It took him and his family 2 years and 5 months to make their trek by foot from Northeast Canada to British Columbia, and he is still walking today. We found him stumbling along Hastings street, his eyes focused neither ahead or below him, but when they met ours, he smiled.
The three of us, after serving coffee in a place for people to come in off the streets, decided to switch shifts and take a walk around the neighbourhood. We pass by billboards advertising "LOANS for Anything", " Public Washroom/Showers—CLEAN! SAFE! MONITORED!", and people shooting up in plain view. Some of the people we walk past are slumped over, squatting in a corner; others passed out while still standing. They make easy prey for those who are desperate to buy their next fix, if there is anything to take at all.
A throng of people huddled together in an alleyway, taking their time until the cops arrived - we didn't know what was happening, didn't want to stay to find out.
Across the road, a man was fighting with his girlfriend. She had accidentally knocked over their shopping cart full of all the possessions they had, spilling its contents onto the sidewalk.
A transvestite comes barrelling out of the doorway of a bar to our right; with an old man's collar clutched in her hands, she pushes him out and retorts "I am a fierce woman! You should be afraid!". A man waits for us to pass him by before he turns around to urinate on the cement barricade—thank you, Sir.
The neighbourhood swimming-hole—a small lot previously dug up in preparation of another hotel, now abandoned as though the realtor saw no hope and skipped to another part of town. Now it is home to old tires, clothes, swimming ducks, garbage, needles, crackpipes and probably on occasion, bodies of those who could no longer go on living.This is home for the people of the Downtown Eastside, Canada's poorest and most ignored neighbourhood. A pandemic has been declared because most of its citizens are sick with AIDS, and getting sicker by the day. The neighbouring communities don't want these people in their own backyard but want the problem dealt with, so the police have resorted to herding them all into one area to be contained.
Many of the folks who come in for coffee just want to get out of the mayhem. They are people who are honestly trying to climb out of the darkness, who are just looking for a break or for someone to give them the time of day. They don't want to be outside amongst the pandemonium, the death, the drugs and the danger. Here they can find a place to rest, where drugs are not tolerated, fighting is not an issue and when people smile, it is genuine.
I met a young man, so soft-spoken I misunderstood his name; he corrected me immediately, and rightly so. His name is his and not one person can take that from him. I asked where he had just come from expecting a typical answer like most of us would give " Just got off work, went to the bank and did some grocery shopping", but he had just come back from 'the showers' and just came in for some coffee before going to go catch some sleep. His nose runs the whole time and he rubs the sleep from his face as he struggles to stay awake to make conversation with me. I ask him his story, where he was from and why he was here; he came from Montreal 12 years ago to go camping, and circumstances got in the way and he got in trouble and hasn't been able to get out of it since.
" Shit, you know? Shit finds you and it won't let go. You can't get away from it. I try."
He had been sleeping in the hotel next door, tonight he might have to use a shelter, but for now he wants to just rest in the other room while it is available. I shake his hand with both of mine, and I tell him I was glad to have met him, and I wish him the best of luck and tell him never to let the shit get his spirit down. I can tell, he desperately wants to move on; and before he leaves I ask him how old he is.
"I'm only 32."
Stumbling and tripping over his own feet, shoved aside by the people that barrel past him, he points at one of the girls I am with, "Your shoe's untied". She looks down, it is clearly tied up well. He laughs and laughs and doesn't stop, and it's contagious, and we are all laughing.
" Made you look!"
People stop to see what kind of a joke a homeless man and three young girls could possibly share. His face beams and his smile seems to stretch forever. Everything about him is contagious. So endearing with his sparkly eyes and wispy voice with chirps on the ends of his words. We have a hard time understanding him; he's heavily intoxicated, deaf and doesn't have most of his teeth. We say to him "Good evening" and he extends his hand for us to shake it,
"My name is Amos."
He points to his ears to explain to us that he cannot hear so well, and his hand gestures form proper handshapes that once belonged to a person who used sign language but has long forgotten it. I point to both of my hearing aids and sign to him "Us-two, same". So am I.
He tells me he understands my language and he's overjoyed, as if for once, someone might actually really be able to understand what he is telling them.
We carry on in broken English conversation and flying hands about his family's migration across Canada—and one big wrong-turn that found them at the U.S. border. The way he tells his story is positive, "Oops, we walked a thousand miles the wrong way, must turn back." He laughs, again; he thought it was funny. We are in awe of him. He tells us that in the wilderness you use the river and the stars as your guide, but in the city you follow the lit signs. He points to the old vintage WoodWard's 'W' that still burns bright red in the Vancouver skyline. This is his guide at night when he cannot find his way.
The conversation changes to the moon and making trips there, perhaps by walking; we tell him it would take more than 2 years and 5 months for him to get there by foot.
He stops us and begins to cry; and though he has slurred through much of his story, he is never more clear than when he is serious. He begins to tell us of his wife, whom he misses so much. She died of liver cancer. Instinctively I grab hold of his hand and I cry with him—I want to console him. He holds on tightly to my hands and says "Please don't touch me ever again," and the girls tell me to let go of him, but I tell them "He won't let go of me." He pats my hands and looks at them and then his wedding ring catches his eye and he finally frees me. "This is so nice. Just to talk. That's all I want, is conversation. Is that so much to ask?" We invite him in for coffee. He is hesitant but he follows. We tell him there is no catch, it costs nothing, we want to give him coffee and hear his stories.
When we arrive at the building, he stops and tells us that he is staying at the hotel next door. Then we motion to him that we are only beside him and that he can come visit anytime he wishes. He stops. Looks at us in disbelief and then looks up at the sign above our Doorway. "Salvation Army Shelter". He knows this place, he knows what it is about. I start to think he will not come in, but I remind him that this is his choice, that we would LIKE for him to come inside. He obliges.
There are already some people lying asleep on the ground, coming in for cover from the dark and lonely night but the lights are all on and you cannot miss their presence. Amos stops and stares. He is taken by them. Immediately he starts to sob.
"So many.... so many. Just like me."
We are finally able to get him to come in to the room where the decor is classy and swank. The lighting is soft and dim, spotlights on donated artwork, jazz music and us, the baristas ready to serve. We take his order and persuade him to sit down. He likes a four x four coffee, much like the rest: four sugars, four creams. He tells us his stories, stops to sob from time to time and gazes off into his hands. I notice he keeps a small leather pouch on the end of a chain around his neck; I ask him what the contents are and he says he cannot tell me, it is his secret. He becomes silent, takes the pouch into his hand, holds it and cries still. We do not push it, after all we all have secrets that make us cry.
His stories make us cry, just the pain that is so evident in his face will make anyone shed tears. Though, he tells us that he does not cry, a real man NEVER cries - but he wants to, more than anything he wants to be able to cry because he hurts. Everything he has ever been dealt in his life hurts; the beatings from his foster parents when he was a child; the shortcomings he has faced in his lifetime, the prejudice against him for being Aboriginal and an alcoholic. Losing a loved one and becoming homeless. It all hurts.
We sit with him and enjoy his company. He spots a deck of cards on the table and picks them up, sorting through them, thumbing them and caressing their faces as if the King, Queen and Jack were once good friends of his. Amos starts to laugh, a wicked laugh that turns the heads of others around us; we ask what on earth could be found in a deck of cards that would make him laugh so hard?
"I beat the devil - I BEAT him!"
But, he hasn't beat the devil and Amos knows this.
I noticed his jacket has a small emblem on the left side of his chest. It reads "Disciple". I tell him, that indeed that is what he is, a disciple, with the heart he has and the tears he sheds for the plight of others. He smiles, probably not hearing what I was telling him. I wanted to tell him I was entertaining an angel.
It is closing time for the cafe - we shake his hand and we tell him he is welcome here any time. For some reason, his face shows doubt. I walk him back out to the street and he stops once again to cry for the people asleep on the shelter's floor. He tells me he is lucky, he knows how to take care of himself. I direct him to his hotel and I remind him again we are only next door and please come visit. Doubt has been replaced with possibilities, he might come back.
As he leaves I watch him make his way down Hastings, this small man with wrinkles etched into his face; he walks clear past his hotel into the crush of people, ghosts and shells of themselves. He turns around as if to check if I were real if he didn't just dream what happened to him this evening. I wave at him, reassuring him that our conversations were not a figment of his imagination, and he smiles, stumbles and waves back.
Into the night, many years later after his cross country journey, Amos is still walking.
God, bless Amos and give him stars to follow.
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