4:00am in Kensington Park was when my friend asked for a cigarette from a man looking for a place to piss. This man was somewhat drunk, but still in good spirits handing us four cigarettes each. We lit them up, not for the nicotine rush, but for aesthetics. Jolly way to end a night of molly. There was no way to cope with it. I felt a giddy sort of high, but not the kind where a crash is coming. The possibilities of physical and mental collapse have happened before, but out of the question now.
As we sit in the park benches close to the homeless campsite, another man approaches us. Only, he's no man but a centaur: half man, half wheelchair. This poor torso with a soul got pushed to us by a stranger, who left immediately after bringing the wheelchair to our bench, equivalent to an Uber driver. Like my half-finished cigarette the man on the wheelchair was abandoned. It was a bizarre dance of discomfort and empathy. The human nugget pleaded for drugs, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. The four of us declined, sensing the weight of his addiction heavy in the air. This half homeless man demanded for a cigarette, insisting that it would help “ease the tweaking.” With a mixture of pity and annoyance, my friend sacrifices his cigarette. After inhaling the smoke a few times, the half wheelchair commands us to push him to a grassy hill close to the park's sidewalk. What else could he do aside from pushing himself?
It's funny because two hours ago––in a club just two streets away––I witnessed a group of guys spending no less that $6000 on three tequila bottles. A usual night in the city of toronto.
