Bad Days Get Worse

Eight Hours of Work:

A woman I know, a woman named Lisa, was found, floating, in the Fraser River. She had been murdered. It was on the front page of The Province Newspaper. I wish that I could remember her clothes, or her laugh, or the sound of her voice, but I can’t.

We print out pictures, which are mug shots, and the article, which is titled ‘Downtown Eastside Sex Trade Worker Slain.’ We light a candle. We call our boss. We interrupt our boss’s father’s funeral. We tell the women.

A woman named J**** does not cry, but whispers “Lisa was my best friend,” and asks for a cigarette, and shuffles to the door. When I hug her, she is limp, and silent.

A woman named S**** is screaming in pain while I sit, quietly, sadly. Her 16 year old cousin O.D.ed this week. Two men raped her last night.

A woman won’t leave the bathroom - I just want to clean it. I work around her as she swears at me. An hour and a half later, a half hour after the centre closes, I apologize to her and phone the police. She throws a mug. She goes to the door. She turns around. She charges at me to punch me, and my coworker yells a blistering ‘no’ and jumps in her way and she stops. She leaves. I start to cry when I tell the police that it’s okay, that she left.

She comes back. She propped a door (but we shut it), and so she rings the buzzer and yells at the gate. My co-worker starts to cry, calling the police to ask for help (the say they’re very busy), and then her boyfriend if he would please come get us.

He drives around the block to make sure it’s safe for us to walk outside.