Inside Vancouver
The Doctor is Out
By Marcie Good published Dec 30, 2007
Two men stand next to a dumpster in an alley behind the Carnegie Centre. "You're back from Sudbury?" says the tall one, who's wearing a long black coat and single earring.
Trevor, black-eyed and stubbled, nods. Two weeks ago he left his room, with its collection of broken furniture piled in front of the window. He tried the meds, he's saying, but they made his tongue feel thick and his body ache.
Their voices disappear under the loud warning beep the garage makes as a van drives out. Further up the lane, a man sitting on the ground empties a loaded needle into his arm. It's a scene loved by television cameras: a tunnel of brick and pavement with no apparent exit. The tall man takes a small rectangular package out of his briefcase.
"I don't mean to be rude or nothin'," Trevor says, shaking his head. In other meetings, Trevor has talked about his childhood: a rambling, almost feral story including an incident in which, at seven years old, he shot a man. The taller man doesn't know if this is true, but he knows that under Trevor's black bomber, buttoned-up jean jacket, and chain with fist-sized links is a scared and skinny little boy.
Trevor resorts to a familiar theme: the homosexual gangs chasing him. He's schizophrenic and suffers from paranoia, but these fears have a kernel of truth. Just before he left for Ontario he was stabbed.
