Mama gets recognized, plus: I help a drunk

Looks like since I last had a Mama t-shirt I could fit into -- see here for backstory on that -- the cultural currency of Nomeansno has changed a bit. I had three bits of feedback on my new (used) Mama shirt yesterday: walking the streets of Vancouver, a guy in a Voivod t-shirt pointed at me and said, "That's a fucking awesome shirt!" On Granville, a quirky-looking young guy rounded a corner and gave a start: "Mama!" And a fellow sitting on a bench at Metrotown as I walked up to meet my wife for dinner called across and said, "Yo! Is that a Mama shirt?"

I said nothing, just turned and saluted. 

It's nice, and yet also kind of weird, to get called out for your t-shirt, but I'm much happier with reactions to Mama than I was to my Kill Everyone Now t-shirt, which caused me nothing but weirdness, and as far as I know is still in the possession of Adam Slack (I just gave it to him as a gesture of fan support for Invasives; it seems like a fine shirt idea until you wear it out, y'know?). But it wasn't the strangest thing that happened to me yesterday: I had a moment right out of a Chris Walter novel. 

To put you in the moment, I had had some time to kill before seeing Children of Men at the VIFF Centre, and indulged my passion for thrifting. There wasn't much at Value Village Boutique (though I got a sealed Iron Gypsy EP that I'll be able to trade for some fun stuff; their second album has a very intriguing lineup, besides the main guy, of Rampage-Pinhead-Donut. Also found a Robert Mitchum calypso record: what?). From there, with fifteen minutes before the show was to start, I beelined for Wildlife Thrift: just enough time for a quick peek.  

There was a guy on the corner, lying on the sidewalk, struggling to right himself. 

Understand: I have become adept at walking past people slumped, possibly dead, in doorways. The last time I tried to intervene in a possible case of opioid toxicity, I was on the way to the Rickshaw and there was a guy with his eyes rolled back in his head, mouth open, froth on his lips, twitching on the sidewalk. I reluctantly shouted down, "Are you okay?" to his non-responsive form. Another passerby intervened and got more hands-on, making me feel a bit ashamed at my sheepishnes. With hands on his chest, shaking him, the guy on the sidewalk sputtered and woke up. 

He was just sleeping, he explained (in the middle of the sidewalk!). 

"But your eyes were rolled back in your head," I said.

"That's just how I do."

That was a few months ago, and with toxic drugs still claiming lives at an alarming rate (and no shortage of people who are willing to take their chances), I have probably walked past 100 slumped figures in doorways since then -- people who might just be nodding, or sleeping, who might not want a stranger to disturb them. I might have asked one or two particularly dire-seeming cases if they were all right (a common element of which is that no one ever does seem to want help), but mostly I just walk by, feeling a bit sick about it. 

Yesterday, walking by was not an option. Turns out someone who might be dead does not in fact scream for help in an immediate way, since if they're dead you can do nothing, but seeing someone trying to get to his feet and failing has a certain pathos to it you -- well, I -- cannot but be drawn into. I watched this fellow ahead of me, flailing on the sidewalk, as I approached on Granville, and it was like watching a tortoise on its back: what are you going to do, NOT turn it rightside up?  

As I drew closer, the guy gave a heroic push on his arms, rose to his knees, tried to get a foot under him, and -- plop, back on his ass. 

"Do you need help?" 

"Yes!" he said. He seemed polite, a bit sheepish. I took his arm -- the two handed grip at elbow and armpit -- and gave him the support he needed to rise to his feet. 

At which point his legs buckled and he went down again -- I was able to slow his fall (he wasn't injured) but I couldn't hold him up. 

"Fuck, buddy, I don't know that I can help you. You can't walk and I can't carry you... Where are you trying to go?"

He gestured at the Yale. "I live over there! I just want to go home."

I looked around at people passing us on the sidewalk. This seemed a two-man job, beyond my abilities to manage. Should I call 911? Ask the Wildlife Security Guard to help? Try to harangue some passerby into helping? (Good luck there: a guy with a gimped voice advocating for a guy with gimped legs is a surefire recipe for failure: who is going to want to get involved with that?). I was on the verge of just crying randomly, "Could we have some help here?" and seeing what happened, when some streetwise passerby walked up: "What's the trouble, buddy? Too much or not enough?"

"He can't stand up on his own," I explained. "And I can't carry him." 

"No problem," the dude says (or something like that; this is a mere reconstruction). He and I took an arm each and we got the dude to his feet. I felt very relieved -- I had help in helping! Decent people exist!  

"Where ya goin' to, pal?" the new guy asked.

"Over there," gesturing at the Yale. 

"Ah, too far for me." The guy detached himself and walked away down Granville Street. 

"Hey, where you going?" I shouted, my new ward leaning against me. "I need help! I can't get him there on my own!"

"I've got things to do!" 

"Fuck you, man!" I shouted indignantly, imagining the dude grinning to himself. He didn't slow or look back.

But there we were, now standing. What to do now? "Here, put your arm around my shoulders."

"Man, this is embarrassing." 

"Ah, don't worry about it. I can't believe that guy. So what's the trouble anyway? You've been drinking?" 

"Yeah." (Which actually came as good news: there are worse reasons someone's legs might stop working).

"Do you think you can make it?" 

"I can try."

And like that, his left arm around my shoulder, my left hand gripping his wrist, and my right arm around his shoulder, we hobbled across the street, which luckily, due to construction, was mostly blocked off to traffic. We staggered a few times but remained upright, and once he was safely in his doorway -- "thanks man, I can make it from here" -- I was still able to get a quick thrift fix in and make the movie, thanks to a larger number of previews than average. 

Still holds up as a film. Ever notice how many animals there are in it? The scene where the girl gives birth, the soundtrack is almost all barking dogs. What's up with that?