I moved to North Vancouver recently, leaving behind the uber-urban “Kits” area. I miss a few things about Kits, like the proximity between me and complete strangers, any number of which you see almost daily, if your routines jive. One person I ran into often was a guy named Chris. He may or may not be homeless, but he is, as my brother would say, “half a bubble off.” He has great opinions on real estate, stories about bikers, friends who died in incredible ways. He once told my son to carry a credit card in “case he needed to sleep in one of the bank ATM’s.” My son was three at the time.
I think people make existence interesting. Some might say intolerable, sure, at times. But the more people you meet, with the varied stories they have, the richer you seem for it. I’m wired to meet people, and sometimes it’s the people who seem a little strange that have the best stories. At times, my husband actively steers me across the street, away from some person I sort of know, not wanting to get caught in a conversation that doesn’t always follow convention.
I wondered if I’d regularly run into interesting people in North Van, which for me is relative suburbia. So far, the only guy I run into on a regular basis, other than friends and neighbors, is my can collector. He is the only person besides my husband to see me in my pj’s, as I am often dragging cans out in the dark three minutes before they come to pick them up.
“Running late today,” he tells me, sipping a coffee.
“At least you have coffee in you,” I say. “I woke up late again.”
He tells my neighbor his wife might want to lay off the wine, he makes a lot of money off her habits. This guy has a story, and maybe one day after years of speaking at 7:23 a.m., I will know some of it.
Recently I had a close encounter with another can-man, as I almost swerved into traffic to avoid him. This guy was riding the back of a grocery cart down Capilano Rd., a steep hill by anyone’s standards. I didn’t pass him, more like kept up with him.
“Yyeeeaaaahhhhhhhhhh” he could be heard yelling, as his cans popped and jumped in the cart, wheels grinding into the pavement.
“Holy Shit!” I said to no one. This guy was…awesome. He was steering with his sneaker, expertly toeing the ground to manoeuvre. He was not wearing a helmet. Or a shirt, actually. My mind whirled with possibilities of his demise. No brakes on a grocery cart… if he has a wonky or loose wheel he could bank himself and go airborne into the Capilano River… He was not thinking these things. He was having the time of his life. This guy has a story, and here it is:
This is just the spoiler, there is a whole movie, which is worth watching, at:
Thanks guy, for reminding me to live a little, have some fun, not worry about shit too much. If you can ride a grocery cart down Capilano with no brakes, I can surly take some small risks now and again. But with a helmet.