Stepping Out & Going Home

I step out into the parking lot. The shipping office door locks behind me.

"Hi," says a woman's voice.

I look around. Leaning against the metal railing of the shipping dock is Jane.

"Hello," I reply.

"Wanna go get something to eat?" she asks.

"Sure."

We walk to the 24hr restaurant down the street. We step inside and take a table. The waitress comes over. I order a clubhouse and a beer. Jane has a plate of french fries, and a soda. She talks about her workday.

"The men can never just ask their question," she says, "they always have to comment on my looks. One of them told me I look 'fresh'. What the hell does fresh mean?"

"Maybe it means you're a tomato."

The night moves on. I order a couple more beers. Tables fill and empty. Jane's energy begins to wane. Her conversation thins out.

"You getting tired?" I ask her.

"Yes," she replies.

"Okay, let's get out of here."

I pay the bill. We leave the restaurant, and walk up Earles together. About a block from the bus stop the #41 drives passed.

"Oh shit," says Jane.

"Don't worry about it," I tell her, "there'll be another."

Jane walks to the bus stop bench, sits down. She checks her watch. She works early the next morning. I begin talking to her about years gone by. It keeps her mind off the time, and the waiting.

"Look behind you," I say to her.

"What? why?" she asks turning around.

A skunk wanders passed the bus stop, sniffing, inspecting, foraging. Jane laughs.

"He's not as fat as most skunks," she says.

"No this one's more athletic. This guy's a runner."

Headlights shine down through the trees up the street. The whine of a bus comes toward us. It's the #41. Jane gets up off the bench.

"Told you it wouldn't take long," I tell her.

The bus pulls up. Jane and I board. The bus is empty save for one passenger - a young woman with blonde hair sitting in the back. We take a seat. The bus begins to move. Jane opens her purse, removes a stick of lip balm, and starts to apply it.

"Uh... fuck," says the girl in the back.

I begin to laugh. Jane pokes her finger into my side.

"Stop it," she says.

I continue laughing.

"It's not funny," she continues.

I sit back in the seat. Streetlights and avenues pass by the window. Cool air blows in through the open windows of the bus.

"Thanks for coming out tonight," I say.

Jane leans against my arm, closes her eyes.

"No problem," she replies.

I look out the window, and wait for our stop.

All The Same

Glen is late for his break. He walks across the parking lot with the sun in his eyes, and his lunchbag in his hand.

"Nelson!" he says as he climbs the steps of the employee lunch patio, "your picking is terrible. I've had to correct mistakes on all your orders this morning."

He sits down beside me, throws his lunchbag down.

"Well?" he says.

I have spent the entire week picking orders. It is dull and tedious work, and I could care less about the mistakes.

"It's my fifth straight day in there. My brain is going to mush. What do you expect?" I reply.

Glen laughs and shakes his head, reaches into his lunchbag.

"I've been in there for two weeks. You don't hear me complaining," he says, "but then again you are Irish so I guess whining and complaining goes with the territory."

"Thanks," I reply.

"No problem."

He reaches into his bag, pulls out a sandwich, peels back the plastic wrap, and takes a bite.

"Which of those kids is one of our guys?" he asks elbowing me in the arm and pointing to the end of the table, "I might need to replace you."

I look down the table. Sitting at the end, is a large group of temporary student employees. Dressed in the white uniforms of the plant and wearing hairnets, I can't tell any of them apart.

"I don't know. They all look the same to me," I tell him.

"What are you saying man?! That all us Asian guys look the same?!" he asks incredulously.

I look back down the table. Sure enough, all the temporary employees are Asian.

"Give it a rest," I reply, "you're the one who's always calling me a 'Mick' and asking if I eat potatoes."

"Yeah so what? You're Irish aren't you?"

I take a sip of water. Glen grins and chuckles to himself.

"Yeah, I do think all you Asian guys look the same," I tell him.

Getting what he's wanted, Glen taps the table and laughs aloud.

Ugly Moment

I'm watching TV, still in my work clothes. I hear the front door open.

"Hello!" I call out.

There's no response. I know it's Jane. She ascends the stairs, and walks into the bedroom. I follow her. She's undressing.

"How was your day?" I ask.

"It wasn't very good," she replies.

"You've got phone messages," I tell her.

"I don't care right now. I'll check them later."

"If you don't listen to them I'll erase them."

"What?! Why?!"

There's exasperation in her voice. She walks off into the kitchen.

"What's wrong?" I ask walking in behind her.

"Just leave it alone," she replies.

"What's your problem?!"

"Just forget it. I don't want to deal with this."

I become frustrated and angry. I begin shouting. Jane does not like yelling. She begins to break down. It annoys and enrages me. I accuse her of being weak and childlike. She tells me to stop screaming. She begins to cry. I tell her to knock it off. She stops responding. I walk out of the kitchen.

"Grow up!" I shout.

I descend the stairs, put on my shoes and leave the apartment.

First Break Misanthropy

First break is ending quickly. I eat the last of an energy bar, and crumple the wrapper in my fist. The door to the lunch room opens. I look up. It's A. I wave to her.

"How come you never go outside Nelson?" she asks with her hand on her hip.

I don't know how to answer the question. I say nothing.

"You don't like people very much do you?" she continues.

"Yeah, I'm a misanthrope," I reply.

"Do you find it's getting worse as you get older?" she asks playfully.

"What? My..."

"Your misanthropy."

"Yeah, it does."

"That's not the case for me."

"You get nicer with age?"

"Yes. I was very bad when I was in my teens. I started improving in my twenties, and now that I'm forty..."

Forty? She doesn't look a day over twenty-six.

"You aren't showing that forty too much," I tell her.

"Thanks," she replies.

"Must be all that positivity."

"Must be all the smoking."

She smiles and leaves the room.

Friday

I direct the forklift into the pallet. I raise the forks. There's one empty space at the top of the racking. I steer the pallet toward the space. It's difficult. The skid is too small and the cases aren't stacked properly. One box keeps getting stuck. I back up, and try again. I can't get it done. I lower the forks. The corner of the pallet hits the racking. Splinters of wood fly everywhere. I put the forklift in reverse. The top layer of boxes hits the fluorescent lights that hang from the ceiling. The light fixture swings violently.

"Christ," I whisper to myself.

I drop the forks. The pallet comes down. I place it onto the floor and drive it into a corner of the warehouse. I release the pallet and back away parking the forklift by the shipping doors. I get off the fork lift and walk across the warehouse floor. Pieces of broken pallets lay everywhere, and the floor is filthy. It was my job to clean it all up, but I have run out of time. I walk the length of the warehouse to the employee lockers. I open a locker and remove my backpack. I pull the backpack over my shoulders and walk toward the employee exit. I reach for the doorknob. A loud plastic bang goes off behind me.

"Nelson!" a voice shouts.

I turn around. The large yellow doors of the factory swing open. It's Jeff. Jeff works the midnight shift supplying the plant. He's pulling a pallet jack behind him. He stops beside me, and leans on his jack.

"All done?" he asks.

"Yeah," I reply.

"You're lucky," he says, "you don't even want to know what I have ahead of me tonight."

"Busy?"

"They're all idiots in there," he says hooking his thumb in the direction of the factory.

"Well, I'd love to stay and help..." I tell him facetiously.

"Yeah right!" he says as he begins to walk away, "have a good night my friend."

"You too," I reply

He laughs and shakes his head. I turn and open the door. I walk out into the empty parking lot. The week is over.

* * * * *

I open the door to the apartment, climb the stairs to the top floor. I drop my backpack in the hallway. The windows on either side of the apartment are wide open and propped up with wooden stakes. Little summer flies whirl around in the living room. I undress and walk into the bathroom. I look in the mirror, turn on the taps. Water streams into the sink. I cup some into my hands, and wet my face. I take a can of shaving cream and spray a small ball of blue foam into my palm. I apply it to my face, and begin shaving. When I finish, I wipe off the residue, and step into the shower. It's relieving to wash the sweat and grime away. The shower ends. I towel off and walk to the bedroom. I turn on the computer with my foot. I get dressed and walk to the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and take out a beer. I walk back to the bedroom and sit down at the computer. I click the internet icon and crack open the beer, take a sip. Fridays are always hard. The nothingness and futility left over from work takes a long time to go away.

I take another sip. I feel the slight buzz of alcohol. It feels good, salutary. The monitor is flickering. I direct the web browser to the site of a Calgary based energy company. I have stock in this company. The shares have gone up, and are selling at $13.69. I take another sip of beer. It's still $0.21 below what I paid for them.

I finish the beer, and turn off the computer and monitor. I lay down on the bed. Spinning from the ceiling is a large paper ball with Asian imagery printed upon it. I watch it spin absent-mindedly. I've seen it so many times it doesn't look like anything anymore. I watch it anyways.The weekend has begun.

Fiona & Ruby

The shift ends at 6pm. I walk through the parking lot. The sun is shining. The pavement is still damp from an afternoon rainfall. I walk to the street corner and wait for the light to turn. The walk signal flashes. I cross the street and walk to the bus stop. I sit down at the bench. Cars roar through my line of view. I can see the bus approaching. It pulls up to the stop. I board and take a seat by the window. The bus pulls away. The ride is quiet. The bus passes most of the stops. I make note of the intersections - 41st & Main, 41st & Cambie, 41st & Oak, and then eventually West Boulevard. I get off at West Boulevard. I walk a couple blocks. I step into a bar. Jane is waiting for me at a table in the corner.

"Hi," she says as I approach.

"Hi," I reply.

I sit down. The waitress comes over to the table.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" she asks.

I order a beer. Jane orders a vodka and orange juice. The waitress leaves.

"Fiona's here," Jane says.

"Who's here?" I reply.

"Fiona. My old boss from the clothing store."

"Did she see you?"

"I think so."

"Great."

The waitress brings us the drinks. Jane talks about her day. I talk about mine. We have a few more drinks. We order food - chicken wings and french fries. We talk some more. As we're finishing up, a fat woman carrying a baby walks up to our table.

"Hi Jane," she says.

"Hi Fiona," Jane responds, "How are you doing?"

"Good and you?"

"I'm doing well," says Jane.

"I like to introduce you to somebody. This is my daughter Ruby."

Fiona holds up the child. Ruby stares at us. Jane and Fiona talk. I look at Ruby. She looks directly into my eyes with stunned fascination. I return the look. Ruby smiles and waves her arms. Fiona re-adjusts her. I make the face again. Ruby likes it. I look down into my beer. Jane and Fiona continue conversing. I take a sip. It's alcoholic and cold. I look at my hands. They are cut and scratched. The fingernails are chipped and broken. Jane and Fiona finish talking. Fiona leaves.

"What an ugly kid," says Jane as Fiona walks away.

"You think so?" I reply.

"Yes."

"I suppose you're right."

Saturday Night - After Dinner

I cook mashed potatoes with gravy, chicken legs seasoned with lemon spice, and microwaved corn. Jane drinks wine. I have water. It's a good meal. We finish eating, and retire to the living room to watch TV.

The wine is too much for Jane. She falls asleep. I flip through the channels. Nothing much is on. The window is open. Cool breezes lift the curtains, and I can hear the sounds of Main Street. The kids waiting outside the church at the end of the block are loud and excitable. I lean forward, pick up the glass of water I have resting on the coffee table. Jane stirs, rolls over. I finish off the glass, put it down, lean back on the futon. A car stereo is thumping somewhere. It gets louder and closer. A car roars onto our street, then slows down.

"We're young!" a young man's voice shouts, "and you're not!"

The car speeds off. Jane awakes.

"What was that?" she asks.

"Nothing," I tell her.

"Oh."

She goes back to sleep. I get up off of the futon, and walk to the window. The street is empty. The church is in complete darkness. I walk back to the futon, sit down, and change the channel to CBC Newsworld. There's not much on, but this will do.

London Bombings

Bruce is in the shipping office. He's using the computer, working on inventory counts. Bruce is a big man, hunched, in his forties and missing a finger. He works very hard, sometimes to the point of stupidity. He'll do anything to get the job done. This is probably why he's missing a part of his hand. I step into the office and pull some waybills from of the filing cabinets. Bruce looks up at me from the computer.

"You hear anything about what's happening in London?" he asks.

"Yeah, I heard about it this morning on the news. 4 explosions in the subway system," I reply.

"How many dead? I heard about a dozen."

"33, maybe more."

Bruce shakes his head in dismay.

"Was it Al-Qaeda?" he asks.

"I don't know, but they do believe it was an extremist Muslim group," I answer.

"Not a very Christian group those Muslims," he says, "they should all be exterminated."

"Well... they should definitely bring the guilty ones to justice."

"I think they should all be exterminated. Every last one of them."

I say nothing and begin filling out the waybills. Bruce taps the keys of the computer's keyboard.

"You're not a Muslim are you Nelson?" he asks with a smile.

I laugh.

"Yes, I am," I reply.

"Oh-oh," he says, "I guess I'm in trouble now."

"Just wait until your car explodes."

"Don't say that Nelson. It's not good to say things like that."

"I suppose not."

Bruce goes back to his work on the computer. I finish up the waybills, check my calculations, and step toward the office door. A forklift drives by. I wait for it to pass. The driver yells something at me, but I do not hear what is said. I leave the office and head toward the shipping doors.

Hitting Everything

The cage hits the mouth of the foiling machine solidly. The ladies working the production lines look up immediately. They have panic and concern written all over their faces. I laugh to myself.

"What? You don't trust me?" I ask facetiously.

"You hit it," one of them answers pointing toward the machine.

I look at the mouth of the machine. It look's fine. I place the cage amongst the lines. I pull out the pallet-jack, and make my way back through the plant, and past the lines. As I pass by the foiling machine, the ladies watch me intently.

"No sense of humour in here," I mutter to myself.

I head back into the warehouse. I lift another cage onto my jack. I enter the plant pulling the cage behind me. I look at the foiling machine as I pass by. Some one has placed a box over the mouth to protect it.

"Come on, give me some credit," I say to the ladies on the line.

"But you hit it!" says one of them pointing at the machine.

I continue pulling the cage. I round a corner, and hit a pallet. Boxes come crashing around me.

"Oh god!" shouts one of the ladies in a panic.

I leave the boxes where they land, and pull the cage into the production lines.

I Wake Up Sick

The fan is running and rattling. I get out of bed and go into the kitchen. I turn on the tap, pour a glass of water, drink it down, pour another, and drink it as well. The water sloshes in my stomach. I go back to bed. I can't sleep. I toss and turn. Jane wakes up.

"You keep moving," she says, "you're keeping me awake."

"I'm sorry," I reply.

I can't get comfortable. My head begins to ache. Jane gets out of bed. I'm glad to have her leave. Maybe if I have more room I will feel better. When she leaves the room she slams the door. I spread out upon the bed. It doesn't feel any better. I flop around. My head hurts, and my stomach churns. I get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. Jane is looking in the mirror applying make up. I tap her on the back. She is in the way.

"Move," I say.

I step to the toilet, get down on my knees, and vomit.

"Oh no," says Jane.

She walks over and starts stroking my back. It feels awful. I swat her hand away. I continue vomiting. My throat starts to hurt. I lean back away from the toilet. Jane brings in a roll of paper towel. I tear off a piece, wipe my mouth, and throw it in the bowl. I stand up and flush the toilet.

"Was it the beer?" asks Jane.

"Yes," I reply

"You shouldn't go to work today," she continues.

"We'll see."

"I wouldn't go to work."

"I'm going back to bed. Could you wake me up at 8?" I ask.

"8? Okay," she replies.

I go back to bed. I feel better. I fall asleep. Sort of.

* * * * *

At 8 Jane comes in and wakes me up.

"It's 8 o'clock," she says.

"Okay. Thanks," I reply.

Jane leaves the room. I sit up. I'm feeling better. I pick up a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt and put them on. I leave the bedroom and go into the kitchen. I need to make lunch. I take the bread out of the bread basket. It is squashed and useless.

"How in does our bread get so squished?" I ask.

Jane walks in to the kitchen. She has a cup of coffee in her hand. She is fully dressed for work. She looks at the bread.

"I don't know," she replies.

I throw the bread in the basket. I go the cupboard and pull out a coffee mug. I put two cubes of sugar in it, a bit of cream and fill it with coffee. I stir it up, and sit down at the kitchen table. The sun shines in through the kitchen window. The world outside is morning-wet. Dew hangs from the trees, the grass, the garage and the garbage in the alleyway. The man next door is readying to go to work, loading his truck with landscaping supplies.

"Are you making lunch?"

I look up.

"No," I reply.

She nods and walks away. I take a sip of coffee, and look back out the window.