Down to This: Squalor and Splendour in a Big-City Shantytown - Down to This

To my mum and dad, and the three other people without whom this book would not exist: Don Sedgwick, Shaun Bradley and Anne Collins. Quite simply, I owe you my life.

To Cassidy, Reilley, Josh, Nana and the rest of my family. To Mike Wasko, Max Lenderman, Janine Kobylka, Saskia Wolsak and Marci Denesiuk, who somehow never lose faithno matter what I do. And to Sherry Izumsky, the bravest girl I know. I love you all madly.

To Ernest Hillen, for his constant support and guidance. And to Elizabeth Nash for her generosity.

My deepest thanks to the following friends, editors, mentors and ex-girlfriends: Goran Petkovski, Julie Choquette, Paul Quarrington, Stacey Cameron, Craig Pyette, Adam Sternbergh, Jane Mountain, Diane Defenoyl, Paul Wilson, Patricia Grant, John Fraser, David Wright, Mary-Lou Zeitoun, Adam Starr, Mark Sumner, Anna Lisa Manfredini, Ryan Carter, Mike Meehan, Deborah and Rosie Trudel, Wil Wigle, Ibi Kaslik, Merrily Weisbord, Adrien Trembling, Jose and Anas Trpanier, Jodie and David Stall, and the kids at the Copa. I owe you all a drink.

Thanks to those who made outlasting Tent City just a little bit easier: Sister H, Dr. Paul Wright, Dr. Jennifer Bayani, Alicia Hogan, Kathy Hardill and Cathie Simpson of Regent Park Community Health Centre, Lee Hogan, Terry McWilliam, Toby and Vicki of Street Survivor, the WoodGreen housing workers, the TDRC and the Toronto Community Housing, the staff of the St. Lawrence Community Centre and the St. Lawrence Library, the owners of the Good Tymez Caf, the people of the Good Shepherd, and the old boys at Henrys.

And finally, my gratitude and respect to the Dirty Thirty: Jackie, Sluggo, Eddie, Karen, Calvin, Spider, Olivia, Randy, Chris, Hawk, Pops, Les, Jo-Jo, Marty, Bonnie, Heartbeat, Terry, Curly, Jimmy D, Petra, Patrick, Julie, Lisa, Brenda, Jake, Frizz and Nancy. And to Hoyt, Steve and Ronmay you rest in peace.

SHAUGHNESSY BISHOP-STALL hitchhiked from Canada to Costa Rica at the age of 18. Since then he has picked olives in Spain, painted villas in Italy, hopped freight trains in Arizona, taught English in Mexico and built a shack from scrap lumber on the edge of Lake Ontario. His non-fiction has appeared in Saturday Night, Utne magazine, Toro, the National Post and the Globe and Mail. Most recently, he has played a well-dressed segment producer on CBC TVs award-winning comedy The Newsroom.

Tent City is not a city and we dont live in tents. We live in shacks and shanties on the edge of Canadas largest metropolis where the river meets the lake. Theres a fence dividing these 27 acres from the rest of Toronto, and on this side weve built what dwellings we can with the rubble of a scrapyard, a no-mans landfill caught in confusion between the city and private business. Sometimes it seems like a community and sometimes like chaos. Junk Town would be a better name.

Picture a dump, littered with the cast-outs of the last millennium. Refrigerators, stuffed animals, shoes, original paintings on torn canvasses, photo albums, three hundred broken bicycles and toboggans and hockey sticks, TVs and microwaves, lamps and cash registers, headless Cabbage Patch Kids and enough books to start a library or a bookstore or your own education.

Now picture dozens of the countrys thieves and drug addicts, vagabonds and ex-cons. Theyre drunk, hungry and tired of running. Its getting old and getting cold, and one night they find themselves in this place, with the rest of the discards, on the edge of the world but smack in the middle of it all.

They look around and realize that everything theyve been hustling for is right here: stereos and VCRs, room to move, a perfect hideout and waterfront property. They arent way out in the lonesome countryside or the goddamn suburbs or trapped in the same old city. In fact, the city looks perfect from herethe lake, the downtown high-rises, the sun setting beneath the tallest free-standing structure in the worldits like a picture postcard. And best of all, there are no laws and no copsas long as they stay this side of the fence. Its all private property. No one can tell them what to do, no one but Home Depot, the company that owns this land.

So they dig into a corner of the rubble for something they can use to build. Theres so much, they could make anything. But for now they just throw together a few shelters using tarps and old office furniture. They buy some beer, light a fire, call it Tent City and decide to stay. The smoke rises for everyone to see, like a warning or an invitation. They drink and wait.

For almost four years people have been squatting here, and now some days the population reaches sixty or so. The singularity of this place has drawn media attention from all over the world, as well as a flood of well-meaning, but mostly redundant, donationsif only salvation could be bought with wool hats and toothbrushes. This remains, as much as such a thing is possible, a society of anarchy.

The rules are made up nightly. Repercussions are rarely considered in advance, or recorded for future reference. It is a useful, using and sometimes useless place. The castoffs of the megacity are snatched up, played with, eaten, worn, painted over and tossed into the mud. China plates are disposable, pillowcases never washed. If this place has a credo, it is: Grab what you can, stay drunk and mind your own damn business.

The protocol for moving into Tent City is one of invitation or recommendation. I unknowingly broke protocol. I came without a clue and nothing to lose, to learn about this place, write a book and live rent free. During the month Ive spent so far, Ive realized there is no one way to live here and a hundred possible stories to be written. Some people beg, some squeegee windows, some steal, some work jobs, some sell themselves, sell others, sell drugs. Most do drugs, some do nothing at all. I dont yet know what Im going to do.

The rules Ive set for myself are simple: no money or friends, except those I might find from here on in. Ill do what others do to get by, be whatever bum I choose: vagrant, beggar, wino, criminal, busker, con man or tramp, on any given day.

What follows is a record of my time in Tent City.

Id hoped to start writing yesterday, but then the soldiers were coming at us across the field, I couldnt find a pen or paper, and I started to shake.

It was my first night in Toronto and I stayed at the Salvation Army shelter down on Sherbourne Street on the east side of Moss Park. On the west side of the park is the Department of National Defence Military Academy. Across from that is an army surplus store where I plan to get my supplies.

The DND trains teenage militia on the turf of Moss Park. Being the Canadian army, they practise strategic advance without even blanks in their rifles. Late at night they charge across the football field toward the homeless shelter, giggling as they shoot each other, yelling, Bang! Bang! Bang!