Purgatory’s Waiting Room
Ain’t it always the way? I awoke forty five minutes earlier than the 6 a.m. wake up call that I was expecting from my alarm clock. I’ve always hated when that happens because you just know that there’s no real point of waiting to fall back asleep. It usually doesn’t happen and, on that rare occasion when you can, the clock just startles the hell out of you within three minutes of finally succumbing to dreamland. You’re likely to end up more tired and miserable than you would have if you’d just gotten out of bed in the first place. Then you’d at least have already endured through those initial awkward moments of waiting for your blood to recirculate to your feet and enable you to walk to the washroom without having to lean on the sides of the bed for support. Yet another bitter reminder of your current placement in the life standings. Your only hope to make the playoffs at this point is the last wildcard berth.
There’s always that bitter chill waiting to assault the senses when we first pull back the blankets. It serves to remind us, just in case we’d forgotten while we were unconscious, that it’s still January outside. Once your head is finally cleared from the fog of sleep there’s that foreboding sense of impending gloom. That sheer, seemingly infinite blackness that early winter mornings purvey. It hardly inspires gratitude and optimism. Certainly not that alleged joy that makes us want to thank God for granting us yet another day. For me, it’s the complete opposite. While I’m not necessarily depressed, it sure does seem like an opportune time to pass peacefully in my sleep has been squandered yet again.
If there’s any benefits to be had by waking early then they are very few and far between. Besides the sarcastic reminder of still being alive, it buys me just enough time to wash my meds down with a coffee and check out the latest headline news. Perhaps I can discover some reason for celebration but no, that seldomly happens these days. Am I supposed to find comfort in knowing that MAGA hasn’t attacked us here in Canada yet and there have been no reports of any nuclear detonations? With that in mind, I head back upstairs painfully on wonky knees and swollen ankles to prepare for yet another day of prostitution.
The walk to work is not as long as it could be but it still presents its own potential health hazard. I live at the very top of a long and winding hill and the downward sidewalk slopes in the most peculiar of angles. In January it is quite common for these sidewalks to be covered in ice. I have already suffered the misfortunes of a twisted ankle and cracked ribs from past falls and, as a result, I have learned to walk very methodically to prevent history repeating itself. I won’t deny that a couple of these nasty spills were probably unduly influenced by intoxication and a lesson has been born of these miscues. Hence, the acceptance of Uber into my life.
It’s more than just the literal pain and resulting injury that worries me. It’s also having to be humiliated by the genuine concern of a younger person who may happen to come across you sprawled out helplessly like a turtle on its back.
“Are you okay, sir?” They ask compassionately, you grasping at the air pathetically in a vain attempt to roll over with some dignity.
It’s nice to see that they still respect their elders even though the sight of the old man grovelling on the ground is quite pathetic. They’re bound to offer you a hand up but you have to politely decline because you know that your body weight is just going to pull them downwards into that very same shameful heap. They might view this as an old man’s foolish pride but, realistically, you are just looking out for their health. You may already look quite heavy but there’s no need for them to discover the hard way that you’re even heavier still.
After managing to avoid any unpleasant mishaps along the brusque early morning walk, I unlocked the restaurant door and quickly entered the passcode so as to not set off the alarm. You have about 30 seconds to enter the correct code before a shrill alarm goes off and an irritating computer generated voice firmly tells you what you have already been made aware of: “The alarm has been activated and the authorities have been notified”. Fortunately the A.I. has not developed sarcasm yet and does not ride you with a smug, “And you are also a stupid asshole for setting off this alarm!”
Whether or not they could actually turn up in time to prevent any type of unlawful entrance is another thing entirely however. Being chided by a computer voice is not exactly an overly intimidating deterrent.
One morning I was that stupid asshole who tripped the alarm and I had to wait for 10 minutes until an elderly East Indian man in a security uniform showed up outside of the entrance. I assumed that he was a practicing Sikh because he was wearing a turban. After I allowed him to enter it was also quite evident that, due to a distinct gait in his walk, he also had a prosthetic leg. He seemed relieved when it turned out that I wasn’t an intruder and was not likely to beat the life out of him. I was just relieved that he was not going to admonish me.
Today there was no alarm drama and I approached the dim glow of the computer terminal to punch in. After safely navigating the perils of an icy sidewalk outside, I was rightfully less tentative about the possibility of falling on my face. Hence the confusion when I suddenly found myself falling forward into the darkness of the bar anyway. I had tripped over a rolled-up rubber bar mat that had been misplaced at the end of the previous evening’s close.
“Who the fuck would be stupid enough to leave that sitting here!” I yelled out angrily as I pulled myself up from the hard wooden floor.
The suspects would be many as most employees have never been here in the early morning hours and have no concept of how absolutely blinded you are by the pre-dawn winter darkness. Still though, I found it disturbing that it would be left directly obstructing the most travelled path in the entire establishment. This was obviously not the decision of a service industry “professional”.
I sighed and walked into the kitchen where I could finally turn on the lights. Before me sat the dry goods portion of the order that I was expected to unpack and organize accordingly. The rest of the order would be inside the walk-in fridge. The dry goods are generally the first order of the day after I first change into the comfort of my sweat pants and t-shirt. That is if I’m able to change into my sweatpants and t-shirt because on this day that notion had been rendered inconceivable. The entire hallway before me was blocked off by the supplies and empty draught kegs that had just been thoughtlessly dumped resulting in a literal Hadrian’s wall rising up before me. There was going to be no possible way of reaching the changeroom because it was on the other side of this immense structure. Seemingly, it appears that there are a great many stupid people in the delivery business as well.
The Surly Snail is extremely small in proportion to the amount of business it generates. Even in the slowest of times the back hallway is a fat man’s misery. Beer kegs and racks line the walls prioritizing an urgent ergonomic need. There is a two-tiered cart that doubles as storage for dirty dishes out of necessity because that’s how we have to use it. The initial primary purpose of this cart is for transporting heavy objects from one spot to another. It certainly can come in handy when unpacking and sorting a half ton of supplies. Unfortunately for me, that also appears unlikely on this day because it was rolled to the back of the hall at the end of last night’s closing shift and it was currently keeping my work clothes company on the other side of this mountain of dry goods before me.
“Of all the goddamn things that don’t get done around here, the one thing that you did do was completely pointless..” I mutter aloud in frustration.
I talk out loud all the time in the early morning hours. I have been caught talking to myself by others at different times as well but I’m certain they just attribute it to my age. It’s funny how younger people consider 63 to be the ripe age for senility. I used to have similar sentiments myself once upon a time. Then I turned 63! And I certainly hope that I’m not unknowingly senile. I suppose this is another aspect of the humorous irony to aging, although it becomes harder to laugh with each passing day.
I let out a sigh of resignation and grabbed a couple square boxes of canola oil to begin my task. It was at that moment that, if I didn’t already know, this was not going to be the most enjoyable day of my life. I noticed that both of the cartons that I had just lifted were drenched in a sticky, brown fluid. Upon closer inspection, it was revealed that a Coca-Cola bag-in-a-box had been broken resulting from an obvious mishandling. Now both the floor and the boxes sitting around it were coated with soda syrup. I smirked, continuing in that ironic vein, “I guess things don’t always go better with Coke afterall”.
I think it’s safe to say that pretty well everybody has their very own personalized version of Obsessive Compulsion Disorder and I am no different than anyone else. I really like to adhere to a strict regiment when it comes to fulfilling my obligated duties. I take pride in meeting the criterion that people have come to expect of me, no matter how low or high that standard may seem to others. It was apparent when I first turned on the kitchen lights that there would be a delay in organizing this delivery and I was put off by this. Now, as I gazed ruefully at this unsightly mess, I could see how it actually resembled one of those television CSI murder scenes. The sad sight was just a confirmation of my initial assumption.
My Kitchen Manager is a stoutly latino fellow named Gabriel. He usually arrives shortly after I have put the supplies away. We do have a friendly working association with one another but we are not exactly best friends. He has been grinding it for years and is also a fellow service industry “professional”. There’s no doubt, at 47, that he feels his age as well and would certainly prefer the more administrative aspect of my job to slagging it out on the line for the required 40 hours. He is still enamoured by the “chef” personae and strives for that awed creative acceptance while I have long since abandoned that ridiculous fallacy while waiting anxiously for retirement to show mercy and take me away from this madness.
I suppose he may be envious of my supervisory position and I’m constantly reminding him that there is no need to be, as I would gladly swap my position for his younger age. Still though, he seems at times to exude an underlying resentment upon arrival. Whether it’s me or just his own dissatisfaction with the circumstances of life, it still elevates my blood pressure. Knowing that I may not be done before his arrival further enhances the anxiety because, just like me, Gabriel has a habit of voicing his displeasure aloud. Hot headedness is a common trait of both the Irish and Spanish blood.
I have been trying so hard as of late to keep my mouth shut and avoid the unwelcome criticisms that have often been associated with me utilizing it. While I have been known to voice my opinions, I don’t think most people realize how often I have lost sleep worrying about the possibilities that it may be me, in fact, who somehow has it all wrong. Just last night I tossed and turned restlessly unable to sleep because I was pondering the circumstances behind Richard’s homelessness. In the end, when I finally awoke, I still regarded him as a mentally unstable addict who really isn’t worthy of any more consideration or lost sleep. Subconsciously, I still fear that maybe I should care more. But do you know what? I don’t want to. That’s because consciously I’m not willing to let him take precedence over the others that I love and obviously prefer. Is that vanity? I don’t know but it’s probably why I still continue with my psychiatric sessions.
It’s that kind of critical thought that occupies my mind when I’m undertaking the task of organizing supplies and cleaning up other people’s messes. I much prefer the intellectual effort of pondering the meaning of my existence because the actual physically required part sucks. I’d much rather not be lifting heavy objects and listening to other people’s bullshit but I do need to make money because apparently original thought doesn’t come cheap! Even deep thinkers still need to eat and pay bills!
After pushing my tired carcass through an hour of intense physical labour, my Kitchener manager Gabriel came into the kitchen from the outside world. He was also huffing and puffing, having just endured the rigours of the Canadian winter experience himself. At least he would not discover the perils of a misplaced work mat because those that had come before him, namely me, spared him that unpleasantry. I turned to him and smiled uncertainly because, as mentioned, you never know what kind of mood he’s going to display in the morning.
“It’s fucking cold outside..” he blurted out as he squeezed by me in the tiny hallway space.
As shallow and predictable as that greeting was, mundane was much preferable to the absurd alternative that this day had offered just an hour earlier. I was relieved because he appeared to be in a decent mood, an indication that the day might begin to trend upwards in a more satisfying direction. I hate surprises as I get older because they begin to hold substantially less appeal than they might have in the past. These days a surprise usually consists of an unwelcomed medical diagnosis or the embarrassment of someone having to point out that you’ve forgotten something imperative yet again.
“Be careful you don’t slip, pal. I just had to mop there because one of the pop bibs was leaking all over the place.”
I tried to show actual concern despite my own words being just as pointless. After all it was winter and his boots would have already been soaking wet to begin with.
Despite the occasional volatility of his early morning temperament, I actually did like Gabriel. He had a wife and two kids of his own to look out for and I found that very relatable to me. He was merely a reflection of myself from the past. I would oftentimes find myself trying to impart paternal advice to him which he eventually grew to consider after having met my own daughter and various grandchildren over the years. I guess the fact that they appeared to be relatively healthy and happy suggested that I wasn’t the world’s worst father.
I do completely understand how much he or any cook for that matter would prefer my job to the line. Working on a line can be very intense. They call it “the line” because of the very methodical arrangement of the required tools and supplies that are needed to provide the food items that the customer expects from having read the menu. The menu itself contains so much excessive hyperbole that it’s a wonder one still has an appetite after taking in such an abundance of metaphor. New-age adjectives like scrumpdelicious find company with inane food descriptions like “intriguing” and “curious blend”. It has been so exaggerated and yet the poor cooks have to make like Dr. Frankenstein and bring these monstrosities to life.
I have often compared the experience of being on the kitchen line to in any 80’s Vietnam war movie. It too has that line analogy. The very last stop, the “line” that has to be held whatever the cost. Whether it be tragedy or glory is going to be decided at this particular spot, at this particular time. Regardless, it ends here!
It has that very same frenetic pace that you would associate with a crew desperately trying to hold back an impending danger. There’s the sounds of urgency and fear playing over the visuals of a loosely organized chaos. A plethora of various smells permeate the air, ranging from grease and gas to pungent seasonings and somebody’s unpleasant body odour. It can be high-octane drama on a daily basis and leaves no wonder as to why there is such a high level of substance abuse issues within the trade.
While I have yet to see my buddy getting blown to pieces directly ahead of me on some unfortunate landmine, I have seen my share of work related injuries and they are not all minor. Over the years I have come to find that fire and sharp knives do not mix well with chaos and the erratic behaviour of addicts. Yet another service industry recipe. Just not the kind you’re likely to find on an informative Youtube channel. While the restaurant business does offer a comprehensive benefit package, it can provide you with a lifelong case of PTSD.
I am literally trying to make it until the age of 65 years old where I can hopefully collect my old age security pension from the Canadian government and retire into obscurity. If even that’s attainable! Who the hell even knows for sure if Canada will even exist in two years? It is a very uncertain political climate that we live in these days. Definitely not the golden years scenario that I was foolhardy enough to be counting on.
Although I have long since resisted the notion of leisure drug use, I can foresee an unexpected fentanyl overdose in my future because I don’t want my daughter’s family having to pay for my misfortune. Somewhere in between now and then I’m going to have to overcome my Catholic guilt before that could ever happen though because the church tells us that suicide is considered a great no-no to the Almighty. Literally, you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t!
When Gabriel stepped out of the changeroom he walked up to me and said, “How are you doing today?”
I smirked back and sighed out loud.
“I’m okay, bud. I’m going to try and not let a stupid delivery driver ruin my day.”
Gabe smiled and walked into the kitchen to officially begin his day and I turned toward the back door. I was going to have my ritualistic pre-workday smoke and ponder whether I was really okay in the big picture. Nicotine, despite the fact that it’s a horribly addictive substance, can sometimes come in handy. Sometimes a cigarette can provide that figurative halftime locker room speech, motivating you through till shift’s end. My morale was in need of that sort of fiery Vince Lombardi tirade.