Main Street Beat

I walk across a dirty parking lot, cigarette between my fingers. I take a final drag and flick the butt on the asphalt, grinding it down with the point of my shoe. Wouldn't want a music flyer or discarded paperback to catch on fire. The night has set in and the stars are washed out by the light of the city. I soak in the nightlife of my neighborhood, Mt. Pleasant, the best part of Vancouver. Scattered up and down the sidewalks are people of all shapes, sizes and shades.

Coffee from local purveyors JJ Bean is consumed with utter rhapsody by several well-dressed twenty-something males walking behind me. Smoking cigarettes and stroking their beards, you'd never know these guys grew up in Langley and listened to Third Eye Blind religiously in junior high. Sitting at the bus stop, an old man smokes a joint, dressed in bright, tie-died clothing, reminiscing on the days of free love. I smile and continue walking, brushing shoulders with the hipster elite and hippies of a discarded generation.

I continue up Main. Overpriced leather jackets and flannel shirts litter the storefronts of upscale shops. At the crosswalk, I see a crusty man wearing the tightest jeans imaginable on someone above the age of 30. Wearing a matching denim jacket, he walks his bike across the street. He always has his bike with him. However, I’ve never once seen him ride it. As he reaches the other side, he stops and looks into the window of a pub. A passerby might think he was merely peering inside to see if he recognized anyone. I know better. Staring at his reflection, he reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a comb and begins methodically running it through his hair. Black and shiny, it tumbles down his shoulders like wisps of smoke on a cold autumn morning. He is affectionately referred to by a nickname my roommates and I have blessed him with. We call him Moonboots, based entirely on his enormous ski footwear. He has become an omen of good luck, the guardian angel of Main Street. His perfect hair lifts our spirits.

Glancing up at a passing bus, I see Old Charlie with his face pressed against the window. Since moving to Main Street from the bowels of suburbia a year go, I have enjoyed the community this city has to offer. Public transit alone yields a multitude of stories involving seedy characters, like a Tom Waits song incarnated. Old Charlie is one such individual. I’ve seen him in every part of the city, from downtown Granville to the beaches of Kitsilano. In a past life, he could have been a Shakespearean actor. He once approached a friend of mine at the bus stop for change. As he began to speak, his warbled voice began to crack and tears formed in his eyes. Old Charlie went from an apathetic old man to train wreck in under forty seconds. The despair and hunger in his voice could have melted the coldest of hearts. He asked for money and my friend gave him a latte. A bawling mess, Old Charlie took it gratefully. George Clooney would be so lucky to have this man’s ability to conjure up emotion.

I light one last cigarette as I approach my apartment. I think back on my walk up Main Street and all the characters I’ve met since moving here. This city is very much alive. If Vancouver were a living being, Main Street would be the superior vena cavae, pumping blood straight to the heart of it all. Some might see the wild characters of our city streets as a nuisance, but I think they help keep Vancouver vibrant and alive. With a final drag on my cigarette, I head inside, content in the heart of the city.

Note: This piece is going to be published in the forthcoming issue of The Source, a Vancouver magazine on diversity.