I Say:

DESPITE TENANTS' BEST EFFORTS, DRUG CULTURE TOO MUCH TO TAKE

I love living in the West End. I'm a short walk from just about
anything: Stanley Park, the beach, the grocery store, a plethora of
gelato shops.

I'm also minutes from the things that I don't exactly brag about when
writing home: human beings who subside on money earned from empty
bottles thrown in the trash, syringes and used condoms discarded not
just in back alleys, but along the sidewalks, the stench of urine in
just about any underground parking lot and many a highrise elevator.

I can't say whether or not the increased police presence in
Vancouver's Eastside has increased the number of drug users and
dealers in the West End. After all, it is the beginning of summer,
when youth from across the nation try out living on the streets and
disappear come September when they realize Vancouver isn't all cheap
pot and rainbows.

However, I have had the pleasure of having a drug dealer live across
the hall from me. I'm not talking your small-time pot dealer; I've
experienced the fear of not wanting to leave my apartment because I'm
afraid one of my neighbour's "clients" will break in. I've held my
breath as I unlocked my door, trying not to breath in the stink of
B.O. and God knows what else that emanated from the apartment
kitty-corner to us.

It all started on April 1. My husband and I thought it was odd that
our neighbour moved in overnight.

It was 3 a.m. and we could hear muffled shouts and bangs in the
hallway.

The next morning, I figured maybe 3 a.m. was the only time he could
move. Or not. A few nights later, again with the shouting in the hallway.

It would stop for a while, then continue.

It didn't sound serious and it was more annoying than anything, so we
turned up the stereo.

A visiting friend of ours left our apartment and on entering the
stairwell, came face-to-face with one of Vancouver's finest.

Turns out a "friend" of our new neighbour had been the hallway
ranter.

When another neighbour came out to tell him to shut the hell up, the
"friend" pulled a knife on him.

This was just the beginning.

My husband then had a pair of pants and new underwear stolen from the
laundry room. Both of us confronted people who appeared to be living
in our stairwell, which now stunk of cigarette smoke and piss. The
door to the basement storage room was nearly busted in at least twice.

Oh yeah, and our neighbour who had the knife pulled on him? A couple
weeks later, a small saw blade was left dangling from his doorknocker.
A threat?

An attempted break-in? Who knows for sure? The capper had to be seeing
the dealer being followed into the building by a spastic teenage girl,
jittering for that first hit off the crack pipe. At 8:30 a.m. My
building manager tried his hardest to fix the situation.

Turns out the guy who moved in wasn't the guy who actually rented the
place.

Big surprise there. Despite the parade of street kids going in and out
of the building, the police said they couldn't do anything about it.
Because the dealer claimed he didn't even know the knife-pulling dude,
and knife-dude was too whacked to be of much use, there was no proof
the dealer knew him or even let him into the building.

So the best the building manager could do was whip up a one-month
eviction notice.

He also filed for arbitration in case the dealer didn't get out when
he was supposed to. In the meantime, the tenants discussed the
situation and agreed to keep notes and call the police when we thought
the situation warranted it.

Sure enough, May 1 came and went and our dealer didn't
leave.

So into arbitration it went. May 3, he disappeared and the apartment
was cleaned out. Turns out there was a bucket full of syringes in the
bathroom, a makeshift weapon behind the front door--a hockey stick
with a butcher knife and a couple kitchen knives taped to its ends
- --plus numerous stolen bike parts. I guess if the police had been able
to go in, they would have found the proof our building manager needed
to get the asshole out in 24 hours, if not arrested. At first I was
extremely angry.

I was pissed at the cops for not helping me and my fellow tenants out.
I was mad at the building owner who cheaply refused to gate off our
underground parking, allowing the tenants to deal with the junkies who
had fallen asleep in their cars. And I was furious that my rights and
the rights of the other tenants, some who had lived in the building
for over a decade, were unimportant.

Since we moved out, my anger has subsided--somewhat. Now I feel for
anyone in a similar situation, Eastside or Westside, who can't afford
to move. Or those who rightfully feel entitled to stay where they are
and not be chased away from their homes.

It's time for Vancouverites to reclaim what's ours. Push your
landlords to make your building safer.

Band with your fellow tenants to better ensure your voices are
heard.

We have a right to live in comfort, without fear.