Day: -23 Ground Control to Major Tom

I have always thought that any speech about homelessness and shelters cannot get across it impact if you can't share the smell of shelters. It is a weird combination of human and chemical smells, as the toxic cleaning products do battle with the toxic human odours.

Maybe it's just a function of being immersed too long, but I wouldn't describe the smell as bad, but it is definitely unique.

I am thinking this morning about one soul who was very attuned to smells and odours of all types.

Too my shame I can't remember his name, I always new him as the preacher and that is the name that will have to do. The Preacher was a snappy dresser, sort of. He was always wearign at least one suit, and as they deteriorated over time he would add a new layer over the old. At times he could have three complete three piece suits on.

The Preacher was aquaphobic. There was no amount of persuasion, threatening or cajoling that would encourage him to get laundry done or to have a shower. In the months that I new him I don't think I ever saw him freshly scrubbed.

The Preacher and his ilk pose a very special challenge to a shelter worker. On the one hand, your mission is too provide shelter and you are acutely aware of the dangers for clients who sleep outside. On the other hand, in a crowded dormitory the consequences of poor personal hygiene can be dire as there is a peer response that kicks in when staff fail to address an issue. It is easy for the Preacher's to end up with persistent service restrictions due to a behavior over which they have limited control, and when they are far enough off the radar that mental health care will be a long time in coming,if ever.

I decided that the way to address the issue was, too paraphrase, "If you want to be understood, first seek to understand". Every day I would meet the Preacher at the door and we would have very eclectic discussions about his world view. Over the course of a week in a hot summer, as the aroma he carried became more pervasive, we reached a point where things were becoming a bit critical.

In my social work training there was a concept in called the 'demand for work'. After you set the tone for a session, covered the basics of interpersonal conduct and worked through the initial stages of the intervention came the time when you had to put the onus on the client to start the hard work. So with more enthusiasm than sense, more book learning than practical experience, I decided that the time had come.

Meeting the Preacher at the door, I took him aside and had a clear and direct conversation about his hygiene. He was angry at first, but when I steered the conversation to the "why" the problem existed he gave me an insight into what was happening.

The Preacher was not new to mental illness, and was not inexperienced at surviving homelessness. From the late onset of his 'troubles' however he had been almost paralyzed with fright about both experiences. Wearing this suits allowed him to carry the healthy environment he had known with him through these darker days. He described the suits as a space suit of sorts, allowing him to carry an environment with him that allowed him to survive in a hostile space. Big A-HA moment.

Showing to much interest in these explanations about the inexplicable can be hazardous to your health. Seeing that I was interested in his explanation he leaned closer to me, said that it was important to be protected by a safe atmosphere, and pulling back the collar of his shirt, said "See what I mean?"

When I regained consciousness...

So after this experience I had tempered my theory with a little bit of practice. However unusual or bizarre or unfathomable a behaviour is, from the perspective of the person who is exhibiting the behaviour it makes sense. You have to understand why it makes sense before you have a hope in hell of changing it.

The Disney end to this story would be a tale of change and transformation, redemption and hope. The Preacher died not long afterwards, killed by homelessness. The second sad truth I learned was that many times the damage that has been done to a person as they descend into homelessness cannot be undone in time with the resources available at the proverbial sharp end of the stick.

Day: -17 Liar, liar...

In the back of the site the shelter was on was an old warehouse. The whole complex was part of an ancient city works yard, that in its day had still been using draft horses to pull carts. Built around a central square, the North side was the old tables, the West side the warehouse, East was the shelter and South the Gardiner Expressway.

For awhile the warehouse had been used to store relief supplies that were destined for Eastern Europe, once the organizers raised enough cash to cover the shipping costs. Inside were a collection of clothes, beds, mattresses and boxes and boxes of diapers.

One night on my way to work I caught a group of men, one of them a shelter client, heading through a hole in the fence, just North of the shelter entrance. Jimmy was startled to see me, and quickly started explaining the rules of witnessing thefts on progress. I was to pretend I saw nothing, go on my way, it wasn't safe to intervene. Sadly, the big score for the night seemed to be boxes of diapers, an item that I wouldn't have thought had huge black market appeal.

As an aside, I have many Don Quixote-like qualities. Forever tilting at windmills and imaginary enemies is totally in keeping with my approach to life. So rather than let the situation be I told the group that I was calling the police and they had better drop their swag and leave. Thinking nothing more of it I continued on to work.

A few days later this was the news.

The warehouse was totally destroyed along with all its contents. I wouldn't see Jimmy again for nearly three years, and while we never spoke of it I am sure that he had a role in, or knowledge of, the fire.

Day: -13 Not Nice...Lice!

So there comes a time in every shelter worker's life when they have their first run-in with our parasitic little buddy, the common louse.

For me, my first time tragically intersected with the emerging relationship I was in with my future wife.

For weeks we had been battling a major lice outbreak at the shelter. In the process we very nearly caused a mass conflagration that would have definitely made our 15 minutes of fame, in a very bad way. More about that another day.

With terrible fascination, one of out resident sociopath's had pinned a louse to the piano, and was making hourly observations of its vitality. After three days it started to crawl up the pin towards freedom. That's when I knew we were in trouble.

My shift ended at 11PM and on my way home I would stop at my girlfriend's house. We would watch Perry Mason sitting on the couch in her living room after her parents had gone to bed. Once Perry had put the bad guy away I would pack up and go home.

One afternoon, getting ready for a shower before work I was stunned, appalled, dismayed and several other adjectives that end in -ed to discover a lonely louse crawling across my chest. Fortunately, I was a newly minted soldier in the war on lice and knowing exactly what to do I lept into action.

Halfway through the mass sterilization of casa Druce, I realized with horror that the night before was a Perry Mason night. Sure, Deborrah was an understanding and compassionate woman, but this was really going to test the limits of our relationship.

Off I went to the drug store to buy $150 worth of Kwellada, the preferred WMD in the war on lice. The warning label on Kwellada said to be careful not to use it too often as it was known to cause neurological damage. Another days tale will recount a fellow who was living proof of this. With great trepidation I arrive at Deborrah's house and rang the front door bell. What I didn't count on was the door being opened by her Mother, whom I had never met.

An awkward moment.

Thinking things can't get any worse, I decide to put on my game face and tough it out. "Hi" I said, "I'm the guy whose dating your daughter and I have lice, now you do too". Handing over the bag I made a break for it.

Day: -11 Hamburg Henry

Henry was a german ex-patriot who spent many years working on the dock in Hamburg.

Every day he would arrive at the shelter with 3 or 4 plastic buckets, a massive sandwhich of non-descript origin and was always puffing like a steam engine. Henry was convinced that we had worked on the docks together in the 50's (clarification: I was born in 1966 and have never been to Germany).

Henry's day to day routine was a mystery to everyone. His nighttime routine was predictable however. After checking in and getting some food he would make his bed and head straight for the bathroom. For hours he would sit on a chair and sort through the contents of his buckets. Henry did a lot of things in the bathroom, but going to the bathroom wasn't on the list.Henry's prefered method for relief was to pee in a plastic jug. He would fill the jug and then dump it in the sink, rinse everything off, and start the cycle again.

One night, he faithfully followed this routine until a mishap occured. From upstairs we heard yelling and cursing and the sound of thrown furniture.Usually this was the signal that tempers had frayed in the TV room, and so we raced off to intervene. As we tried to get up the stairs to the second floor, there was a mass of people shoving to get to the main floor. Halfway up the stairs we could start to get a sense that this wasn't a usual emergency.

Confession: I like the smell of bleach. A little bleach in a lot of water has a soothing sense of cleanliness for me. The thing about bleach, the really really REALLY important thing, is not too mix it with ammonia. Ammonia and bleach can cause one of several reactions, the following is shamelessly borrowed from here.

Reaction type 1: Ammonia directly reacts with bleach to form hydrazine (N2H4, which, in addition to being extremely poisonous, can burn even in the absence of air! It explodes on contact with rust!

2NH3 + NaOCl -----> N2H4 + NaCl + H2O

Reaction type 2: Bleach hydrolyzes into sodium hydroxide and hypochlorous acid, which in turn decompose into chlorine gas and nascent oxygen (both poisonous). The chlorine gas in turn reacts with the ammonia to form chloramines, also very poisonous.

NaOCl -----> NaOH + HOCl
HOCl ---> HCl + O (monatomic oxygen)
NaOCl + 2HCl -----> Cl2 + NaCl + H2O
2NH3 + Cl2 -------> 2NH2Cl (chloramine)
4NH3 + 2Cl2 ------> 2NHCl2 (dichloramine)
6NH3 + 3Cl2 ------> NCl3 (trichloramine or nitrogen trichloride)

Henry had inadvertently collected an industrial strength bleach bottle as his nightly urinal. Half way through his business, a violent green cloud erupted from the bottle, causing a rapid decompensation in Henry's aim resulting in a liberal sharing of the pee stream with all and sundry. The mix of a deadly chlorine gas cloud and an errant pee stream had caused the panic and stampede for the main floor.

Fortunately there where no casualties. I would like to say that the experience cured Henry of his sanitary mis-demeanor's but sadly that was not the case. What amazed me however was the care and concern that the guys showed for Henry. Sure people were a bit p.o'd at the interruption to the evening show's but mostly they worried for Henry and showed an amazing tenderness and compassion for him. Early on in my shelter career, I was blessed to be witness to that. It was another day of defeated stereotypes held by a naive newbie shelter worker.

Day: -10 Wee Willy's Wipeout

Back in the days before I learned what conferences were really for, I used to think that being chosen to go to one was an indication that your career was really going places. I know better now.

On the morning of my first ever work sponsored conference attendance, I stopped in at the shelter to pick up some promotional material to take with me. As I came in the building, Willy came out of the first floor sleeping area at full steam.

Up to that day, we didn't really get along very well. I never did learn the nickname he gave me, but I am sure it was not complimentary. SO, as he burst through the door to the dorm, I thought he had finally decided to take his animosity to the next level.

With a mighty "Hey-yah!" he lunged forward two steps and then dropped face forward onto the floor. From my new perspective on his situation I could see right away what the problem was. The back of his trench coat was a dark, stick red and there was a trail of blood leading back to the door.

If you've ever been in that type of situation, you know what happens next. If you have never been there I can't begin to do justice to the organized chaos that followed. Suffice to say 9-1-1 was called and first aid was administered.

As I peeled away the blood soaked clothes, I could see that the bleeding was centered on his left buttock. Fortunately he was out cold at this point and so I was able to get his pants to half-mast and expose the wound. He had a 4" cut across his buttock that extended right to the bone. I could see the bone clearly and the muscle was flapping loosely whenever he was moved.

For the next ten minutes I held the two edges of the wound together in a narrow hallway with 50+ other residents passing up and down the stairs to get breakfast. Finally the ambulance arrived, took him under their care and off to the hospital he went.

My best guess is he had a bottle in his back pocket, fell over the night before and the broken glass cut him, but the pressure on the wound when he was sleeping stopped him from bleeding out overnight. The second most likely scenario was a stab from one of his many adversaries.

I scrubbed off the blood and went on to the conference.

Two days later I arrive for my next shift. Third man through the door is Willy. I think I am prepared for our regular nightly routine of expletives and threats as I check him over for any stashed booze. What I wasn't prepared for was a highly emotional Willy throwing his arm over my shoulder and announcing to all and sundry that we were best mates, hey-yah!. Something about that ten minutes with my hands on his ass made a change that lasted the rest of our years together.

Many years later I would learn the secret after a memorable struggle with another old-timer, Joe O.

Day: -8 Willy the Wee Free Man

Terry Pratchett is one of my favourite authors. A satirist, humourist, humanatarian and Knight. Sadly he is also a person living with early onset alzheimers.

One set of characters with a recurring role in his books are the Nac Mac Feegle (aka The Wee Free Men). As a a direct descendant of crazed, blue painted celts I can totally identify with them. Terry describes them as "Glaswegian Smurfs. They drink too much, have watched Braveheart too many times, curse and carry on but are incredibly loyal"

Personally I am a believer in the Nac Mac Feegle having met their leader in exile, one of the first men I got to know well at the Dixon shelter.

Willy was a small-in-stature-but-big-in-impact man. He had a thick Glaswegian accent and when he drank (which was everyday) he would become almost inarticulate and communicate through variations on the theme "hey-yah!"

A small network of close friends, and a willingness to defend them against any slight (real or imagined), and in the same breath put the boots to those friends was a Wee Willy hallmark.

One of Willy's great gifts was the ability to accurately identify you after very brief interactions with a nickname that would sum you up completely. Had I been in a position to do so, I would have hired him as our HR department, he was that good at seeing the real you. Pity the poor bastard whose nickname was "goldilocks" or "yon great goon".

Willy and I didn't hit it off at first. It took a near death experience on his part to bring us together.

Day: -7 The Dixon Years

The 30 St. Lawrence Street shelter was located at, well, 30 St. Lawrence Street. A little tidbit of information that would have made all the difference in my mad search for the place.

In its day, the shelter was like no other place I have known - before or since. It was, to paraphrase Dickens, "The best of places, and the worst of places". In retrospect though, it was an advanced degree in social work that I could not have received at any University.

After a most eventful first day, I would go on to spend 6 years with Dixon Hall, 4 years of that at the shelter.

The cast of 1000's who came through the double front doors would inspire me and terrify me, laugh with me and cry with me. It truly was a place where...

"We the unwilling, led by the unknowing, are doing the impossible.

We have done so much, for so long,with so little,

we are now fully qualified to do anything with nothing at all"

19 years have passed, and I doubt very much my ability to do a linear narrative of my time at 30 St. Lawrence. So, I am going to do a story a day of the place, jumping forward and back through time, until I have finished all the stories of that time and place.