Edmonton’s Herb Jamieson Hope Mission, known to residents as “The Herb,” is perhaps the best known of Edmonton’s men’s shelters. It was this shelter, located just over the train tracks from City Hall, into which Ralph Klein staggered drunk at 1 am to yell curses at the homeless and throw $20 on the floor. The next day Klein’s chief of staff said Ralph was not drunk and that “out of the kindness of his heart” he had stopped in on his way home to distribute $70 to the poor. “The purpose of my visit,” claimed Klein, “was to chat with residents and find out what their situations are like. During my time in politics, I have periodically made such unscheduled visits because they give me the opportunity to chat privately and honestly with people from different walks of life.” Two weeks later, Klein admitted publicly that he has a drinking problem. It’s fifteen below zero when I get to The Herb. Inside the front doors it can’t be much warmer, but there are people curled up sleeping on the mud and salt-smeared stairs. Through the next set of doors there is a reception area with a water fountain and an office encased in plexiglass. Around the corner from this is a forty-foot hallway where residents spend much of their time. Down one side of the hall a line waits for beds, while down the other side a line waits for food. The hall is only six feet wide, leaving little room between the lines for anyone to squeeze through. A sign by a door says “Recreation Room.” In this room, beat up old chairs and tables line the walls. Men smoke. There is a radio. From the waist up, the air is stale and hazy, while the air below the waist is icy cold.

Pork and beans

After 30 minutes waiting for a food ticket, I stand 20 minutes in the other line to trade my ticket for a tray of pork and beans, a little scoop of frozen vegetables, and a stale bun. I sit next to a blind, native man who shot his face off with a shotgun in a failed suicide attempt.

To get a bed, I line up in the hallway at 5:30 and secure fifth place in line. An Irish guy behind me tells me how last night he was eighth and they only had seven beds. Many men have given up on ever getting a bed and get their sleep on the floor of the hallway, curled up next to each other while people thump past them to and from the recreation room.

At 10:45 they give out the beds. A man behind the plexi-glass window takes my name and gives me a blanket, two sheets, and a ticket with my bed number. There are 16 dorms and in mine there are 36 men in bunk-beds. The light from the hall shines perpetually on half of them. Men are joking around blaming their flatulence on an old British man that gets very upset and everyone laughs. Every few minutes there is a loud BOOP BOOP BOOP sound from the intercom, followed by announcements from head office. A man tells me that if they call your name, it’s probably the police. A group of staff come in and turn on the lights to do a bed check. By 1 am I fall asleep listening to guys in the hall playing cards in French.

Stolen boots

I wake up at four as the guy in the bunk above me steps on my foot with his work boot as he climbs down to go to work. Before six the lights come on and a man comes around hitting a metal rod against the metal bunk bed frames. A man wakes up to find his work boots have been stolen. He just swears at the floor where his boots used to be, and finds himself without a job now. I must renew my bed ticket by 7:45, but I’m too late and I have to spend another five hours in line for a new bed. At the end of the breakfast line I get two pieces of damp toast.

That night I get a bed under an open window and I soon have a very bad cold. I ask the staff to close the window but I’m told that the window is kept open because of the smell in the dorms, and that weather does not cause colds; germs do.

Most nights, at seven, there is a chapel service in the cafeteria. Various church groups come to preach and sing with the men. There is a stack of beat-up green hymn books, and nearly every night the men request “How Great Thou Art” and “Amazing Grace.” The shelter’s chaplain comes and sings songs and talks of his own past of alcoholism and an abusive father. At the end of each chapel there are bologna sandwiches served with coffee that must not be taken out of the cafeteria.

House of evil

At breakfast I meet a guy who works a graveyard shift in a nightclub. He gets to the shelter at 3 am to sleep on the mat room for three hours. His roommate had a fight with his landlord over a washing machine that ruined his new pants, and after giving notice, he couldn’t find a new place or retrieve his damage deposit. “House of God?” he tells me, “This is the house of evil.” Volunteers who sign up for rehab programs at the shelter receive slightly better conditions. They eat first and don’t have to line up to renew their beds, but they must work four hours for free every day and attend regular meetings.

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