now, at least not until the next hearing in three more months. Even when I do get to see them, which I pray will happen eventually, I can’t be alone with them, I’ll have to be supervised, probably permanently, and that sucks so badly I feel myself disappearing into the vacuum.

Seeing Jamie again was bad enough, there are still some feelings left over from when it was so good, it just twisted the blade. And he got up and talked about how well he’s doing in his career, the steady income he’s bringing in from the clubs, no more streetcorners, and how he’s even giving private lessons, it blew me away, that is, if he’s telling the truth. He talked about the stability he can provide for his children. And yes, I could see that he’s worked really hard, pulled himself together and made a go of it, all for the sake of the kids. And I do want what’s best for them. But the trouble is, it all works against me ever seeing them again. And what judge in their right mind would even consider giving custody to a chronic schizophrenic living on disability in the Portman Hotel? Unemployable, that’s what it said in my file, I peeked at it when the social worker was in the bathroom, and yeah, she’s probably right about that, I haven’t held down a steady job for the past twenty years.

Dr. Levy says the diagnosis could be wrong and I might have mild autism and ADD. Is that any better than schizo? Maybe. You might say it has more cachet, more glamour. And you can still be smart, in fact Dr. Levy says my IQ is way above average, whereas schizophrenics are perceived as a bunch of drooling morons. Plus they see things, hear things that aren’t there. Everybody knows that.

I’ve been very depressed lately, but in the midst of all this shit, all this discouragement and pain and loss, I have an ally, I have a protector, and I have a friend.

I have Sebastian.

I wish I could describe how it feels to sit with him, listen to him talk. The beauty of the language, the rhythm and cadence of his voice, is just so awesome, so magical and so real.

“Despair not,” Sebastian says to me, “for hope blooms. . . in the most unexpected and surprising places. The seeds of hope. . . sleep beneath the soil, . . .waiting for the sunrise of enlightenment. . . to stir them into full. . . and radiant. . . life. Listener, I beg thee. . . to maintain your hope. . . in the face of all desolation. You are my hope, . . .my hope for transcending. . . the limited time. . . in which I suffer. . . my weary existence, . . .my hope. . . that the inspiration I impart . . .will ignite. . .a flaming passion in you, . . .so that you may become. . . a light. . . for the world.”

“Sebastian, how am I going to accomplish all this? Look at my situation here. How can I possibly do all that you’re telling me? I have no power, no hand, nothing. I’m just a crazy middle-aged woman on a fixed income. I don’t even know why you chose me.”

“I chose you, . . .dear Listener,. . . because you are radiant in spirit,. . .and pure in heart.”

“Yeah, right. Look, don’t get me wrong, Sebastian, I’m really honoured that you would even consider me for this gig. But I just don’t know where to begin.”

“Begin. . . with where you find yourself. My message. . . will radiate from your heart. . . like ripples from a stone. . . dropped into a glassy pool.”

“Sebastian. Look, I really want to believe you, but I’m afraid people will think I’ve gone completely crazy this time, I mean the point of no return.”

“The world . . . has never understood . . . true inspiration, . . .and often mistakes it . . .for madness. This is the burden. . . that inevitably accompanies. . . the gift. But take heart, Listener, . . . for there are those in your world . . .who would pay heed . . . to my message of hope.”

“Dr. Levy, maybe? I’m afraid to tell him about you. Even Porgy, I mean Sly, he’s my best friend in the whole world, and he thinks I’ve gone nuts, I can tell. I mean, I think he wants to believe me, but he just can’t go there, it’s too much of a stretch for him.”

“Patience, Listener.”

“Sebastian. . . I don’t like it here.” I surprise myself by beginning to weep. “I want to be with you, I want to see your face. This life sucks, it sucks big-time, it’s scary and ugly and full of pain. And, look, this is the last cylinder, the very last one! What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“Agnes.”

I am sure I heard him right.

“Agnes,. . . have no fear,. . . for the solution will appear to you. . .very soon, . . .and then . . . there will be no doubt . . . left in your mind, . . .the way will open . . .and the path. . . will be made clear. Until then, . . .trust my power. Trust my message. And. . .trust your heart.”

Ta-whumpita, whumpita, whumpita. . . whump.

I draw my knees up to my face and bawl for a few minutes, pull out a cigarette and smoke it, then try to pull myself together and think.

There has to be a way.

There has to be.

If you wish hard enough, I mean with your whole being, with every particle of your energy, can you actually make something happen?

Can I put my hand through the veil, and clasp his hand on the other side?

I can’t see my kids, I have no life, my best friend doesn’t believe me, and the one person I feel a connection with was buried more than a hundred years ago.

Will God hear me, grant me this one thing? Since when has God ever listened to me? But maybe I’m overdue.

I bow my head, close my eyes, concentrate hard, and beg for this thing, this one thing. I will never ask for anything ever again.

Sly

“Doc, I have to talk to you about something.” Sly looks worried this morning, something’s on his mind. “Some pretty weird shit has been going down in the last couple of weeks.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I don’t know how to say this. You know Aggie?”
“I know her well, yes. But I haven’t seen her or talked to her for several months. How is she doing?”
“Well, you see, that’s the thing, Doc. I’m worried about her.” Sly lights a cigarette, Dr. Levy is cool about that, he’s cool about everything, the man is just awesome, like everybody says. “She’s. . .she’s got this friend.”

“Go on.”

“Uh, but the problem is. . . the problem is, he isn’t real.”
Dr. Levy looks puzzled, and intrigued.

“Well, strictly speaking he’s real, or at least he used to be, but it was a long time ago. Like, over a hundred years.” Sly rubs his eyes, wondering how he’s going to explain this one without making Aggie look totally deranged.

“She’s been collecting cylinders.”

“What?”

“Old Edison cylinders, you know, recordings from a long time ago. It started off just as a hobby, but you know Aggie, pretty soon she was completely obsessed and had to have more and more. Then she found this really weird one, like really really old, with a voice on it.”

“Have you heard it?”

“Well, yeah, sort of. Aggie thought it made sense, but I couldn’t make it out at all. Just a big garble of sound, no real words to it, with all this surface noise like a war going on. But Aggie, she found a whole bunch of these old things, and now she’s convinced that this guy is giving her messages.”

“What kind of messages?”

“Well, this guy, this Sebastian, she thinks he’s chosen her.”

Dr. Levy rubs his eyes. Not good.

“She thinks he somehow-or-other picked her, way back in 1887 or something, to carry this message about the human race. It’s – well, it’s just plain bizarre. I love Aggie, she’s like my big sister.” Sly is crying now, he can’t stop himself, it seems every time he sees Dr. Levy now, something sets him off and he can’t shut off the water works. “She’s the only person in the whole world who cares about me.”

“That’s not true.”

“But it is. You don’t count, Dr. Levy, you have to care about me, it’s your job.”

“No I don’t. I don’t have to do anything. I genuinely care about you, Sly.”

“Doc.”

“Tell me.”
“About the name. It. . .well, it just doesn’t make it, you know? I don’t feel like a Sly. And I’m sick of this stupid old jacket.” He takes it off and throws it down on the floor. Dr. Levy is reminded of the day Szabó unveiled himself, the day he lifted his burqa and let him take a look.

“I’m not Porgy. That much I know. Somebody stuck that name on me, and I let it happen. So that means I can take it off me any time I want to, right? I’m not Sylvester, that’s a stupid-ass name my father gave me just to cause me a lifetime of embarrassment. And I know I’m not Sly.”

“Do you know who you are?”

“I think so.”

“Tell me.”

Dr. Levy waits for it.

“I’m Vester.”

“Vester.”

“Yeah. Vester. I just kinda like the sound of it.”

“I do, too.”

“I think it kind of fits me.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s sort of my real name, eh? Part of it, the best part.”

“Good for you – Vester. It’s a good, solid name, and it’s distinctive, too, not like anyone else’s.”

Vester is pleased; he blushes a bit, smiling and looking away.

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Doc. But what about Aggie? Do you think she’s gone nuts?”

“I’ve known Aggie for a very long time, Vester, and she’s a survivor. She’s been through a lot, and has always been able to find her way. Maybe this is just something she has to do.”

“Yeah, but it’s weird.”

“It might sound strange to us, but to her, maybe it makes sense. She’s a seeker, Vester, and has always has been. Maybe she’s finally finding what she needs.”

“I hope so.” Dr. Levy doesn’t sound too convincing.
“Come back in three weeks.”

“Three?”

“You’re ready to fly on your own for a little bit longer. And don’t worry too much about Aggie.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Vester.”

“Yeah, Doc.”

“Good work.”

“Thanks.” He scoops up the jacket and hands it to Dr. Levy, who will pass it on to someone who needs something to keep out the cold and damp.

Privately, though, Dr. Levy is more concerned than he will let on. A voice from the past, with secret messages meant only for her? It has schizophrenia written all over it. She’s in a mess with the courts and might never see her children again. Yet he knows he can’t help anyone who isn’t willing to be helped.

So much is left undone every day, so many who slip through the cracks. He tries to focus on the success stories, because he has to, to keep himself going and not be overwhelmed. Vester is making tremendous progress, going by leaps and bounds. Szabó is already in the hospital having the surgery on his back to make his new face, step one in a very long procedure. He got a young man into detox just the other day, the father of three little kids, all by different mothers, and from the hope and determination in his eyes, it looks as if he has a chance of making it.

He tries not to think about the others, their lives crushed out and discarded like so many cigarette butts, taken by booze, drugs, viruses, exposure, and the ravenous appetite of pigs.


Bus People Part One


Bus People Part Two


Bus People Part Three


Bus People Part Four


Bus People Part Five


Bus People Part Six


Bus People Part Seven


Bus People Part Eight


Bus People Part Nine


Bus People Part Ten


Bus People Part Eleven


Bus People Part Twelve

Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!