Two bags of tortilla chips in hand, corn starch in my hoodie pocket, I pushed my skateboard over the speedbump, foot hit wheel and I land horizontal, Old Dutch Lightly Salted tortilla chips expectorate from the plastic bag, obliterated between my hip and asphalt. They lay scattered, shattered.
“That thing’s even more dangerous than downhill skiing” the old man with a gouged face said about my skateboard, from the sidewalk as I limped away. “I used to downhill ski. I used to downhill ski!” he shouted at me from a social-distance as I walked home.
The pandemic gave me six rotting avocado from work, and two jugs of expired goat milk. Chips were for guac. Corn starch for chocolate pudding. When a pandemic gives you rotting avocados, make hip-smashed rib-bruised guac.
We hand out unwashed apples and pipes and rigs and hand santizer and swabs and tinfoil and glass tubes and everything you might need to function and feel better and forget for a minute that we live in a movie now. A movie you always loved when the main character gets bit and they don’t know if they’re infected or not and if they can pass it on to everyone else they love in the film.
One person said they’re getting moved to one of the 35 hotel rooms made available by the city and the province. They are keeping it on the downlow. Don’t tell anyone. Thirty-five hotel rooms for four-hundred people. The guy who couldn’t get his shot in, is rooming with, well he can’t actually count there’s so many, a bunch of roommates in a motel room. But if they all sit in each corner, they are six feet away.
We make handwashing stations from Boy Scout schematics and hand out granola bars from behind a table. You’re only allowed one juice box a day in the apocalypse.
Everyone, yes everyone, yes everyone, knew it was a problem. But it takes a pandemic to raise a fuck. Only when the socially-distanceable, the quarantineable are scared for their own lives does safe supply make sense, does housing everyone become understood as imperative to health, do public washrooms with sinks and soap become humane. It takes a pandemic to raise a fuck.
Support important work on the street by the Indigenous Harm Reduction Team (I-HEART): https://fundrazr.com/streetsurvival?ref=ab_6TO124zHCMh6TO124zHCMh