I expected it. Expected it like the Canuck car flags that will be on half the cars in the sawmill parking lot come the first game of the playoffs.
A homeless man moved into the temporarily, very temporarily, vacant nearby woods.
The Hammer and I introduced ourselves same as we would somebody who moved into a house instead of a makeshift tent. The Hammer with a trusty stream of piss, signalling this was her fucking land he was squatting; me with an out reached flask of cask strength, signalling we might as well get fucked up.
Homeless people and me are the fucking same. I just about found myself in the same spot once. I do not have to think too hard to remember 1982. No job. No future. No money to pay the rent.
My new drinking buddy had an accent so I asked him, "Where you from?"
"The Ukraine. Near border with Russia."
His accent sounded Nova Scotian to me. If he wanted to pretend he was a Hunky that was fine with me.
"Anybody going to mind me living here?" he asked me.
"Sooner or later somebody will come down in the night and beat the fucking shit out of you," I told him. From the Ukraine my ass.
"Same here as everywhere I guess," he shrugged.
"No it's not," I warned him. "It's way fucking worse here in Steepleton."