In Cape Breton, They Call Them "Stemmers"

I call them down-and-outers. Have-nots. The flotsam and jetsam of our society. I see them every day here in Mimico, walking along Lakeshore Blvd or gathering to smoke and curse around a streetcar stop or in front of a pub. Their hair is too long. Beards unkempt and wild. Teeth missing. Cigarette in one hand and a case of beer in the other. How is it that they have money to spend on tobacco and alcohol, Ms J, when they can't afford a haircut? It's a matter of priorities, I suppose. The Yanks call them trailer trash because they often live in cheap trailers rather than houses.

How do they find themselves in such a state? Misfortune? Mental illness? Or is it just indolence or apathy? And what sets me apart from them? What do I have that they lack, Ms J? Beyond the obvious.

I've written about this before. I decided last time that it was Love, or rather the lack of it that allowed people to stagger away from The Good Life, if they ever had it to begin with. Can't they see their situation? Can they not envision a better Life? Maybe education is the key. But I am not highly educated, Ms Journal. I finished high school, but I have no university or college degree, no diploma. Maybe high school is enough, though, to allow a person to see what's good and what's not in terms of lifestyle.

Not far from my home is an apartment building with three levels: a basement and two upper floors. It comprises, I suppose, thirty or more living units. Every sunny day from April to October, the front lawn is occupied by people with no apparent place to go, no job to attend to, no Life really. Every day, a dozen or more people, men and women, sit there on rickety furniture and drink beer and converse loudly. Very loudly.

When the sun sets, they light a fire on the ground as though they're camping in some remote area. Smoke drifts across the suburban landscape. Neighbours close their doors and windows against the noise and fumes. A huge rottweiler dog is chained to a post in the long grass near the horseshoe pits. It barks madly at passersby who often cross the street to avoid it. A part of me wants to shoot that dog. Dead.

When I see people like that, I think of my son. He seems to value beer and cigarettes. He doesn't value education or employment. His mother associates with people of that class. The neighbours in their little apartment in Norval have a motorcycle parked on their patio. They have an old barbecue which serves as a fire pit. I often smell beer and marijuana smoke as I ascend the steps to visit Dan and Meagan. Kelly's bedroom window has a fan in it, ostensibly to rid her room of pot smoke.

Will my son grow up to be a down-and-outer? And what of Meagan? What will become of her?

I've been through hard times myself, Ms J. I spent years abusing drugs and worshipping tobacco and alcohol. But I always had a job. I was always tidy. I was always ...

Awww, shit. I was a jerk, Ms Journal. I found myself in that Lifestyle because I followed a woman there. If she hadn't thrown me out, I might still be there. It took a massive heartbreak and emotional upheaval to force me to see the Light. I am not without sin.

My hope is that Dan and Scout will not follow in their mother's desperate footsteps.

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