Fire at 165 East Hastings

165

Many times I would sit on the SkyTrain on my way there. To be precise, every weekend.

We—my mother, my sister and I—would visit my Bà Ngoại, Ông Ngoại and my uncle who lived with them. My father too would join most of the time. Two dollars for a haircut on Pender Street back then, he’d say. I had learned to love this neighbourhood fiercely despite those who taught me to not.

During our hour-long commute I’d lose my sense of self inside the full-body clamour of the train speeding on the tracks, echoes rattling against the surfaces of the compartment, gradually seeping out and decaying inside the cloudy wisps that hovered over the lilac grey mountains. Main Street, Science World, the robotic voice would then say. I remember the voice so clearly, always suspiciously calm. 

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As the airplane tires hit the tarmac during the descent of my flight, I somehow heard that same voice. Back from my first year of living abroad, I hustled out of the airplane cabin into the airport, feeling my mother’s energy power my stride. It was the way she’d immediately burst out of the SkyTrain doors at our stop, zip down the escalators and march straight down Main Street on her mission. My father was the opposite of her, a daydreaming wanderer. He’d often split off—strolling around the neighbourhood, maybe looking for his two-dollar haircut again. On the heels of my mother, my sister and I weaved through the back alleys—she taught us her shortcuts through Chinatown and the Downtown Eastside.

On the way there we’d pass by Main and Hastings. One particularly scorching day I remember an occasion where my mother actually paused; her shoelace had become undone. Finally, I had thought to myself as she bent over to tie it. My sister and I paused too, resting, as we would carry all the heavy grocery bags full of produce from Sunrise Market. Clutching at my hands, sore from the plastic bag handles digging into the fingers of my curled fists, I remember turning around to meet the gaze of an older woman.

She was about my Bà Ngoại’s age, sitting on a burgundy foldable chair in front of 165 East Hastings, across the street from Brandiz, beside the Belvedere Hotel. She smiled at me and I smiled back. Would you give me a hug?, she said, as my eyes lingered with hers. I looked over at my sister, preoccupied with a pineapple-coconut bun, and then at my mother, watching me and the woman as she finished double-knotting her shoe, not saying a thing. I inched forward and politely put my arms around her neck, my arms gently resting on her shoulders. I noticed the reflections of the sun glinting in her silver hair as I squeezed her tenderly, pressing my cheek against her ear, just as I would do to my Bà Ngoại. If this woman were my Bà Ngoại, she’d bury her nose in my hair and vigorously inhale—as if she was breathing in my vapours, my spirit. As I left our embrace, I shyly and quietly sniffed this woman’s shimmering locks. I don’t think she noticed. Thank you sweetie, the woman said. As we continued on our way I kept her scent in my memory—baby powder, with a bit of smoke.

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On the SkyTrain again I checked my phone and read messages from K—did u read the news? about this fire? It spread to our first studio together,¹ made me cry...so much happened for us there…so fucked but what’s new honestly…did u hear about Value Village too? When do u come back again? I doom scrolled through Instagram stories, tears forming for many reasons; they distorted the text, warping and bulging—Last night around 10 PM onward the building next door to 165 East Hastings caught fire which eventually spread leaving both buildings damaged beyond repair. This left many Downtown EastSide community members, artists, residents, and businesses in a tough spot…the cause of the fire is still unknown

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I saw the corner of Hastings on the horizon. I was powering down Main Street alone, midday in the August heat after visiting Ông Ngoại at the seniors’ home. I wondered if I should even bother to stop and look, to witness something I already knew—an anxious habit, maybe even a bit masochistic. I was already late to meet K at her new studio, but I was getting thirsty and my body was beginning to get that contextual nicotine craving again. Both desires were hard to ignore, so I ducked into Papa’s, the corner store across the alley, adjacent to 165. I browsed the aisle a bit, for old times sake—the drinks and snacks, the odd bits of stationery and household items, the toiletries. Catching the side of 165 in the reflection of the store window I saw blackened brick with yellow “do not cross” tape draped across. I let my eyes linger for a bit as I stood beside another shopper in the cramped aisle. Excuse me sweetie, she said as she squeezed past me, wafting faint traces of baby powder with a bit of smoke.