Among the people who live outside the Dominion building in downtown Vancouver, across the street from the cenotaph at Victory Square, is a woman who might be in her late forties and who occasionally turns up in a wedding dress. I’ve never seen her speak to anyone. She simply walks up and holds out her empty hand toward you. Another guy runs a shoeshine operation in front of the building. He’s very pleasant and does a good job. You can hear him from across the street: “Shoeshine for a buck!” When the woman in the wedding dress approaches him and puts out her hand, he yells at her: “Hey, get out of here—I’m trying to run a business!”

A couple of blocks away there’s an older gentleman who stands at the corner rain or shine, usually wearing a sweater, vintage 1970 or thereabouts, and, if it’s raining, a toque or a baseball cap. The first time I walked by, he asked me if I knew what day it was. “Yeah, it’s Tuesday, buddy,” I said. “No, no, you’re missing the point,” he said. “It’s Buy a Bum a Beer Day.” I gave him a toonie. Three days later he was there again, and he asked me again what day it was. “Lemme guess, buddy,” I said. “Buy a Bum a Beer Day?” and he said, “No way. That was Tuesday. Today is Get a Bum Laid Day.” Since then I’ve contributed to Get a Bum Stoned Day, Help a Bum Run for Prime Minister Day, Help a Bum Buy a Home Day—or a least some tape for my cardboard box—and my personal favourite, Help a Bum Buy a Latte Day. When I asked why he wanted to buy a latte, he replied, “What, I can’t enjoy the nicer things in life?”