Vancouver is a city of beasts. You may not see it right away but it’s there. Being blind to a thing doesn’t make that thing less of a thing. It just means you don’t see what’s right in front of you. And that’s a painfully human thing.

It’s dusk and we’re near waterfront station. When you’re down near waterfront you only need to travel a block and half to see drug addicts, criminals, prostitutes, a block and a half to see all the different things people do in desperation, all those things that transform their entire lives and drop their life expectancy by decades.

But those aren’t the beasts I’m talking about. Those aren’t beasts doing beastly things. Those are people trying to survive.

A man is slouched at a bus stop, freshly used needle in front of him. The needle is dropped carelessly from a lifeless or close to lifeless hand. A hand, I suspect, that hasn’t known true living for a very long time. Maybe there’s poison still in the tip of the dropped needle.

I’m holding my son in my arms, my daughter is holding my hand. People pass by what’s left of this man and shake their heads.

Some younger guys who don’t speak English well and stink of designer cologne and bubbly hair gel begin taking pictures with their phones while they laugh. This isn’t as offensive as it is sad, and it’s plenty offensive.

This is what passes as a tourist attraction in dystopian Vancouver.

Countless worker bees move around the man. Some look at him with idle curiosity, more as something to do to pass the time while you wait for the bus than anything else. Some of the more civilized patrons surreptitiously snap photos. Because that’s so much better.

I look to see if he’s breathing. I can’t tell. I don’t check for a pulse because I have my small children with me and I’m surrounded by animals. There’s no telling what these animals might do to my children while I check this man over. I don’t see an overdose kit.

I try a store nearby and they’re less than no help at all. They don’t care about the people they think are animals. They’re accustomed to it. Maybe they’ve been hurt or intimidated. Maybe they’ve shut that part of them off to get by. What does that tell you about the cost of buying into that society and culture?

I see a police officer nearby and flag him over to check the man. He stops traffic to cross the road and says thank you as he heads over. He’s the first person I’ve seen on the busy street who seems more concerned about the individual than that individual’s disruption of the status quo.

I don’t stick around to see the outcome, if he has an overdose kit I don’t want my kids seeing someone brought back from the darkest depths of death to the normalcy of their dark depths of despair. People can do amazing and superhuman things when you administer life saving drugs to them. And they aren’t always pleasant and peachy and ready for tea.

The worst beast in the city, the beast of all beasts, has a name and that name is: indifference. Cold, callous, unthinking, uncaring, common everyday indifference. Like ancient germ or seed it’s planted and incubated until you see it in all its glorious growth.

Kurt Cobain said to come as you are. The song is all contradiction. Maybe the city of beasts can fucking stay put.