I find myself in Bed 3 (of a 4 bed room) in hospital.
Soon enough the girl in Bed 1 is healed and discharged. The hospital is crowded, and within the hour the bed has been prepped and a new patient shows up.
He is 60, about 5 foot 7, gray hair, a bit plump. I don’t really notice him as he comes in, but when he is under the covers and his vital signs and blood samples have been taken I can see him.
I know him. From the streets.
I have a very fine apartment in a derelict area. It is now quickly being gentrified but a handful of bug infested residential hotels still set the neighbourhood tone. We’re in the poorest urban postal code in the nation. Our neighbourhood is still the gathering space for the poor, a 5 block stretch of the people living in the underbelly of our society, flooding the sidewalks. Don’t get the idea this is a slum – in our country we don’t really have slums.
It’s in this context that I’ve seen, and come to know, Ronnie.