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They need help not an arrest

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His dad wants to obtain achievement.

(Toronto CBC News)

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Police Car

"This morning, we're featuring the opioid crisis that is spreading in Vancouver." The newscaster goes on, looking more grim than necessary. I ask my mom what opioids mean. My mom is very knowledgeable and always explains everything to me. But she seems hesitant to explain it to me, saying that you don't need to know about it yet. I am a little disappointed, but I continue to play with the police car toy that my father bought me yesterday. Last night, my dad and I went to the mall to play, and he offered to buy me a toy since I would be spending more time at home in the winter. I went to the toy store with my dad and saw a police car toy and a comic book figure. I spent more than 20 minutes walking around the store trying to decide which of the two toys I wanted to buy. When I told my father I was thinking of getting the police car toy, he was a little embarrassed and said he would be happy if I chose that one for him. My father is a police officer, so he would be happy if I showed him that I was interested in the police. I was happy to see that look on his face.

While I am playing with a toy police car, my father comes down from the second floor. He seems swamped this morning. According to him, a lot of police officers are going to gather today to catch all the bad people at once in Chinatown. Dad and mom are talking alone in the kitchen, a short distance away from the living room where I am. Dad sounds a little excited and I can hear his voice leaking a little from the kitchen. After a while, dad and mom are hugging at the doorway of the kitchen. I can't stand being left out of my parents, so I head toward them. I tug at my mother's jeans, wondering what's wrong. Mom's expression relaxes, a little, as she tells me that dad is getting a promotion. My father is very hyped up, saying that if he obtains an achievement today, it will add even more to his promotion. I don't know what a promotion means to me, but I'm sure it makes my parents happy, and I rejoice with them. My father grabbed a tumbler of coffee and headed for the front door.

That afternoon, as I finish the strawberries and pancakes my mom made, my mother turns on the TV. The newscaster is standing in front of the restricted line put up by the Chinatown police. Moments later, he announces the emergency news that a homeless black man has been seized and killed by police during an enforced police raid. A short time later, a video posted on TikTok as video evidence appears in the news. The video shows a black homeless man violently defying the police and being subdued by my father. While I don't understand what the footage is about and am so happy that my father was on the air, my mom seems to have no words.

After a while, the phone rings. My mother picks up the receiver on the second ring, and she immediately breaks down in tears. After a few moments, my mother calls for me and makes me take the receiver.

"The man I killed was insane. I had no choice but to seize him." I heard my father crying for the first time at that moment. The toy police car is left alone in the living room.

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The Drug of Happiness?

(Wikipedia Association)

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I needed help but nobody. . .

(Wikimedia Foundation)

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"Baby...come home early today." My girlfriend said with a look of pity for me on the bed. He gets out of bed, takes his underwear and shirt that are scattered on the shelf, and puts them on. He then tucked several packages of cocaine and amphetamines from the trick shelf under the desk into Jeket's breast pocket. He walks toward the door and puts some wads of bills from the safe at his feet deep into the same breast pocket. She lags behind him, gets dressed, and lights a joint next to the bed, smoke filling the room. If he could, he would spend time with her for nothing, but he desperately needs money for provisions. Especially since he has just been forcibly evicted from his previous shred house because he could not pay the rent. He has never been comfortable with his position as a drug dealer, but he has no choice but to live his life that way. Driven by the frustration of living day to day, he opened the door to his house and headed out onto the street. Outside his apartment, a homeless man occupied the first entrance, wrapped in a tattered blanket, enduring the damp Vancouver cold. He glances indifferently sideways at them and walks past. He heads for the back alleys of Chinatown, his usual turf. On his way there, it begins to snow, and the temperature seems to have dropped dramatically. As he walks downtown, he thinks about his drug haul. He realizes that on cold days, homeless people sell uppers to keep from freezing to death, so he decides to ask his friend, a dealer, to share the surplus with him. He has heard a story in the past about one of his fellow dealers giving amphetamines to homeless clients in the middle of winter, and they got stuck in the middle of the night and froze to death. He jokingly told him the story of his client's death. Ruminating over his colleague's story, he walks to his dealer's apartment, leaving his footprints on the snow-covered sidewalk. After a while, he arrives just before downtown Chinatown, where a black double swing door stands out in the snowy landscape as if waiting for him. He opens the door and heads for a room in the basement of the apartment. Once inside the door, the interior is stained black, and in the back of the room sits the owner, Dave, a South American immigrant whose English is a little rusty, but who is no doubt more knowledgeable than anyone else in North America when it comes to drug routes. As soon as Dave sees him, he pulls out several small packages from the back of the store. As he gives him several bills, he leaves such a dim place. He notices that there are homeless people stranded on the street, begging for money.  Since it is the beginning of the month, homeless people are flocking to the bank to withdraw their money. As soon as he sees them, he starts a business at his turf behind a bank Drugs are sold like hotcakes, and several wads of cash are formed in his hands. After a while, a black regular comes in with a $50 bill in his hand, wishing for amphetamines. He doesn't give the drug because of deadly cold weather, but he begs for the package, saying he is in chronic pain. And then, he ends up giving some of the packages for the black man with warnings. In less than an hour, he has sold all the drugs and has a wad of bills in his hand made up of twenty and fifty dollar bills. He folded the wad slowly, so as not to drop it, and tucked it into his breast pocket where the drugs are gone and empty.

After a while, he notices that the bank side of the street is getting noisy.

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Do you hear and see those who are ignored?

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There is nothing that blocks him from society.

(The National Association of Black Journalists)

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"Hey, can you spare some money?" I am waiting at a traffic light at an intersection near Chinatown when I am approached by a black homeless man next to me. He is dressed in a black coat with numerous holes in it, his shoes look lustre but the soles are nearly peeling, and his arm, which is visible through a torn sleeve, has marks of internal bleeding made by a syringe. Luckily for this homeless man, I have just some cash in my wallet, just before I go to the dispensary. I couldn't be bothered to put on the music I was listening to on my headphones, so I pretend I don't speak English. The homeless man starts to make small talk about where he is from, and what he does. Such a lame talk. "Are you from China?", he says. Finally, my patience runs out and I say to him, "I'm from Japan, I'm not Chinese, I'm a student, and I don't have any money."

I feel a little bad for my hard line to him, but he seems to have no idea what I am thinking. He says that homeless people tend to be lonely and desperately need someone to listen to them. "Ironic isn't it? when you guys don't have the walls of a home. You have people all over the place. there is nothing that separates you from people." He smiles and responds to what I say with more glee than most people. . As questions continue, he begins to explain how he became homeless: "My wife kicked me out of the house. " In 2008, when the stock market crashed, he lost all the investments he had set aside as a retirement fund as a broker, and he was left by two small children and a mother who abandoned him. Since that, he has drifted to Hastings, soaked in alcohol and drugs.

"What brings you to Chinatown at this hour?" The homeless man says. I was dumped by my girlfriend a few hours before I met him, and in an attempt to drown my pain, I was eager to see the anguish of the homeless people. As I look at the homeless man in front of me, I realize the smallness of the tragedy that has happened to me, as if my eyes were gouged out of my head in pain. He and I are different in status, but we are both lonely men who have drifted to Chinatown for the same reason.

After a while, the temperature drops so low that I can barely stand outside. I asked him how he spends his evening. He tells me that he has his own base behind a bank across the intersection. I am worried that he might freeze to death, so I take out my wallet and give him a $50 bill. Normally I would never give money to a homeless person, but I use the excuse that Christmas was coming up as an excuse to give him some money. He looks delighted, I bid him farewell, and we leave Chinatown. As I am leaving, I see countless police vehicles heading toward Chinatown from the downtown area.