This story actually begins at the start of October. One Saturday evening I was walking in Wilket Creek Park taking in the fall colours when I get a call. It's my friend "Martin". I knew him from church many moons ago. We actually went to the same high school if I remember correctly. He was a few years ahead.
He's calling to ask if I can help him move. I don't really want to, but I ask, when? He says, right now. I tell him I'm out right now and that I can't help at the moment. He says he can try to get another friend to help. I say if he still needs help I should be available the following week.
The following Saturday I'm taking more fall photos. This time at the Humber Arboretum with my friend, Justin. We're just getting started when I get the call. It's Martin. He still needs help with the move.
The next day I borrow the work truck and we move the belongings from his rented room in Scarborough to his parents' home in North York. He's unable to pay his rent so his landlady has requested he leave. Martin doesn't have a lot of things, so the truck is barely half full. Still it takes nearly 2-1/2 hours because he hasn't gotten anything ready to go by the time I get there. His OCD isn't helping either. It takes him a super long time to pack. Most of the time I'm just standing there waiting. I'm getting really irritated.
At his parents place I unload the truck and move the stuff inside where he arranges it in the basement. It takes only around half an hour. That's how long it should have take to load if he were ready. I even spend a little bit of time chatting with his parents. His mom is somewhat incapacitated with a leg infection. It limits her mobility.
After unloading I say, good-bye. End of story, right? Not quite.
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Monday, November 5th 12:30 a.m. - I get the call. It's Martin. He says he's downstair and needs a place to stay.
Under normal circumstances I would have accommodated him. Especially since it had gotten quite cold outside. But things had changed. My once free second bedroom was now occupied. I had rented it out to a lady from work, Saba. She had moved in days earlier. All the stuff I had stored in her room was now back in mine. Like the time before, he had given me absolutely no warning, no time to prepare. I tell him I can't take him in right now, but if he still needs a place the next day to come back.
When I return from work Monday evening he's there.
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The first thing I noticed about Martin was that he could barely walk. When I get him up to my room and he removes his shoes and socks I see both ankles are grotesquely swollen. Especially the right one. He tells me he injured them. But without a place to stay, he hasn't had a chance to get off his feet. They've just gotten worse and worse. It turns out that his father kicked him out two weeks prior. Right after we dropped off his stuff.
Another thing about Martin, if you don't know him, is that he's super skinny to the point of near-anorexia (I believe) and he has mental health issues. I don't think they're super serious. But that's what I believe has hindered him from gaining steady employment thus contributing to his ongoing problem with housing over the years.
Anyway, the next morning I drop him off at his doctor's before I go to work.
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In the evening he's back in front of my building. I let him up.
His doctor has given him a prescription to help with his infection. Martin had actually gone to Sunnybrook Hospital a few days earlier. All they did were run some blood tests and gave him an X-ray. Then they sent him on his merry way with a couple of Tylenol when he could barely walk. Not very helpful.
In August I had hurt my left ankle and had trouble even standing. So I had an idea of what he was going through. My plan was to let him heal for 2 or 3 weeks while trying to figure things out. Also, I figured I had better tell Saba. I told Martin he would have to stay in my room, so she would have the space in the rest of the condo she paid rent for.
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Now, even though I had done Sandwich Runs, volunteered at the Knox Youth Dinner and visited the Boarding Home on Tyndall, I had no idea of the services available to the homeless. Online I found the City had some shelters and 24-hour respite centres available. I let Martin know.
And, even though he didn't want me to tell anyone about his situation, I still did. I needed help. The best advice I got was from a lady at church, Carolyn. She told me about Ontario Works. It's a service run by the Ontario Government. They can help with the basics like Financial assistance, including: income support to help with the costs of basic needs, like food, clothing and shelter; and Employment assistance to help clients find, prepare for and keep a job. It seemed perfect.
When I told Martin about it he shut down. I don't remember what we were doing, but we were in my room when I mentioned it and he just went mute and showed no emotion, staring into oblivion. This was at least a month into his stay at my place. I was perplexed. It seemed he was having none of it.
Now I have to say, by this point, he was really wearing thin on me. I had no personal space at all. Whenever I was in my room, he was in my room. And just a few feet away. If I watched Netflix on my computer, he would watch over my shoulder. As well, since he couldn't walk, I had to buy groceries for him. He would always offer to pay me back, but I refused. He had no income. He needed it much more than me. And, at night, he would often snore. It wasn't overly loud or even constant. But I was used to silence and it was broken. I wanted him out, but he was still hobbling around. He needed more time.
A week or two later, probably sometime in mid-December I brought up visiting Ontario Works again. The building is actually very close by, just one block east of my place. Again he shut down. I asked him if he had a plan. Because sleeping on the floor at the end of my bed forever isn't a plan. He said nothing. I was angry. So I told him the coming Friday I was going to go to the Ontario Works office with or without him. If he didn't come this week I'd give him one more Friday to join me. If he didn't come then, I would have to ask him to leave. All I wanted him to do was ask for help. Even if they couldn't provide it right away, I told him he could stay until it was arranged.
The first Friday came and went. I ended up going to the office myself. One of the ladies working there gave me a card and said he could call the number to ask for help. I gave it to him.
Today was the second Friday (Friday, December 28th). It's 11:00 a.m.. I ask him to go to the Ontario Works office with me, but he doesn't say anything (which I take as a refusal). So I ask him to leave which he does. As he's leaving he thanks me for letting him stay to heal his ankles. I didn't know what to say, so I just said good-bye. Half an hour later I go into my ensuite. He had left grocery money on the counter.
It's bewildering to me why someone would choose a life on the streets over asking for social assistance (and possibly gaining some semblance of a normal life). I wish I knew what was going on inside that head of his. All I can do is hope that he eventually comes to his senses. But he's been like this for over 50 years. Sadly I think there's little hope things will change.
