I met Emily in a coffee shop in downtown Vancouver. She really had to go, but I insisted she’d stay for a while. I’d driven 5,000 kilometres to get where I was, and she was there too; might as well have a quick talk. Em is of the really weird kind. We’d travelled once together, on a train between Xi’an and Beijing. I was with friends and she was by herself, and we were all sharing a cabin. We talked and played cards and drank some rice liquor before falling asleep on our little bunk beds. In the morning, before the train reached the station, Emily told me she had taken a picture of me while I was sleeping. It was funny, she thought. I thought it was awkward as hell.  What kind of creep takes pictures of strangers in their sleep? We exchanged numbers and never called each other, that is until I reached Calgary and needed to talk.

She downed her coffee in an instant. “I really should go. I hope you enjoy Vancouver though. Just steer clear of E. Hastings.” She left for the last ferry. I got some sleep, way less than I needed, but I didn’t care anymore. First thing in the morning, I’d drive to the Downtown Eastside. East Hastings, abode of the roaming and dispossessed. I always felt at home with those who don’t have one. Oppenheimer Park, a village of disinherited souls who have nothing to lose, looked like a refugee camp a few blocks away from the downtown bankers and their professional demeanours. What a sight! Underage crack-smoking prostitutes playing horseshoes with escaped convicts and propane-sniffing Indians. Some older hobos were cleaning up a Black man on a wheelchair with dirty wet towels. They looked friendly so I got closer.

“Nice little community you got here. The cops don’t ever bother you?”

“The cops and the locals don’t bother us. Boy, you’re not from here are you?”

“No. Actually, I’m here hoping I could score a dime and be on my way.” He pulled out a little plastic bag.

“A dime’s bigger than that, man.”

“Boy, there are plenty of good dimes of weed in this country. The trouble is they cost twenty bucks. What this country needs is a good ten-dollar dime.”

I’d never heard a street dealer quote depression-era journalists. Then again, I’d never heard anyone quote depression-era journalists. I knew I was getting ripped off, but I paid the man and left. “You’re still a kid and you’re still clean, you belong in Grandview. Tell them Old Blurry says hi.”

I set sail for Grandview and walked along The Drive for a while. Café Deux Soleils advertised live music and slam for five bucks. Being surrounded by sane people for a night wouldn’t hurt me. I walked back to the car to gather some pocket change, then came back and peeked through the window to take a final look at the crowd I’d be spending the night with. Just making sure I’d get my money’s worth. Emily was at a table, alone.