There were only two of us in the liquor store, an older fellow who was taking his time choosing his beer, and me. I was running around, distracted as usual, grabbing what I needed for the weekend.
By the time I got to the checkout, the older guy had beat me to it.
I didn’t pay much attention at first, and then I realized he was trying to buy one can of beer, looking for change in his pocket to pay for it. It was a Faxe, a Danish beer, and I had grabbed one of those for myself too. It made me smile.
Then I noticed he was was counting out his change coin by coin, but couldn’t quite come up with enough. The lady at the checkout and I looked at each other. He was short about 25 cents. He slowly dug into one pocket again, and then another.
I could see his clothes were a bit worn and his fingers a little dirty. He might have been in his 70s or older. It was hard to tell.
I ventured to guess that this fellow was probably living on the street, or close to it, like so many people these days. On my daily walk in Oaklands, I pass a park where there are a number of tents set up around the tennis court. People in tents and other people playing pickleball. Two groups living in stark contrast.
Sometimes a tent or two comes down, only to be replaced by others. When I count them, there are usually 6 to 8 tents stuffed full of, and surrounded by everything the occupier owns.
Every now and then the police and city workers come in and surround the area with yellow tape, asking people to pack everything up and go. There’s always a lot of garbage left behind, so there’s usually a garbage truck to deal with that too.
By the next day, the tents are back again.
It’s easy to think I’m a world away from all of that because I have a place to live and don’t have to worry too much about money. Although living on a pension is an eye opener.
But a number of months ago, a member of my family had to move in with us due to a series of unfortunate events. As we adjusted to another person in the house, inflation got worse and worse and the cost of living went through the roof.
It’s not only happening in my little family. According to statistics, in the last couple of years about 60% of Baby Boomers and Generation Jones’s are having to support children or family members in one way or another because of the high cost of living. I never once imagined this for my retirement years.
What on earth happened? I’m sure there are a gazillion reasons and, as usual, it’s very complicated. But it isn’t entirely new.
My Dad wrote in his memoirs about going through the “dirty 30’s” and his family having to live on what was then called relief. Another name for welfare. My grandfather had to wake his family up in the middle of the night once so they could sneak out of the place they were living. He didn’t have enough money to pay the rent.
And many years ago when I lived in downtown Vancouver, I’d walk down Robson Street on my way to work and see a number of people sleeping under the covered doorways of the stores along my route.
In the library where I worked, a few street people would come in when we’d open the doors in the morning so they could sit inside and warm up a little. Especially in the winter, or when it rained. There were no warming centres back then.
Poverty and homelessness has always been a problem to one degree or another, but now it seems even more so. I look out my upstairs window towards downtown Victoria where I see more and more new high rises popping up. But who can afford them?
Nobody I know.
I glanced at the liquor store clerk again. “I’ll pay for it.” I said quietly to her, reaching for my wallet.
“Oh, isn’t that nice? Sir, this lady has offered to pay for your beer!”
I smiled at him and picked up my Faxe to show him. “We have the same taste!”
He looked uncomfortable, almost embarrassed, and whispered a “Thank you.”
We finished the transaction, and he left with his beer. I moved closer to the counter. “I would have gone to the back room to get him the change he needed,” the clerk said. “We have some we put aside for people who are a little short of cash.”
I nodded, understanding. “Oddly enough, I think I felt better about paying for his beer than he did,” I said.
We are, many of us, one depression, one recession, and maybe even only one paycheque away from living on the streets. I turned and watched him walking carefully through the parking lot.
He could be me.