(The names were changed at ‘Noels’ request. He also requested that we not insert
specific details, names, or places that he mentioned in our interview for his
safety and our own safety.)
“Noel”
I met with “Noel”
unintentionally. Rebekha and I were
waiting to interview a man named “Frank” when Noel approached us and sat
down. This first thing he said was “I
don’t believe in God.” Taken back at
first I asked why…stupid me, I should have known why, Noel and I had met before
and had this exact conversation.
“I was born at the gates of Hell and each day reminds me
that that’s where I belong. How can
there be a God when there are Roman Catholic priests out there f*cking innocent
little boys?”
Taken a back for a moment Rebekha and I didn’t know how to
answer. This interview wasn’t supposed
to be about religion but about him and the Downtown East Side. Quickly we reassured him that in no such way
was judging certain priests in the Roman Catholic denomination a way of
determining whether or not there was a God or not. We told him that each and every denomination and religion has
their faults and that, sure there were faults within a few of the priests but
that didn’t condemn the whole universe for being religious.
Thinking we were getting back on track I asked him about his
childhood. “I was born at the gates of
Hell. I should never have been born.”
Was his answer.
Rebekha and I gave a quick glance at each other, ‘what had
we gotten ourselves into.’
“What do you mean you were born at the Gates of Hell?”
“I was the product of my father’s brother…”
A moment of silence followed as Rebekha and I looked at each
other once more.
“That means that my mom f*cked my dad’s brother.”
‘I figured that,’ I thought. ‘But not so graphically.’
“My father beat me every single day of my life until I was
thirteen because of the fact that every time he looked at me he saw his
brother. It got to the point where I
would stand between my father trying to beat my mother and take twice as many
beatings. It was like this to the point
where I became numb. I didn’t feel the
pain. I enjoyed the beatings.”
Noel went on to tell us about how at the age of thirteen his
father had a stroke and was hospitalized.
On life support Noel’s father struggled to survive and cling to every
breath he took but that didn’t stop Noel from pulling the plug.
“It felt great. I’ve
never been happier in my life knowing that my father was dead.”
‘Alright, time to go.’ I thought, instead I said, “So what
did you do for a living?”
Noel pointed his fingers at me like a gun and pulled the
trigger.
“Which means?”
He pointed his fingers at me like a gun and pulled the
trigger once more. “You know what that means right?”
Jokingly, “You were an assassin?”
“Damn right. I did hits all over the world. Ecuador, Brazil, Mexico, Germany, Vietnam,
I’m a wanted man.”
‘Alright…so this interview is going nowhere fast and all I
can hope is that he doesn’t share too much information with me that will get us
killed.’
“When did you move to Vancouver?” Was the only way I could
bring this interview back to its main point.
“At the beginning of September. I had to put my feet into the Pacific Ocean before I pass on.”
“How was that?” Rebekha asked.
“Cold,” he countered.
“Wet.”
Finally a bit of tension relieved.
“And where are you staying in the Downtown East Side?”
“At the Salvation Army Crosswalk Shelter.”
“Alright and how long do you plan on staying in this area?”
“Longer than I want to.
I’ll probably be here until the spring until I move south.”
“What do you think of the area of town you’re living in?”
Becoming very angry with this question Noel started to spew
out, “I hate it. The Downtown East Side
is the pimple on the butt of the world…it needs to be popped.”
As much as the humorous comment was needed I felt that an
explanation was needed as well. And so
came forth the explanation.
“It’s these people here.
They are so ungrateful. They get
cheques from the government every month and where do they go and spend it? On
drugs, booze and women! They can get
fed from many of the churches and food lines, but if the food isn’t ‘good
enough’ for them they will let you know it VERY rudely. I have to sleep next to people each and
every night that REAK of urine yet no one seems to give a damn.”
He seemed to jump from point to point and I could tell by
how angry he was getting that he couldn’t have a clear train of thought, yet he
continued.
“What these people need is a wake-up call. They need to have everything removed from
them. They have to know what it is like
to feel low.”
I knew not to argue this point. The first time Noel and I met we had an argument over the
definition of ‘low.’ Noel’s definition
of low stands as having NOTHING and being worth NOTHING.
“Living in the gutter without a penny or a scrap of food is
low. The first moments of birth are low
because you have NOTHING!” Is what he
proudly exclaimed to me during that interview.
“Have you ever had been low?” I asked.
“Not that low. But I
have seen true lows on some of my contracts.”
I sigh as I think back to the ‘hit-man’ job.
“They need to have the government take back their welfare
cheques. They need the Sally Anne to
stop providing them with food and places to lay their heads. They need the churches to STOP CARING! Not
until they realize that no one cares will they appreciate what they have and
stop taking everything that they are handed for granted. It’ll be like a school girl being f*cked for
the first time. It’ll hurt but they’ll
start to appreciate things. It’s not
about the situation that these people are in that’s sad. It’s their lives - the
mess of their lives and how they can get jobs, they can get money yet they
CHOOSE to live on the streets. That’s what sick!”
“Why do YOU choose to live on the streets?”
“I don’t. I am just
living here in between homes. When I
leave during the spring I will never have to live on the streets again.”
After this the interview started to repeat itself over and
over again and Noel’s story became more graphic and lewd. This is where I choose to stop telling his
story and just let his voice resonate unto ears that have heard the voicing of
the unheard.
