Cops left to fix mental health mess

One year ago, as Ottawa was in the midst of another cold snap, I met a homeless man named JR.

I met him while he was searching for pop cans in garbage bins downtown. He was middle-aged, from Aylmer, and he told me he was collecting cans so he could buy an ounce of gold.

“I need to get some sugar spoons made,” he said. “I know how much it’s going to cost. I track the price of gold.” I stood there not knowing what to say but eventually he lifted his head from a garbage can, looked at me as though something had just occurred to him, and he added:

“Sorry ’bout that. I ramble a bit. I’m psychotic.” I ended up writing a column about JR and people contacted me for weeks afterwards. Wanting to help him. Or wanting to comment on a claim I made in the column.

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