There's Plenty Of Work Here

I’m on Whyte doing the usual rounds. Cursing the tourists and laughing at the locals. Chuckin’ a slurpee down my throat and enjoying the 25 degree parade of skin on the ave. All the usual buskers and beggars are out and it looks like they’re doing alright. Guitar cases jangling, hats replete with coin, gristled hands ripe with change purse detritus. Out in front of the car wash a man walks toward me with his three kids. White. Middle class. Golf shirt, khakis, and handsewns. Looks like he’s got a soft office job. Greasy native with his five-day clothes and whiskey hat out calls to the guy, cen ya spare zum change?. Man with the kids hauls his blonde daughter to his chest and says, “No, buddy. There’s plenty of work out there. Get a bloody job.“ Native guy says, “Yeah, whatever.” Turns to another person and asks the same thing, like he’s heard that response a million times.

Smug white fuck. Sure, there are plenty of jobs here. For white folks who aren’t alcoholics. Who don’t live out on the streets. Who have skills. Who were born into a different world and under a different sign than the pathetic bums who harass all the nice, white, respectable, money-spending, contributors to society of this neighbourhood. Fuck you, guy. Fuck you and your healthy kids and your nice home and your job. Fuck you for coming down here and talking shit. And fuck me, too, ‘cause I didn’t give the dirty-faced native a cent of my own money either.