鈥淚 just need help,鈥� she said, as her eyes filled with tears.
Arlene was sitting on a bench at the front of the 91原创 Times office, dressed in bike shorts and a tank top, and carrying what I presumed to be all her worldly possessions in a backpack, when she looked up at me and uttered those four words.
If you鈥檝e spent much time in the City of 91原创, you鈥檝e likely seen her. She lives (and works) on the streets 鈥� and has done for years.
She鈥檚 slim and blond and always has a bright grin for anyone passing by.
Lately, though, it鈥檚 been getting harder for her to smile. Life on the streets has always been a tough slog, but it seems to somehow be getting worse, she told me.
The recent murder of Miles, a homeless 91原创 man, on a downtown street only served to underscore her point.
鈥淚t鈥檚 hard,鈥� she said. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 sleep because it鈥檚 too dangerous.鈥�
She鈥檚 afraid all the time, and she鈥檚 had enough.
Like most people living rough, Arlene didn鈥檛 end up there by choice. Not really.
鈥淧eople don鈥檛 understand why we鈥檙e on the street,鈥� she said.
In her case, it was personal tragedy that proved to be the tipping point.
Arlene鈥檚 daughter was almost 13 when she died suddenly in 2001. After that, the Surrey woman鈥檚 grief took over.
She attempted to fill the hole left by her lost child with alcohol and cocaine.
Eventually, she ended up on the street, doing what she had to do, to earn enough money to stay alive and to pay for whatever would keep the demons at bay.
From Surrey, Arlene made her way to the City. She had been sleeping in a tent, but that, she claimed, was taken away by
bylaw enforcement.
Five bikes, which she purchased for $20 each (and, yes, she鈥檚 well aware of where they came from) were all stolen in succession.
It鈥檚 a problem, she said, because she鈥檚 just regaining the ability to walk after her legs were run over by a vehicle last February.
It happened, she told me, as a 鈥渂ad date鈥� sped off when she jumped out of his truck. That was before he came back and stole her purse.
Released from hospital after a few months, she was back on street. Desperation brought her into the newspaper office on a Friday morning.
Could I write a story? Maybe somebody would read it and offer to help.
What about Gateway of Hope? I asked her. Ishtar? A coworker mentioned a shelter she knew of in Vancouver.
Every suggestion brought fresh tears and a burst of frustration.
鈥淵ou don鈥檛 understand,鈥� she said.
鈥淚 can鈥檛 sleep in the same place with other people. I just can鈥檛 do it.鈥�
An apartment would cost more than she can pay. She鈥檚 on a list for affordable housing, but securing a place could take a year, she said.
Her hope is that someone has a suite they鈥檇 be willing to rent to her at an affordable price. Once she鈥檚 got a safe place to stay, she said, she can work on addiction recovery in a day program.
Her level of honesty, I felt, deserved an equally honest response.
I told her I didn鈥檛 know whether anyone would be willing to take a chance on her. With her addiction issues and her line of work, it鈥檚 a lot to hope that someone would feel they could trust her enough to rent to her. And she understands that.
But I also told her that she deserves a better life if that鈥檚 what she wants, and that I would do what I could to get the word out.
When we need help, all we can do is ask.
