THE DOWN AND DIRTY OF DEALING WITH ADDICTS ON THE CITY'S MEAN STREETS

I'll call him Mr. Kite because he was flying high, and because the
moniker in no way resembles his name.

I met him in a downtown laneway, at the end of a trail of carnage
crossing Vancouver's West End.

One 911 caller after another had complained of being attacked.
Someone was assaulting two or three people a block -- punching and
kicking in numbers sufficient to plot a course of travel.

I wasn't the first patrol person there. Mr. K stood surrounded by
three or four officers. He was shirtless, thick with blood from head
to toe -- wild-eyed and screaming in terms so bizarre and profane I
won't approximate them here.

The only discernible theme was that he had AIDS and he wanted to
fight. Which made apprehending him as unappealing as it was necessary.

He was too violent to be ignored, yet taking him in meant grappling
with a slippery and infectious mess.

The man turned to flee. I ran in, hoping to sweep his legs out from
under him, nice and tidy. It didn't work. An arm and shoulder I'd
hoped would knock him over slid up into a clumsy headlock.

With help from the rest, he was slowly toppled to the ground.

It was like celebrity mud-wrestling.

He fought like a champ, but eventually the cuffs were snapped on.

While onlookers decried police violence, a fire crew hosed down the lane.

I was covered in Mr. K's blood myself -- face, arms and uniform.

I tried to clean up, checking for cuts and scrapes, any way his body
fluids could get to mine.

Emptying two full bottles of sterilizing fluid, I left the scene
dripping and irate.

At hospital, the fellow's performance continued.

Lunging from bed restraints, he demonstrated a rare talent for offending women.

Nurses were loudly informed that he hated them, that it was a
privilege to touch a man with AIDS, etc.

No surprise, of course, to discover he'd been up for days on crystal meth.

A week later, we came across a refreshed Mr. Kite, running through
nearby hotel hallways, bashing doors and hollering maniacal threats.

That meant another trip; this time to jail.

In Vancouver, when we believe a person is intoxicated rather than
mentally deranged, jail is where they go. Hospitals are uninterested
in those without injuries or mental disorders, who merely need to sober up.

There was a time, albeit before my career, when an addict who became
such a threat could be held in a rehabilitation facility.

With modernists pushing for distribution of free drugs, a return to
incarcerated rehab is made to seem a foolish notion.

So what can be done for the benefit of Mr. Kite?

As things stand, fools like me will be meeting him again and again.