Yesterday the insurance company finally got the old Honda Civic towed from our parking space off the alley. I hadn't realized how much it was weighing on me, seeing the car every time I looked out the back windows.
The car was rear-ended August 29th. For much of the winter it has been a dwelling for Wayne, one of the marginalised people who drift about downtown Edmonton. I think I evicted Wayne 4 times this winter - and there were so many reasons why Wayne had to be evicted. The weather is too cold here in Edmonton to survive in a car that isn't running. Wayne smoked crack and had a drug habit that involved injectables - so there were candles, matches and lighters in an extremely flammable environment. The car couldn't be secured because the frame had buckled and a window mechanism had broken - so locking yourself inside was not an option. And the guy up the street is ready to beat up anyone he thinks is hanging around, stealing stuff.
Four weeks ago I took all Wayne's stuff out of the car, shoved it in orange trash bags, and told him he had to leave. Anything he didn't take with him would be thrown out. What use does a homeless man have for a broken X-Box? It didn't even have a car adapter! Some of the stuff is scavenged, some of it might be stolen goods. Wayne took some of the stuff, but a week later the garbagemen took the rest - five bags of it.
Two weeks ago, Wayne was back in the car. I tried to secure it better, and I posted a No Trespassing sign. Made no difference. So I took all the stuff out again - new stuff. There were several blankets, three sofa cushions, clean and dirty workclothes, women's clothing, tools, drug paraphernalia, and three battery-operated vibrators. Wayne had been entertaining a girlfriend.
As I was clearing out the car, a couple came by. "Oh, you're clearing out my Uncle Wayne's stuff, eh?" The woman who said it didn't seem the least bit surprised.
"I've told him he can't live here," I said. "I've told him several times."
"Wayne's kinda stubborn that way. Shit happens. He snoozes, he loses," she said, and the man with her grunted. "Does he got any good clothes in there? Any women's clothes?"
I pointed to the growing pile laid out on a tarp in the lot next door. "Wayne wear those?" I asked.
She laughed. "No, he had a girlfriend but she took all his money and dumped him. He's not too smart that way."
Wayne's niece and her boyfriend rummaged through the debris of Wayne's life. I left them there. I knew she would tell him to come and get his stuff, if he was going to.
Wayne showed up again at some point in the night. He left a blanket, a lighter, and a pillow on the back seat. I threw them on the pile.
A city crew came and cleared out the stuff. Someone thinks it's a city lot, and they do all the maintenance.
Then, one night later, I saw motion in the car. I put on my coat and boots and went out there to confront Wayne again.
The back door was unlocked. I opened it and addressed the form huddled under a white comforter.
"Out. Out of the car NOW! You cannot stay here," I bellowed, using my stentorian operatic voice.
There was a mumble, and the figure pulled the comforter closer. I grabbed the edge of it and pulled it off, throwing it over the car into the empty lot.
It wasn't Wayne. And the figure lying there wasn't alone. There was a man lying on the seat itself, and lying one the floor behind the front seats was a woman.
I ordered them out. The man struggled and made it out, but the woman was stretching an arm out to me and asking for help.
"You don't need my help," I said. "You got in there without my help, you can get out without my help." She had a round, puffy face, and she was reaching out with one arm and saying she needed help. Her male friend was walking down the alley and he turned around and hollered:
"She's only got one arm, eh."
Which was true.
She couldn't get up without help, not from where she was wedged behind the seats of the car.
"You knew that," I called out, "and you left her here? Get back here! You help her out. She's your friend; you help her."
And he did. And she was swearing at me. I've gotten used to this - that the men of the streets usually cooperate but the women get violent and abusive.
Anyway. The car is now gone. I feel sorry for it. It had been so well cared for by the previous owners, and we were prepared to care for it too. At the end it had been smashed, ripped up, smeared with egg and wax, the mirror ripped off, and it stank of alcohol and survival.
