I run into guys talking near The Duke, a Vancouver condo building. One of them is in a wheelchair.
Another guy arrives with a bag of drugs. A non-wheelchair guy says he could’ve gotten them for free. I turn to wheelchair and, as I’m walking back to Guelph, throw a twenty dollar bill on the ground and say it’s for food, but it lands face down, side up and has a red & black checkered pattern.
I hear them calling out but I keep walking, content in my good deed, which should keep me going for awhile as long as I don’t tell anyone. I pass by a younger homeless addict with a chip in front of him, asking for money. I move a few feet out of the way to avoid him, but he calls me out.
Our Guelph house is boarded up from the outside. I go around the back and up the stairs. A young skeet lady is on the third floor patio having a smoke.
A man, wearing his only suit, is half drunk and may have just come from a wedding, and he comes behind me after a minute and calls out to her. She’s having none of it and starts pacing. “I can’t. I can’t go through it again.” She’s referring to another heartbreak with this guy. He professes his love, she shakes her head but then starts taking her shirt off. “Get up here, before I change my mind.” He obeys.
I drop my phone on the ground then pick it up only to see it’s shattered. I briefly hope I’m in a dream so I don’t have to deal with getting a new phone.
The man, right before going inside, turns to me and says, “He’s sure got his head in a holt now!”
I return to my room and ask my parents if that’s a phrase people use?
Me: “He meant that I’m in a tough spot, I think. Do people say that?”
Dad: “What’s a holt? Oh, the thing your put your gun in, right? Wait, that’s a holster. What’s a holt?”