Bum Notes

My days in Neill Wycik are coming to an end and I just realised I've never really described where I live. I know I've written that it's a student halls in the downtown area, but the place really deserves a paragraph or two, to not do so would be missing a trick - something the prostitutes around here rarely do. So, yes, it's a student halls, very close to the Ryerson University student campus and surrounding the building are many college residences and places of study. But what's strange about this location for students is its proximity to one of the more seedy neighbourhoods in the city. We are but a stone's throw from the famous Yonge Street (longest in the world at 1,800km) with all its mall-based and high street shopping, but intermingled with this are pockets of darkness, extreme poverty and smells that make your nostrils go all Kenneth Williams.

Our nearest cross streets are Gerrard and Church and whenever you mention this locality to people it's almost always greeted with a raised eyebrow - sometimes, in extreme cases, two. When we first received our orientation at the lovely Swap office they presented us with a map of the city where they'd outlined, by means of a big red rectangle, the vicinities which might be better avoided because of problems with crime and nut-nuts. Up on Gerrard and Church we sit happily on the cusp of this rectangle and from the 16th floor where I live we're able to witness all sorts of bizarre and sordid behaviour taking place in the red zone below. Almost next door to my building is what I can only think is some kind of women's refuge. At any one time there'll be at least one toothless old crone chain-smoking and squawking something indecipherable. Some of them actually don't look that insane, but don't be fooled, these are the ones who'll normally bark at you as you pass by for standing on their fag butts. During the day there's a proliferation of what I call 'daywalkers'. These are the prostitutes so low-rent that they don't even make it to the more glamorous night-shift and instead hustle for business around the park area near to the halls, deceptively named Allan Gardens. This is no garden and Allan, wisely, has long since gone. One particular daywalker, who I see every time I go for a run (that's right, ladies) is in a pretty bad way. She's about five foot in her heels and has the look of a scraggy marionette being operated by a rage victim from 28 Days Later - if you don't know that reference, the Tasmanian Devil is a close comparison. Crack Whore Magazine are itching to get her story. She's just itching.

A little further down the road, past the insane crone shelter, is a covenant for abused kids. A banner above it reads, 'Sadly it's our 25th anniversary', and outside are nearly always teenagers who look hagged and old before their years. Poor souls. I'll leave that there - turns out there are some places even I won't go. To lighten the mood a little let's talk about the tramps, of which there are a multitude. We have it all. Fat ones, thin ones, hairy ones, bald ones, naked ones, tall ones, drunk ones - actually they're all drunk - high ones, sad ones, happy ones, surly ones… But you get the picture, the tramp fraternity is not in the least bit discriminatory, all you need to join is dirty fingernails, the ability to sleep in open areas and carry with you, at all times, mind, a smell that would make a monkey blush. More often than not, you smell a 'bum' before you see it and now I'm in no doubt as to why they use that word to describe them over here. One specific bum, let's call him Mardy Bum, always shouts abuse at you as you walk past him and wishes you continued misfortune. Usually we pass him on the way to the Beer Store where he usefully suggests we, '...drop the fucking bottles, you fucking bastards!'. I let him know that his contribution has been duly noted and we'll get back to him. He calls me a cunt. Turns out he's remarkably intuitive for a raisin cake. I sometimes see him and the daywalker sitting next to each other and shouting. I'd love to know what they're shrieking about and that reminds me of my one-time idea for a Big Brother style show for tramps. Just put CCTV cameras up around a favourite trampy haunt and sit back and observe the madness. I even had a title for it - Tennant's Super Tramps. Endemol, if you're listening, let's talk.

Lastly we come to the nightwalkers. Those brazen harlots (literally) that swagger up and down Gerrard late at night in barely more than a bikini. Is it illegal here? I'm pretty sure it must be, yet night after night the prossies flaunt their wares for all to see. The fast food joint next to me, called Harvey's, has even acquired the nickname 'Hooker Harvey's' because of the amount of prostitutes that can always be found outside it. Let it be known though, these are no daywalkers. These women are focused on the (blow) job in hand and target potential clients with an aggression to rival that of a Wall Street broker. They're big Valkerie-esque women and their major assets are their major assets - and don't they know it. They wear next to nothing and no imagination is required as most of the time you need to brush past a rogue breast or buttock just to try and squeeze yourself down the street. Whorewatch is fairly routine up in our flat these days and most evenings at least one member of the household will take up position at the kitchen window watching the professionals tout for business, ready to cheer when one finally gets in a car. We've all become pro-whore since we arrived here. On our road, Gerrard, the girls appear to work alone, but just round the corner on Church after midnight, they start to hunt in packs. Walking back after a night out you're inevitably confronted with what appears to be a police line-up of girls all wearing little else but belts and stockings - the irony being that in both the police line-up and the girls imitation, the person who gets picked out gets screwed. Sorry.

So that's it then. A colourful neighbourhood, I think you'll agree. I'm not complaining though, it has everything a good story should. Fear, laughter, drugs, violence and bucketloads of sex. Who doesn't want to see that movie? Thanks again to those who chose to comment - that's the lovely Libby and a student from the States who I don't know. We're getting international, people. Special thanks goes to Rob who read the whole thing in one go after putting it off for as long as possible and even added a comment. I'll try hard to injure myself in the coming months, Rob, as I know those are the postings you enjoy the most. Auf wiedersehen.