This Ain't No Basketball Diary

When I first moved into this building, an old Scottish couple were the caretakers. They were so ancient that they could barely climb upstairs to make me turn down the music. Finally, after one riotous weekend when a “friend” dripped blood from the balcony and another puked into one of the washing machines, they made a final climb to tape an eviction notice to my door.

I didn’t have the rent money anyway, so I moved out. Then, after bouncing around East Vancouver for a few months, I moved into Jenna’s apartment. I won’t go into the sad circumstances, but Jenna was my brother’s girlfriend, so let’s just say that the move was painful.

Anyway, there was a new caretaker by then. This one didn’t care about what we did because she was too busy stealing the rent money to feed her drug habit. Finally, after she claimed that thieves had burgled her apartment a third time, the owners fired her. Then they recruited a couple who had already lived here a long time. The woman, Betty, is still the caretaker today, and she does an excellent job.

But why should you give a sh*t about any of this? In a moment, I will tell you a little story about an abandoned basketball hoop, but for now, you’ll have to put up with some history. In the nineties, this building was roaring. On welfare day, there would be loud parties that went on all night.

Betty didn’t screen applicants as carefully as she does now and, as a result, the place had its share of drunks, junkies, dope dealers, criminals, and whores. It was a fine place to live. We had friends who lived on the next floor, and we were always telephoning our dealers.