Distracted

Outside the window the highway rises and falls.

"You tired Nelson?" asks my father.

"A little," I reply.

"You look tired."

The landscape is covered in deep, green and brown, BC forest. The angles of the land are sharp and acute. Ravines run to the edge of the road.

"Hey you back there," Dad calls out.

Mom is asleep in the back seat. She wakes up. Dad looks in the rearview mirror.

"What?" she replies in a groggy voice.

"You're missing all the scenery," he tells her.

"Oh. I'm just having a hard time staying awake," she explains.

"She always does this," he says to me, "she comes all the way out to see some place and she sleeps through half of it."

The car ascends the crest of a hill. A green government sign passes by. A body of water stretches off in the distance.

"Victoria, 10 kms," Dad reads aloud, "is that the Pacific?" he asks.

"The Strait of Juan de Fuca," I reply.

"Who's Juan de Fuca?"

"Some Spanish guy."

It's very overwhelming out here. I don't like it. I rub my brow. I try to think of things. I try to think of Jane languishing at home without any answers. Nothing comes to mind. I look out the window. Traffic slows down. The cars meet bumper to bumper. Two young women, and a young man sit at the side of the highway looking road dirty. There's a sign resting at the young man's sandaled feet. "VANCOUVER" it reads in black felt pen upon cardboard. I look into their faces. They look bored, weary, young.

"So how's work?" Dad asks.

"It's fine. I'm supposed to be taking on a more co-ordinating role within the next couple months. I'll be earning a couple extra bucks an hour as a result," I reply.

Dad nods, watches the road, watches traffic.

"Exciting huh?" I ask.

"Oh yeah," he replies.

We turn off the highway, and begin entering the city of Victoria. We drive in the direction of downtown. I watch the buildings and street corners pass.

"We need to find a payphone," says Dad, "I want to call your Uncle Hector and let him know we're in town. He doesn't know we're here. It'll be a good surprise for him."

The traffic downtown is dense. I point out a payphone. Dad pulls the car over to the side of the street, and parks. I power down the window.

"Where are you going?" asks Mom.

"I'm going to use that payphone across the street," Dad replies.

Dad opens the door, closes it behind him. He stands at the edge of traffic, waits for a break. A traffic light up the block turns red. The travelling vehicles slow down, then stop. Dad steps in between the cars and runs to the payphone. The peripheral sound of a bongo drum fills the air. I look to my right. Inside a park are several young people sitting in a circle smoking and watching a man playing his drums. A couple of goth kids sit nearby pulling grass and talking. People walk passed on the sidewalk. I try to think of Jane. Once again, nothing comes to mind. I watch the people in the park. My mind goes blank.

"There isn't a payphone that works in this city," says dad as he opens the door.

"What?" I reply.

Two cars collide. The sound is dull, and stupid. Dad turns around, looks at the accident. There's no real damage, just a minor fender bender. Both cars pull off to the side of the street. Dad sits down in the driver's seat, and closes the door.

"As I was saying," he continues, "I went to that phone and two others on this block, and all three were completely destroyed."

"They don't like phones around here I guess," I reply.

"That last one had 'this phone has herpes' written on it in black marker."

I begin to laugh.

"Think that's funny do you?" he asks.

"Yes," I tell him.

Dad steers the car into traffic. I can see Victoria Harbour through the streets and avenues. The sun shines off the surface of the water. It's bright, blinding. The noise of the street fills the vehicle. A bright red bus built to look like a trolley car passes by filled with tourists. Several buskers compete against each other. The smell of hotdogs, gasoline, and sea water fills the air. I stop trying to think, and just watch and wait for events to unfold on their own.

Casuals

Vincent is small, maybe 18 or 19. He pushes the skid with all his strength into the shrink wrapper. He lines it up within the painted lines, drops the forks. The pallet hits the floor hard. Vincent pulls at the roll of shrink wrap, unfurls it, and tucks it within the skid. He steps out of the wrap cage, scribbles out a pallet ID tag, and adjusts the machine's controls.

"Nelson," says Kevin S, "look at Vincent."

Vincent takes the pallet ID tag, tapes it to the front of the skid. He steps out of the cage, and sees Kevin S. and I watching. He becomes self conscious, and quickly looks away and tries to look focused.

"Think he's gonna wrap that pallet jack up with the skid?" Kevin S. asks.

I look into the cage. Sure enough, Vincent has left the jack lodged within the pallet.

"I don't know," I reply.

Vincent writes something down on a clipboard. He puts the clipboard down upon a nearby desk. He walks over to the shrink wrap cage, closes the doors, and steps over to the controls.

"This is going to be good," says Kevin S.

Kevin S. begins to laugh. Vincent looks over at Kevin S. He knows he's being laughed at, but he's not sure what about. He looks at the controls and makes sure for the second time they are at the right settings. I look at the jack within the skid, then back at Vincent.

"Vincent!" I shout.

He looks over at me.

"Don't start the wrapper," I tell him.

"Why?" he asks.

I point inside the cage.

"You've left your jack within the skid," I respond.

"Oh. Thanks," he says.

I open the doors to the cage. I take the jack by the steering column, and pull it out of the skid. I hand the jack over to Vincent. He takes it and pulls it aside.

"You came pretty close," I tell him.

"Thanks," he repeats.

"No problem," I reply.

I step away from the cage. Vincent closes the doors, and starts up the machine. The big blue arm of the wrapper begins to spin. The strident sound of stretching poly fills the warehouse. Vincent leans against the cage, and crosses his arms.

"You had to go and ruin the fun didn't you?" says Kevin S.

"I couldn't let him do it," I reply, "it wouldn't have been fair."

"Who cares about fair. It would have been hilarious," says Kevin S.

"I suppose so."

Kevin S. steps onto his forklift. He puts it in reverse and accelerates down the warehouse aisle. I step inside the shipping office and look out the window. Rain drips down the glass. I look across the parking lot. Wind blows the cedar trees that line the property. The wrapper continues to spin.