It was just another hot summer day in Vancouver last year when I was knighted with my latest “nickname”.
Narcissistic Nut
I reclaimed the title, and had an absolutely wonderful time dissecting it with many friends. “Nut”, alright, I’m pretty forthright about my nuttiness. I could see how someone could say, “Oh scars, you’re such a nut.”, or something along those lines – a friend. The narcissistic part was more confusing – most people that know me would agree that it is not my tendency to brag about the items listed on my C.V., or anything else. When I receive a compliment, it means the world to me, because I often feel rather ambiguous about a piece of writing or the food I just cooked or some “art” I have made, etc. I’m not insecure anymore, per say, I just like input from others, who are my audience – who I ultimately produce these things for. Well, there are times when I know something I’ve produced is damn good, but those are few and far between. That’s when I have really hit it on the mark. So how exactly did I earn this title, and how am I to interpret it?
A friend, R., and his friend, D., had hitchhiked to Vancouver all the way from Winnipeg. They had done so in less time than it takes for the Greyhound bus to get here from Winnipeg! Quite the accomplishment, which reminds me of a night that Jima and I spent stranded at the side of the highway in Salmon Arm, B.C. and there were no drivers willing to pull over…another story. Anyhow, R. and D. arrived at my old apartment and I was overjoyed to see them. Living alone over the summer was an important experience, and one that I think I had to go through to learn more about myself, what I will and will not except from people, etc, but it was rather lonely. I had two other close friends in the city, but going out with “their crowd” meant that I would have to put on an act, a performance about who I was, how I dressed, where I was from – not lies or misrepresentations per se, but I didn’t feel like I could truly be myself around this group whose world was quite foreign to me – a world of working 9-5, buying clothes you can’t afford, living in empty apartments because they have “a view” (of the downtown skyline) but furniture cannot be afforded, and partying like it’s 1999 every other night of the week. R. and I had a long chat about Winnipeg and family and panic attacks and women and the people that lived upstairs and body odor and finally fell asleep.
The short three days I spent with R. and D. were truly awesome – R. had lived here for eight years in the past, so she knew of a lot of spots that “only the locals know about”. I had the first of what would be many, many breakfasts at Bon’s off Broadway – $2.95 delicious breakfast at any hour, a real jukebox, and you are allowed to paint the walls, never mind the bathroom stalls, with sharpie marker. We did Wreck Beach right and proper – that day it was cold and cloudy, but the three of us disrobed and ran into the ocean, which was warmer than the air. Due to the weather, we didn’t have to do so in front of a crowd of spectators. I decided that I only ever wanted to swim in the ocean nude, although the promise hasn’t been kept.
So it must have been the day before the beach day – right, we were considering going to the beach that day because it was, indeed, hot. However, D. really wanted to see the city – she had never been to a city larger than Winnipeg before. R. should be a tour guide. We went everywhere, starting at an anarchist bookstore, walking through the downtown eastside, then through Gastown which truly is only a block and a half away (a gentrified club/shopping district), and past the waterfront where a group was working out in public. Not running, but lifting weights and pulling on stretchy bands they had strapped on to a railing in front of the seawall. This group only numbered about six, of course they were all decked out in “Lulu Lemon” gear, and was absolutely hilarious to watch. We considered going and sitting next to them and lighting up cigarettes but didn’t. Next time. We continued down Granville St., which turns from high-end stores to sex shops and peep shows. We found a sex shop solely devoted to “handjob” toys – no joke – vibrating penis sleeves, fake vaginas of every shape and colour imaginable… Then we walked down Denman and bought some beer and some SourPuss – this signalled trouble, I hadn’t had the extremely sour raspberry liquor since I got drunk before a high school dance in grade eleven. We went to sit against the logs at English Bay to have drinks (this is allowed – this province makes no sense whatsoever – police state one minute, paradise the next) and relax. This had been a long walk, for anyone that knows Vancouver! D. was in high spirits, after seeing a big city for the first time, and we were feeding off her energy, the sun, and the 9% alcohol beer (the sourpuss was D.’s).
Then R. decided that he wanted to go to meet a former friend back in the Downtown Eastside. His last words to him had been “Fuck you ^%*$ &%$#&@ ^&%*&…” It sounded like just the kind of social encounter that we were looking for.
“So, what’s this guy’s name?”
“Dave. Anarchist Dave.”
We were now aboard a bus, and R. and I kept asking D. for a sip of her SourPuss. Needless to say, by the time we reached the DTES we were a little more than buzzed. I had to go pee like nobody’s business, and the three of us decided that it was “safe” for me to relieve myself in a back alley. Mid-stream a man walked into the alley and tried to start a conversation with me. Thus, I wasn’t quite relieved as I quickly did up my pants. We all thought this was hilarious, of course, and kept on our merry way.
“Anarchist Dave” had set up some kind of exhibit on prisoners’ rights in the basement of a building in the heart of the DTES. I assumed it was a gallery of some sort, but much to my dismay, it was an apartment building managed by Dave’s grandfather. Much to the tenants’ dismay, Dave had set up shop in the basement, which was only accessible by walking through the building’s common kitchen facility and living room – kind of a disrespectful place for a gallery, which Dave invited the American and British tourists that invade the city each summer to learn about prisoners’ rights. Oh well, I was still excited to see the exhibit, and I had not yet met this man, so I was going to wait to make any judgments. As I volunteered at a prison in Winnipeg the year before, and had considered fighting for prisoners’ rights before (anti-)psychiatry became my focus, and I was interested in what awaited us in the basement.
After using a washroom to finish what I had started in the alley, we entered the basement “gallery”. On the walls letters written to various friends by prisoners and POWs were lined up. Anarchist Dave was exactly how I had pictured him – a small, white man with dark hair and super-thick black glasses, wearing a red flannel shirt, ripped up jeans, and Converse sneakers. He was in the middle of a “tour”, and thus hardly acknowledged R’s presence, even though they had been close friends at a time, and had not seen each other for 3 years. I read some of the letters on the wall, and was rather bored compared to my friends, as I was familiar with the writings of famous POWs like Bobby Sands and Mumia Abu Jamal, after reading an amazing book a couple of years back, a collection of prisoners’ writings called The Journal of Prisoners on Prisons Anthology. These writings were intended for the general public, whereas the letters Dave had gotten his hot little hands on were personal, and their authors most likely had not expected them to be posted on the walls in the basement/laundry area of a low-income housing block. Finally, Dave approached us after finishing with the tourists.
He and R. shared a hug and a few fake punches. R. introduced D. and me, and I asked Dave if he knew anything about Mumia’s situation – he had been on death row for many years, falsely accused of murder by the police after participating in radical political groups in the United States. Last I had heard, his most recent appeal had been denied, and he had been scheduled to be murdered by the state earlier in the year.
“Oh, Mu-mi-a?
He seemed to be suggesting that I had mispronounced his name, which I had not. So I was dealing with a somewhat pretentious dude.
“I don’t know, he’s still appealing the charge.”
“Oh, I thought that he had already been put to death.”
“Uh, I don’t think so, no, an appeal…”
So I was dealing with a pretentious, uneducated dude who was telling these tourists what, exactly? He had certainly been giving them a long-winded speech, although I didn’t overhear much of it, as I had been examining his little display. R. and him decided that we should all go to a pub around the corner for more beer – the two had some talking to do.
Anarchist Dave was the kind of anarchist that organized others to participate in radical political activities of the direct action variety, but did not participate himself. For example, when a building nearby, that 50+ of Vancouver’s poorest citizens called home was scheduled to be condemned and destroyed, Dave arranged for a large group of fellow radicals to squat in the building, disabling the City from their planned demolition, but he did not “squat”, instead watching what transpired from the outside. R. participated in the squat and he and several others were thrown in jail for a few nights until, not Dave, but a wealthier radical who R. had worked with in the past bailed them out.
On we went to the pub. The beer was disgustingly cheap, and disgusting – at this point we cared little about the taste, as long as alcohol was on the table. Dealing with this man would require a degree of intoxication, and our earlier buzz was fading fast. Shortly after the four of us ordered the first (of what would be five) pitcher D. decided that she shouldn’t be drinking on an empty stomach. I wasn’t hungry, so R. and D. left the bar, and I was left alone with Dave.
We made “small talk”, not a form of conversation that I am particularly enthused by. I started running my mouth off about my academic work, as this was what I had been immersed in for the past several months. He seemed disinterested. He did not believe in the usefulness of academic research. I struggle with this conundrum myself, but justify my work following the Marxian concept of praxis – I still believe that a sociologist can write “for the masses” in addition to producing purely academic work, with the ultimate goal of changing society for the better. He was not familiar with the concept, and was markedly dismissive, although he had never attended a post-secondary institution himself. He certainly had strong views, but didn’t have much to back them up. I was relieved when R. and D. returned, and realized I had to relieve myself again after chugging back two pints.
“Oh, so you waited for them to come back to go to the washroom,” Dave stated with a big grin.
“No, actually, I just realized I had to go.” Perhaps I was a little harsh in my tone, but at the time I was not in the mood for anything that could be considered flirting with a man, Dave or anyone. R. and D. are both queer, and I had decided only to pursue romantic relationships with women for the foreseeable future after my second long-term relationship with a man-child had ended with me having to spend $500 on a plane ticket to send him back to Winnipeg earlier in May.
After I returned, R. informed me that a conflict in the bar had erupted – a woman had been punched in the face. I chugged more beer. Yet another man had abused yet another woman. When she ran out into the street crying with blood pouring our of her mouth, R. and I followed her. We tried to calm her down, and soon two female EMTs and an ambulance arrived. They assessed the situation – she was very intoxicated, but obviously needed stitches, as the blood continued to pour from her mouth, but she was reluctant to leave with “authorities”, who she distrusted. She was a poor, First Nations woman, and had bad experiences with police in the past. Much to our dismay, two male police officers arrived on the scene, and she immediately began mouthing off to them. I continued to try to calm her down, hugging her and whispering in her ear, “I know, I want to say those things to them too, but you can’t honey, it’s not going to help, they will take you away.” I stayed outside, trying to act as a mediator between the victim and the police for a long time – R. had returned to the bar. Finally, one of the cops pushed me out of the way – “She’s a well known troublemaker in the area. Don’t worry about her.”
I was in a state of rage when I went back in the bar. I explained what happened, in between gulps of beer.
“You were wasting your time. You can’t change anything,” Dave replied.
“What?!?!?! And you consider yourself an anarchist? Anti-police? Mr. Social Change?”
“There’s no point. People won’t change.”
My memory of the rest of the argument is blurry, but it ended in me making an announcement about how I was doing something – “I am going to get a Ph.D. and I am going to write books and I will continue to fight, always!!!”
“You’re nothing but a narcissistic nut,” he laughed, glancing quite intentionally at the scars on my arms.
It was time to leave before I punched “Anarchist Dave” in the face.
Anarchist Dave continues to organize protests in the city, although he does not participate in them. I have no idea why he has chosen this “career” if he thinks that people won’t change, and that helping others is pointless. He is well-known in the city – on more than one occasion I have been warned by Alaryyk that a certain person in the psychiatric-political action circle is friends with him, and thus I should keep quiet about my opinions about his “community service” and “direct action campaigns”, never mind his attitude.
So I guess he likes us “nuts”, but doesn’t like to be one-upped or for one to defend themselves when they disagree with him. Then you’re a narcissist, and your nuttiness becomes an insult, instead of a political issue requiring attention.
Fellow Vancouverites, BEWARE OF “ANARCHIST DAVE”!!!
