The Drop-in

Not all my jobs have been in retail or administration. For seven years I worked in a variety of different locations in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside including an emergency shelter, a mental health drop-in, a residential program and an outreach team for the provincial psychiatric hospital. None of the jobs were mundane or predictable, but definitely the most erratic was the drop-in position. From the open door policy to working under a manager—a five-foot-nothing-twig of a woman who tended to get involved in the physical fights between members—the job was anything but boring. Below is an excerpt from the chapter, "The Drop-in", in my book, Notes from the Bottom of the Box.

Sandy was a petite woman with wavy red hair and curves, generously outlined by snug jeans and tees. She tended towards cowboys and Harleys and managed the mental health drop-in with steel-laced eyes—eyes that pinned you against the wall letting you know she knew every lie and scam with a don’t-you-even-think-about-going-there glare. It was those eyes that once trapped me in her office. I had refused an on-call shift and although it was totally within my rights to do so, she wouldn’t let me leave until she found a replacement. I gamely stared back with false bravado, but inside I was praying for rescue. It was clear that if it came down to the line, I’d have to choose between working the shift or quitting my job. Either way, it felt like a losing proposition. 

  

I knew from the initial job interview—three hours of relentless interrogation—that I didn’t want the position, but for some perverse reason I said yes when it was offered. Sure, there was the empty bank account, but Sandy also had the charisma of your more popular despots, someone like George W, the kind you might share a laugh with over a beer if you lived, that is, in another country unaffected by him. She won me over.

Sandy reigned over this fairly wild drop-in of mostly dual-diagnosed men and women with a motley crew of employees that thought playing euchre was the highest form of social work. In theory, the staff’s role was multifaceted: dispense meds, arrange shelter for those who found themselves homeless, listen to stories and distribute leftover pastries from local cafes. Unofficially, and specifically due to an unlocked door in a rough part of town, we were the bouncers—our job was about keeping the violence out and the tension within to a minimum.

One day, not long after I got hired, a drop-in regular got into a fight with an old-timer. “Old-timers” was the name given to a group of men who had been grandfathered in years before, when the drop-in was for anyone who lived on the street. None of these guys were officially diagnosed with a mental illness, nor were they interested in activities, volunteer jobs or social niceties. When they were in residence, our job was solely to monitor the general mood, keep things calm and provide safety for everyone else. The sound of chairs hitting the floor brought our security duties to the forefront. ...

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