A NIGHT IN SHELTER THREE
by
Phyllis Mass Carter
1993
1993
From the Journal of an Incurable Job Hunter
Curriculum Vitae
Phyllis Mass Carter - Canadian. Widow
Professional Journalist/Editorialist/ Reporter/Lyricist
Professional Private Investigator
Public Speaker/Coach/Speech writer
Professional Photographer
Executive Assistant
Formerly Comfortable Montreal West Island Suburbanite
Unemployed due to being "Overqualified" and "Anglo"
Professional Journalist/Editorialist/ Reporter/Lyricist
Professional Private Investigator
Public Speaker/Coach/Speech writer
Professional Photographer
Executive Assistant
Formerly Comfortable Montreal West Island Suburbanite
Unemployed due to being "Overqualified" and "Anglo"
In Montreal, Quebec -
And due to "The Recession."
And due to "The Recession."
A NIGHT IN SHELTER THREE - HULL, QUEBEC - SUMMER, 1993
Here, after midnight,
Strangers keep coughing in the dark;
I hear syncopated snoring in the dark;
A peculiar girl is laughing in her sleep;
An old man with a shaggy beard weeps.
A strapping fellow with solid biceps
And wild eyes
Mills about in his undershirt,
Cursing much and mightily
At no one in particular.
A distraught spinster leaps from her cot,
Quoting scripture and raving -
"The Lord will see you all in Hell for this !"
And here am I,
In the midst of this congregation
Of derelicts, alcoholics and drug addicts.
I feel separate - out of place - disassociated,
And small,
And scared -
And I keep very still.
Wrapped in a blanket,
Afraid to lie down,
I sit curled up tight
In a worn upholstered chair,
Behind rows of discarded chesterfields
That reek of stale tobacco,
And the pungent perspiration
Of the tormented and the dispossessed.
(Earlier, I noticed someone had written
"WORMS" on the lunch menu.)
My few possessions are in Locker 33 -
Safe -
Perhaps:
But the Keeper keeps the key,
And the Keeper is a stranger
To me.
I keep my eye on 33
Through the smokey blackness.
1:15 A.M.
I watch the silhouette of
The wild-eyed one with the biceps,
As he paces erratically in the dark,
Growling his angry epithets -
Stringing them out -
Like long lines of dirty laundry.
(I never realized there were so many
Obscene words in the French language.)
The acrid odors blend together -
An environmental hazard -
A filthy fog
That envelopes me and invades my senses.
I NEED AIR !
2:20 A.M.
Suddenly someone switches on the T.V.
A sharp blast of Fifes and Drums
Stuns me with Sousa !
4:05 A.M.
Weary,
I drift into my memory,
Seeking the sweet solace
Of my precious husband's arms.
I won't cry. I will NOT !
But closed eyelids can't filter out
The putrid stench of wasting human lives.
Where is the dawn ?
30
Copyright: Phyllis Mass Carter - Ottawa - May, 1993 -
All rights reserved by the author.
I wrote this piece in May, 1993. I asked, "Where is the dawn?"
I could not have foreseen that, on October 7, 1996, widowed and sick with cancer, I would be robbed of everything I worked for all my life by Dawn McSweeney, and see my family and my health destroyed with the help of the Montreal Police.
I called this piece Shelter Three because it was the third shelter I had stayed in while struggling to find work. This was one year after my darling husband died and just weeks before I fell ill with cancer.
First published on Phyllis Carter's Journal Monday, January 23, 2012
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