Bad, Terrible, Worst

The lives of three young men are altered over 5 days in July.

Monday: Kyle rented a room in my house. He’s scraggly with faded jeans, and a skateboard, he’s not a stoner, Kyle’s drug is liquor. 

It was a horrible to come home to a messy house. There was a mess in the garden too: tobacco, ashes, bottle tops, a mini-Ziploc baggie, and a skateboard. A dried up splash of sticky on the back step, Jack Daniels bottle propped against a flowerpot, intact except one corner smashed away; this was the scene of a binge.

It was 4 in the afternoon; Kyle was asleep in his room. Not realizing the party had just broken up, I pounded on his door, until I gave in and tidied up myself.

At dusk, in the garden, my friend observed, “There are two guys in the kitchen?” Two? I went to investigate. 

A stranger was cajoling a befuddled Kyle, dazed by alcohol and lack of sleep. They had met Friday, drank all weekend. Kyle got fired Monday morning and to console him, they had drunk. Dude went to get more booze and here he was, waving a mickey of something in my kitchen, insisting my young tenant pay attention to him and that I stay out of it.

I stepped into him, forcing him backward, past Kyle’s room, out the front door. They tried to justify through the drunk why it’s ok for someone I don’t know, just out of prison (2 weeks), shitfaced, vagrant should be welcome in my house. My point was that Kyle was just a kid, very drunk, who needed to sleep it off, so he could figure everything out including how to deal with me.

I made the mistake of poking one finger to force dude over the property line. I didn’t realized he’d left some things on the front step: a Timmy’s cup with the shards of the JD bottle, unbroken seal and uncracked lid possibly qualifying it for a refund, and a 7 foot, two by four, the crossbar from  sidewalk construction. He freaked!

I yelled for my neighbor to come and ran for the phone to call 911, I saw Kyle crying in his room. It was all happening so fast. Suddenly there were more people on the scene, neighbours in a holding pattern waiting for the police.

Dude ranted; frustration born from irrational alcoholic entitlement. He wandered down the street hitting things, swearing, not calming down, not a bit. Calling 911 again, the operator told me they’d got other complaints about him. 

No police came. Time passed. He was still raving a block away. Tired and worried he’d come back and despite the heat wave, I locked the house up tight. Kyle was already asleep. That’s the last we heard of it.

Tuesday: During the heat wave my son 15 year old son and I walk the two blocks to the local outdoor pool. Having rounded the corner back to our street, we were alarmed when a police cruiser did a “U”ey beside us; another one was doing the same at the top of the street. There was a formation of officers, familiar after the G20 wearing boots, bulletproof vests, carrying shotguns, running down the street. 

An officer holding his arms wide told me “stay inside your house, mam”.

My son anticipated, “Dmitri”. 

We met Dmitri when he was a baby and his parents first brought him home from Russia. A natural athlete, he is big for his age. At odds with his parents, occasionally a police car would pull up at their place. Its impossible to imagine how such a nice family could have problems that could only police could resolve. 

The SWAT darted along the paths to our houses, indeed centering on Dmitri’s house. Some SWAT went trough the open door some went around the back. There were a lot of people gathering, some recording with cellphones.

We all heard it “Get down, get down!” They brought out Dmitri, hands jiffy-clipped behind his back, pushed him onto the cruiser, slapped him on the back of his head when he looked up to gauge the situation, grabbed him by the elbow, roughly shoved him into the back of the car and slammed the door. Just like on TV.

We yelled, “He’s just a kid. He’s in grade 8!” Because of the cuffs, inside Dmitri was turned sideways, crying, he called me. The sitter passed his phone, Dmitiri’s folks were coming. The police shooed me away, in a few minutes the cars and Dmitri were gone.

Dmitri’s parents had left him with a social worker, who had kids and was suggested by their church. The two conflicted when the sitter declared “I need to know where you are” and Dmitri replied, “You don’t live here, so leave” with a shove. I heard the sitter had bloodied his shin, then called the parents, who told him “if he’s too aggressive, call 911”, which he did. 

The only thing different between his call and mine the day before was the gun. Dmitri had gun. An air rifle it’s a BB gun. By the time the police were running down the street, it was already stashed away at the sitter’s place across the road. Dmitri was released without charge and moved to a teen group home, is talking to his folks and visiting everyday. Things will work out for them, he will go to high school, he’ll find something he loves; he will thrive and excel.

Saturday:

The sirens signaled another tragedy. We live downtown in forth-biggest metropolis in North America; sirens and emergency helicopters are normal. When the rhythm changes, we pay attention. It happened the night Sammy Yatim was killed. 

It’s all over the news right now but I suppose it will have died down by the time you read this; Sammy Yatim was a 19 year old, recent high-school graduate, Syrian immigrant, who took a turn for the worse on a streetcar one Saturday night in July. By the time police arrived he was alone onboard. Then a police officer shot into the streetcar nine times and Sammy was dead. You can easily find the video online.

These stories are all wrong: police should have shown up so I could sleep reassured. They should have realized from experience Dmitri was a rational kid. They should have let Sammy stew. At least he’d be alive. 

What if Dmitri in his backyard had a something in his hand, would he be dead now? What about my son and his friends? If they have a bad night, will they be dead? Is anybody exempt from misadventure?

People come here from everywhere, lives unfolding on our doorsteps. It’s our lives too: our children, our families, and our community.