An Albertan Myth

The tote is filled with rolls of bar wrap of varying weight and sizes. One by one I remove each roll and write down its description and weight.

"Nelson!" says a voice.

I put down the clipboard I'm holding and look up. Walking down the aisle toward me is Sergei. He is pulling a pallet jack behind him.

"How come you wear a T-shirt in here?" he asks pushing the jack into a skid, "do you not find it cold?"

"Not really," I reply looking down at my bare arms.

"I find it very cold in here Nelson," he says.

"But you're from the Ukraine," I say to him, "you should be used to the cold."

"No, the Ukraine is fairly warm alot like Vancouver," he replies, "I have a cousin who lives in Calgary. He asked me to come there, but he tells me it's very cold. I do not like the cold so much."

"Calgary huh?" I tell him, "that's where I'm from."

"You are from Calgary?"

"Yes."

"Is it true that there are lots of jobs there."

"Alberta is a very rich province. Lots of opportunity there. Ever heard of the tar-sands?"

"What is the tar-sands?"

"In northern Alberta there is sand naturally soaked in oil. If you take a jar of water, place some of this sand in it and shake it up the oil will float to the top. And this sand literally just waits by the side of the road."

Sergei opens his eyes in disbelief.

"I'm serious," I tell him, "I'm oversimplifying a little bit, but it's true."

The doors to the plant open. One of the lead hands to the production lines steps out.

"I will get it," says Sergei.

He walks down the warehouse aisle and meets the woman just outside the doors. She laughs when she sees him, points toward a pallet of boxes nearby. Sergei picks up one of the boxes and hands it to her. She smiles and laughs again and walks back into the plant. Sergei walks back toward me.

"Nelson I must ask you something," he says, "if Alberta is so rich why did you leave?"

"Because my girlfriend, my partner, was going to school out here, and because of that I came out here with her," I tell him.

The door to the plant opens again. The same lead hand steps out. Sergei looks over his shoulder at her, and then back at me. He gives a warm smile.

"That's nice Nelson," he says.

"Yes, it was," I reply.

Lost In Translation

It's tight manouvering through the warehouse aisles. Skids of product line the walls, fill the racking and block the ways. I spin the forklift around in the only open space available. I stop, and the machine shakes and rattles, and the forks hit the floor with a metallic bang. I put the lift in reverse. I press the horn twice for safety, and I move toward the warehouse cooler. The sound echoes throughout the building.

"Nelson!" says a voice.

I look around. It's Bruce. I stop the forklift and he walks up to the side of the machine.

"Nelson," he says, "I have a favour to ask you."

"No Bruce," I pre-empt, "I'm not staying overtime."

"What?" he replies.

"Do you want me to stay overtime?"

"Yes. Only an hour or two."

I think about it. I don't want to, but for some reason I say yes.

"I can only do an hour though," I tell him.

"Thanks Nelson," he says tapping the side of the machine.

He walks away, and I reverse the forklift into the cooler. The rear of the machine hits the large yellow doors with a loud crack. I drive straight in. The change of temperature is sudden and abrupt. I shiver and the doors close me in.

"God it's cold in here," I mutter.

I back the forklift down an aisle, and line it up with a large skid of cashews. I raise the forks, drive them into the pallet and begin lowering. The forklift wobbles under the weight. I begin to think about the overtime I've agreed to. It bothers me that I have an extra hour tacked onto my shift. I do not want to stay any longer than I have to. I cuss under my breath, and finish lowering the skid of cashews. I spin the forklift around and drive out of the cooler. I manipulate my way through the crowded aisles, and stop near the doors to the plant and begin dropping the skid. I see Sergei pushing a pallet jack into a skid at the end of the aisle.

"Sergei!" I call out to him.

He finishes putting the jack away, and walks toward me.

"Yes Nelson," he says approaching the forklift with caution.

"I need you to take this pallet of cashews down to the nut sorter," I tell him.

"Okay, I will do it."

Sergei begins to walk toward the pallet jack he left at the end of the aisle.

"Sergei..." I say to him.

He turns around.

"Yes?" he asks impatiently.

"Did Bruce ask you to do any overtime?"

"No."

"Well he asked me. I said yes, but I don't want to do it. I think I'm gonna cop out on him."

Sergei walks up to the forklift.

"They never ask me for overtime," he says.

"No? Not at all?" I ask.

"Never."

"Well they ask me too much."

"I don't know why they don't ask me. Why don't they ask me? I would do it!"

Sergei raises his hands in frustration.

"I don't know, but if you want it you can have it," I reply.

"If they ask," he says in his thick Ukrainian accent, "I won't get angry."

"Talk to Bruce. Take my overtime. I don't want it."

Sergei begins to walk away toward the pallet jack at the end of the aisle. He looks back at me.

"I will take the overtime," says Sergei removing the pallet jack from the skid, "but why don't they ask me? I'm not going to call any Russian gangsters after them!"

He shakes his head in frustration and pushes the jack into the skid of cashews.

* * * * *

I lift the pallet. It's heavy. I feel it in my back. It hurts. I throw it down on the stack of already sorted pallets. It hits hard, loud and harsh. I look at my hands. They are coarse from doing this day in day out. They are filthy. It digusts me.

"Nelson!"

I look to my right. Sergei walks up and stands beside me.

"Can I ask you something?" he asks.

"Sure," I reply.

"I need to know what something means."

"Okay..."

"What does 'dingy dongy shakey shakey' mean?"

"Dingy dongy shakey shakey?" I ask with perplexed surprise, "what the hell?"

"Yes, 'dingy dongy shakey shakey'; does it mean fucking?"

"Who said this? Was it Bruce?"

"No Nelson, it was my English teacher. He said it meant fucking. Is this what it means?"

"I've never heard it before. I have no idea what it means. If your teacher says it means fucking then I guess it does."

"Okay, okay Nelson, don't worry about it..."

I walk to a large tote of paper waiting to be recycled. I wipe my hands off onto a large piece of torn newsprint. It doesn't do much, but at least I try.

"Nelson..." says Sergei.

"Yes," I respond.

"May I ask you one more thing?"

"Sure."

"What about 'hustle bustle'? What does this mean? Does it also mean fucking?"

"Why? Who said this to you? Was it some one from inside the plant?"

"Nobody. But I heard it recently."

"Because if some one from in there said it to you, tell them to kiss your ass."

"Nobody said it in there Nelson, but what does it mean?"

"It doesn't mean fucking Sergei. It means move quicker, work harder."

"Oh. Okay. Thank you Nelson."

Sergei puts on his hairnet, and pulls a pallet jack free from a nearby skid.

"I will go into the plant, and see if something needs to come out okay?" he says.

"Sure thing," I tell him.

Sergei pulls the pallet jack behind him, and walks into the plant.

Tiger Heli After Work

I get off the bus near Main and 41st. I walk to the bar at the corner, and step inside. Hockey games play on television screens bolted to the ceiling. Several men sit around drinking beer, talking, watching TV. I step up to the bar. The bartender is pulling off a draught. He has a shaved head, and a nose like a boxer's.

"What can I get you?" he asks.

"A six pack of pale ale," I tell him.

"A six of pale?" he replies, "you bet."

The bartender opens the refrigerator door behind him, pulls out a six pack of cans. He places them inside a plastic bag.

"13 bucks," he says.

I hand him a 20. He takes the bill and walks to the cash register. He hits a couple keys. The cash drawer slides out.

"$7 change," he says handing me a $5 bill and a $2 coin.

I take the money and put it in my pocket. The bartender hands me the plastic bag. I take it and thank him.

"Anytime," he says with a slight smile.

I walk to the door, step outside. I pull off a can, and stuff the the rest of the beer into my backpack. I take a deep breath of night air, and walk to the street corner. I wait for the light to change. The traffic zips by. The cars are anonymous, dark blobs of black. I watch and wait. The light changes. I cross the intersection, cut down a side street, and head for the alleyway. I pull the tab on the beer, and take a long drink. It tastes good, strong. I walk across a front lawn. The grass under my workboots is wet, glistening. It turns the tips of my steel toes black. I step down off the lawn and onto the new pavement of the alleyway. I take another good sip. I walk. It feels good. I look up into the night time sky. It's black with clouds, and rain. There's a wind. It blows the trees that line the streets. Leaves fall. I reach a street. I stop to let a car drive passed. The street is thick with the cereal mush of wet leaves. I take good haul from my beer, then give the can a shake. It's almost empty. I lift it up, finish it off, and throw the can behind a garbage pail. The can bounces off the pavement and disappears into the darkness.

I keep walking. I leave the alleyway at 48th avenue, and walk into Punjabi Market. The neighbourhood is busy, filled with people shopping the sidewalk displays. I walk passed a grocery. Boxes of bruised fruit and rain-soaked vegetables line makeshift wooden stands. I step on a green pepper as I walk passed. It's gooey guts slide like grease beneath my boots. I step to the curb and scrape the bottom of my boot against the concrete edge.

"Christ," I whisper to myself.

I lift my boot and look at the bottom of my sole. Only a few white seeds remain sticking between the crevices of tread.

"Good enough."

I stand at the curb and wait for a break in the traffic. The traffic light at 49th turns red. I cross the street. I walk toward a cafe near the corner of 49th and Main. A sign hangs in the front window. Written in black felt pen are the words:

ONE MEDIUM PEPPERONI PIZZA $5 + TAX
INTERNET CAFE $5 PER 1/2 HOUR

I step inside. The place is sparsely furnished with cheap metal chairs and tables. The floor is wet and slightly muddy. Fluorescent lights shine brightly leaving nothing to the imagination. I walk toward the register. A thin Indo-Canadian man stands behind the glass display of the counter.

"Hello," he says in a weak voice.

"Hi," I reply, "I'll have the medium pepperoni deal in the window."

"Okay," he says punching a few of the keys on the register, "that's $5.35."

I reach into my pocket and pull out the $7 change left over from the beer. I hand it over to him. He hits another key on the register. The cash drawer pops out. It lets off a small ring as it opens. He counts out the change, and places it on the counter. I pick up the coins, put them in my pocket. I turn and walk toward the front of the cafe. I watch the traffic of Main Street absent mindedly. I take my backpack off, unzip it's main pocket, and pull off another beer. I look around the cafe. Lined against the wall are three computers running screen savers. Directly beside the computers is a video game. I walk over to it. I watch the demo for a few moments. The game advertises itself as Tiger Heli. I recognize the game from when I was a boy. I haven't seen one in years. I pull a quarter out of my pocket, and place it in the coin slot. The machine registers a credit.

"Why not?" I mutter to myself.

I press the 1 player button. The game starts. I play for a few minutes, shooting furiously. I'm not doing too bad. I destroy tank after tank. But it doesn't take long before I'm overwhelmed, and the game comes to an end.

"Your pizza's ready sir," says a voice.

I back away from the game, and walk up to the counter. The man hands me a thin, white box. It's warm to the touch.

"Thanks. That's an old game," I say nodding at the Tiger Heli.

"We are getting rid of it," he says.

"Why? What's wrong with it?"

"It's too old. Nobody plays it. It makes no money."

I look back at the machine.

"I used to play it when I was a kid," I tell him.

The clerk looks at me for a couple of seconds, with a weak, ambivalent smile.

"Do you want anything to drink with your pizza?" he asks.

I look over at the drink cooler. It is filled with to the glass with cans of soda pop.

"No thanks," I reply holding up the can of beer, "I'll stick with this."

"Oh," he says.

I walk toward the front door, and push it open. I step out onto Main Street, and head in the direction of home. A drop of rain hits my hand, then another falls upon the pizza box. I open the beer, and take a sip. The smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce drifts toward me. It smells good. I can't wait to get home.

Don't Think Twice

I drop my back pack in the hallway, unzip it and remove the orange left over from lunch. I walk into the living room, sit down at the computer, and turn it on. I peel the orange, and eat it piece by piece. It tastes good, fresh, sweet. The computer finishes it's start-up. I activate MSN messenger. A small window pops up indicating I have a message. I click on it with the mouse. An internet window opens. It's a message from K. She wants to come over. I make my reply telling her "anytime". It only takes a couple moments for her response.

"How about now?" it reads.

"Now is good," I reply.

I walk to the bathroom. I wash my hands and face, and brush my teeth. It's the best I can do in the short amount of time available. I squat down, and open the cupboard doors to the bathroom vanity. I remove two condoms from an already half used box. I walk to the bedroom and place the condoms upon the lampstand by the bed. I look around the room. Loose clothing lays strewn along the floor, and the bed sheets are a mess. I begin to straighten things out. There is no reason to make the room presentable, but I do it anyway.

I walk into the living room and approach the window. The street is quiet, asleep. A light sugary frost covers the rooftops, the grass, everything. I check my watch. It reads 5:15. A car turns off Main and onto the street. It is a blue mid 90's Toyota. It is K.'s car. She pulls up to the front of the house, parks, and steps out. She is dressed in black pants and a pink hoodie. With her shoulder length dark hair, glasses, and very slight figure, she doesn't look like much, but looks can be deceiving. She opens the gate, and walks to the front door. I hear the knock. I leave the window and walk down the stairs to greet her.

"Hi," I say opening the door.

"Hi," she replies.

She begins to take off her shoes. Neither of us have much to say. Our arrangement really doesn't allow for it. She finishes taking off her shoes and begins climbing the stairs. I follow behind her. At the top of the steps she leans against the bedroom door.

"Should we even bother with preliminaries?" I ask her.

"No," she replies taking my hand and leading me into the bedroom.

K.'s transformation is uncanny, almost cliched, like something from a cheap dirty novel. Once naked, her reserved nature becomes raunchy, aggressive, and her plain, almost mousy schoolteacher looks become sexy, and appealing. When I kiss her, there is a slight taste of alcohol, but I ignore it. I'm not with her to ask questions. That is not the arrangement.

After an hour or two together, K. gets up to leave. She dresses, and walks downstairs. I escort her to the door. She puts on her shoes. I unlock the deadbolt, and open the door for her.

"I'll message you," she says stuffing her car keys into her pocket.

"Okay," I reply, "have a good night."

I close the door behind her and lock it. I ascend the stairs. I walk to the living room window, and watch as K.'s car slowly pulls away. I leave the window and walk to the bathroom. I disrobe and step into the shower. The water sprays down hard and hot. It feels good to get clean. While in the shower the thought K. having an STD crosses my mind, but it doesn't last long, and I don't really care that much either.

I step out of the shower and dry off. The apartment is quiet, cold. I walk to the bedroom. I sit down on the bed. An empty condom packet lays on the floor, torn. I crumple it with my foot, and try to think of something to do. Nothing comes to mind.