The Breaking Winds Of Change
There is a distinctive new energy that seems to come with the anticipated dawning of a brand new day. Of course this could very easily be no different from the previous days unless I were to initiate that action myself by starting it out with a fresh approach. I was fortunate to have the day off from work on this monumental occasion and I was determined to take advantage of such an opportunity. I decided to begin by proactively addressing chores that I’ve had a history of leaving to the last minute.
One of these arduous tasks meant finally making that dreaded call to the Canadian Revenue Agency and potentially wasting hours of my life that are already fleeting to begin with. Considering that it was the height of income tax season, the prospect of making contact with an actual human representative before my phone expired seemed like a tenuous proposition to begin with. And if I were to miraculously somehow make contact, the big payoff would be the humiliating admission that I’m an old person who doesn’t know a goddamn thing about technology nor do I possess the mental capacity to remember my passcode from last year.
I am a proud Canadian and, as such, I am also fully appreciative of the many diverse cultures from whence this nation has sprung. One of the big reasons that you’ll never find Canada aggressively leading an offensive charge into a war is because many of our citizens may have emigrated from the very nation that we’d be attacking. Our entire population is composed of people from every known ethnicity known to man. There is no common enemy face that our nation can identify with. We’re a virtual microcosm of the entire globe and yet we have agreed to assimilate as one culture and make the required effort to live together as harmoniously as possible.
It’s a wonderful notion..unless you are trying to get pertinent information from another person who you can’t understand because of an unsuccessful attempt at utilizing their English as a second language skillset. It’s been an exhausting experience already trying to navigate the bilingual prompting of an AI operator. When combining that with my own limited knowledge of cellular technology, you would think I would finally be ecstatic about connecting with a sentient being. Sadly, that is far from the truth.
My initial internal reaction is extreme anger towards my own government. Are you that incredibly feeble minded that you could not recognize that this particular person is obviously NOT qualified to be verbally addressing any matter in English at this point? While they may be the most wonderful of people, a heart of gold, a great mother. They are not good at communicating in the English language. In fact, they’re especially bad at it. What could have possibly convinced you otherwise?
The rage soon begins to subside, eventually dissolving into the sad realization that, in order to get elected, it was deemed necessary to cater to a movement where tolerance replaces accountability at any cost. Goodness, it might seem unusually harsh on that person’s self esteem if you were to point out their shortcomings by simply telling them the truth.
“Sorry, my friend, but you’re not quite there yet. Keep working at it and who knows? Maybe someday you’ll land that dream job of being a faceless government bureaucrat.”
Eventually a shame begins to settle in around me as I begin to seriously wonder if I might not be racist. This rollercoaster of emotion suddenly came to a screeching halt when I was suddenly disconnected. I had inadvertently hung up on her while trying to respond to a text that she had sent confirming my identity.
“Fuck!” I bellowed as I raised the phone and contemplated heaving it across my dining room.
Thankfully I didn’t and I was proud of the restraint I had displayed in having not offered such a childish reaction. There was still a semblance of unjust blame that I initially felt towards this complete stranger regardless and I did feel bad about it. It was on me ultimately. I’m the one who didn’t know how to text and talk at the same time.
I decided that I would try again at another time and congratulated myself on having at least tried. There were other tasks that were in need of conquering and picking up that Champix prescription was one that I felt I could handle. The pharmacy was in the same plaza as The Surly Snail and I could also swing by and see if an order might be needed. There were two attainable achievements that I might be able to notch on my imaginary task-master championship belt!
It just happened to be a Sunday on this particular midday venture, further reinforcing the urban myth that, besides tired religious ceremonies and professional football, Sundays were also generally regarded as a favourable day for walking. Although a lazy Christian could steadfastly maintain that, as the Lord rested on Sunday, we too should dismiss the idea of a Sunday stroll.
I started out my leisurely journey with the firm intent of not having a smoke but it was rather nice outside and I decided at the halfway point that it would not necessarily be a horrible thing to light one up. Besides, I rationalized, picking up the Champix was the first step towards actually quitting this nasty habit entirely and I wasn’t quite there yet. It wouldn’t be like I’d fallen off the wagon. Not yet anyway..
As I walked towards the entrance I couldn’t help but notice a group of enthused teens trying to raise charitable contributions for their school’s girls volleyball team. It included a most awkward attempt at promiscuity by these young underdeveloped female athletes that was obviously geared towards lonely middle aged men. That left me feeling uncomfortable and kind of embarrassed for the questionable mores of our society.
It also cheesed my ass, an old favourite that my father would often use when vehemently proclaiming his dismay. The Canadian taxpayers put an awful lot of money towards the educational system with every paycheque. You would think that a school could put some of this money towards the girls volleyball team instead of pimping out their students. However, that same old union fallacy applies to teachers in Ontario. Of course most of our tax dollars should go into their pension fund. Again, the squeaky wheel gets the grease.
I took a lesson from this morning’s encounter with the bureaucrat and her questionable English skills. I looked directly at them, smiling stupidly like perhaps I didn’t speak the language and it seemed to work perfectly fine. As I slipped past them, I couldn’t help but see two boys who were deliberately staring downward at their feet, shamefully avoiding eye contact. They were holding a cardboard placard bearing the handwritten, magic marker message “Cutbacks hurt Girl’s Volleyball!!”. I suppose the inclusion of that extra exclamation mark was supposed to underscore the gravity of the situation.
Having been a young man at one time, I knew that these boys couldn’t give a shit about girls volleyball. This was instead a shameless attempt at feigning support so that the girls might take notice and consider having sex with them at a later date.
“You shrewd little bastards.” I mumbled under my breath.
I’d be sure to look out for these weasels at future fundraising events that my granddaughters might actively be involved with. Initially, I was relieved to know that some teenage behavioural patterns had yet to be affected by the redundant shift in our culture. I then had another thought and this one proved to be rather alarming. These poor bastards might actually end up as female volleyball players sometime in the future if this charade didn’t pan out. Again with the conflicting emotions!
While I paid for the prescription the lady behind the counter asked politely if I had any questions for the pharmacist.
“No. I think I should be okay.” I said “My doctor was already talking to me about it this morning..”
“Did he tell you about the dreams?”
Another voice queried in an overly authoritarian tone and I quickly discovered it was the pharmacist as he squeezed in front of the clerk anyways despite my politely declining the need for his counselling. I was taken off guard momentarily.
“Dreams?” I pointlessly stammered back.
“Yes. Your doctor should’ve let you know that vivid, sometimes even disturbing dreams can occur as a side effect from Champix.”
This pharmacist came across as a little too intense for me and I was initially unable to read what his agenda could be. He was a bespectacled,balding man who seemed like a low level James Bond villain. Maybe something from the Flint or Matt Helm universe.
Was he insinuating that my personal doctor may have been negligent by not going into a detailed summary scrutinizing the potential for bad dreams? Or was he actually just openly hostile because he was so inwardly jealous of certified medical practitioners in general?
“Well I get my share of unusual dreams anyway..” I laughed nervously.
“What kind of dreams?” He demanded to know.
I uneasily eyed the others that were standing all around and slowly shook my head. Apparently, he had a disdain for psychologists as well. I was certainly not going to be detailing any of my dreams in front of a group of onlookers.
“I’m..uh..I’m not really into talking about them here.” I admitted, furrowing my brow in confusion.
The pharmacist stared at me through his horn-rimmed glasses for what seemed like an unusually long time. It was as if his decision was going to have potentially life-altering repercussions. Sure, maybe this gentleman would go on to quit smoking but who’s to say he’s not going to try and sell them in a dark alley somewhere downtown. Possibly try to extract sexual favours from those poor souls hopelessly hooked on the nicotine and who are desperately trying to quit smoking themselves.
“It’s not like this is oxycontin or something, is it? ‘Cos otherwise I don’t really wanna start it then..”
He seemed to respond favourably to me asking his opinion and his demeanour seemed to brighten.
“No.” He insisted “If you want to quit smoking then you should take them.”
“Okay.” I replied with a nod.
He waved a vigilant finger at me as I began to turn away.
“Just be sure to follow the instructions precisely. And be ready for possible nightmares..”
I figured he’d be the kind of guy who needed the last word and so I just nodded again, this time in silence. I really just wanted to get the hell out of there and as far away as I could before he would be demanding to see my papers. This unhinged pharmacist seemed to be in obvious need of something more than just acknowledgement of his craft.
“Would you like to give money for the Huron Heights girls volleyball program?”
One of the young girls made a last ditch attempt to shake me down as I was coming out of the pharmacy. Her voice had that unique tone that’s often associated with the insincere assurance that “you can’t find prices any lower than this”. I just smiled again like a slightly self-conscious man who may have just accidentally farted in public. It was preferable to my original inclination, which was to have her ask their pimp from the teacher’s union for some cash.
I quickly realized that use of the words “pimp” and “cash” in the same sentence, particularly while engaging with minors, could certainly get misconstrued. This ill-advised attempt at droll social commentary could result in a very bad ending for me. Naturally, with Catholic Guilt syndrome citing squatter’s rights to my soul, I resisted the temptation. I’m sure that there is a special place in hell reserved for those unable to properly read a room. I’ll bet they’re heaved into that very same inferno as the late night comedians who laugh smugly at their own jokes.. even when they don’t land.
Whether I could speak the language or not, with the look of rancor on that girl’s face, one might’ve thought that I did actually fart in front of them and that it had been rather fetid indeed.
Moments later, I walked into The Surly Snail as it was just across the parking lot from the pharmacy. Lunch hadn’t really started yet and, as mentioned, I figured it would be a good time to gauge the potential for an order the following day. I liked to keep a close eye on the restaurant supplies even if it’s my day off. It’s just as much for me as it is for Kevin and Peter. I hate that feeling of incompetence and self-loathing that creeps into my psyche if I happen to overlook an item. There literally seems like a hundred different items that I’m expected to keep us stocked with and it’s not out of the realm of possibility that you could overlook coarse salt or 6” cocktail straws.
Gabe seems to take sadistic pleasure when I inadvertently miss something, brazenly assuming he never would. It used to get under my skin but that’s changed now. I let him do the ordering sometimes when I’m away and the results have spoken quite clearly in my defence. Again, money must be invested with a financial profit being the end result. I suspect he has yet to comprehend this.
Joan seemed surprised when I entered and approached me with a mischievous smile.
“Oh, you should’ve stayed home today and enjoyed being away from this..”
Her tone indicated that something had happened and as a result, I would be left feeling very irritable. Of course, just knowing that I was about to become pissed off by the sheer tone of Joan’s greeting set the gears of agitation into motion. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath before inquiring about the depths of anger I would be required to mine.
“What’s going on?” I asked plainly, trying mightily to appear carefree.
“Gabe and Rudy have been going at it all morning.” She replied with a disapproving frown.
A very familiar scenario played out quickly in my mind. This is the very same notion that has been reoccurring every single day for the last 2 years of my life. I should just turn and walk away from this, one part of me calmly suggested. Come on, man! Don’t be stupid. There was that opposing voice that seemed a little too frantic to trust completely. However, it does bribe your emotions with the stark reminder of that desperate need for more money. It is forcefully slam dunked right over top of you. This is why you heed my advice, Mothafucka! And so grimacing, I shook my head and walked into the kitchen.
Gabe’s cheeks were flushed and it was apparent that something had incited his Spanish passion.
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Gabe fumed “Did Joan call you? Did she tell you to come in?”
I furrowed my brow and paused before speaking. While I have often been known for being overly emotional myself, I tend to require some sort of provocation before going absolutely ballistic. That was Gabe’s unfortunate tendency and I took note of it for future reference. There would surely be an occasion in the near future where we might be chatting amiably and, like a grizzled boxing coach, I could impart that piece of knowledge to him. Don’t assume anything until there is actually something worthy of consideration.
“Don’t just throw the big left hook randomly, son.” I imagined another world-weary former villain suggesting, “You’re leaving yourself open to your opponent’s overhand right!”
“No, Joan didn’t call me. I was picking up some meds at the pharmacy and I thought I’d pop by and see if we needed anything.”
That was literally the truth of it and now I was hoping that Gabe would begin to calm down.
No. Instead he pointed at Rudy who was chopping romaine lettuce with his head down and appeared to be considering a more tactical response.
“This guy’s late again! He’s late every fuckin’ day..And he won’t do what I tell him..”
“That’s because what you tell me is stupid!” Rudy shot back defiantly, “You’re writing chop romaine on the prep list. We’ve already got two bins chopped in the walk-in. We don’t need chopped romaine!”
“We need back-up!” Gabe returned “You can’t be chopping lettuce on the fly in the middle of a busy lunch.”
“It’s Sunday , bro! We’re not going to have a busy lunch and, even if we did, we have plenty of romaine lettuce.”
I had to side with Rudy on that point. Gabe was over-the-top with his penchant for ensuring backups for everything. Oftentimes we would inexplicably have backups to the backups. This would, of course, lead to over ordering and having to toss out backups that had become spoiled.
Their eyes both turned to me with a particular curiosity. Perhaps an indication as to whom I will be siding with or if I was going to completely disregard the situation entirely. Past experiences have made them fully aware of the fact that I’m not the kind of person to keep my mouth shut. What they’re not aware of, however, is the information that I have and will not divulge to them as per my managerial duty to the owners. Both Kevin and Peter are fully cognizant of the fact that, if it were up to me, both of these guys would be fighting for their beliefs somewhere other than The Surly Snail. They both might have proper intentions but they’re misguided nevertheless.
“Rudy’s not completely wrong.” I was straight up with Gabe. “You overthink things and do have a tendency to panic unnecessarily as a result..”
Gabe looked at me as if I’d tore the very heart from his chest and was holding it before him mockingly, insinuating that same woeful devastation that’s usually reserved for a cheating spouse discovered in the midst of an unspeakable carnal betrayal.
“What about him?” Gabe retorted angrily, pointing at his co-worker “He’s late for work every day and nobody does a goddamn thing about it..”
It never seems to occur to Gabe that, whilst in the process of blowing his top, he neglects to note that the object of his disdain is standing directly beside him and brandishing a very sharp knife. I’ve been in some rather uncomfortable situations myself and have concluded that it’s probably advisable to consider these things before initiating confrontation. Yet another wise lesson to be learned from the greasy, old coach, I thought to myself.
I turned my attention to Rudy and decided to broach the subject of his tardiness for the umpteenth time. He’d already been written up twice and, just like baseball, a third time meant that you were out. Unlike baseball though, a third strike here had an entirely different outcome. Here it meant that you could be terminated without severance.
Baseball is a game though and you’re likely to have a guaranteed contract and probably another at bat. In the labour force, a third strike is mostly indicative of tough times ahead, no income for the foreseeable future and a job reference probably best left off the resume.
I am well aware that these younger people may not respect my authority and I at this point in my life, I honestly don’t really care what they think. I was once one of them myself. An up and coming adult who contained a seething resentment towards authority. What they think is of little consequence. What the people who pay me think is the reason that I get paid.
“Rudy, come on man. You literally live down the street and Gabe is right about that. There is no reason for you to be late all the time..”
I was trying to be level-headed and somewhat methodical in my approach but Gabe’s fierce pride would not allow that.
“That’s ‘cos you get high every single night and play video games until the sun comes up!”
“High?” Rudy’s voice rose shrilly “You’re fucking high right now! You’re constantly munching down the gummies, bro..”
“Well so are you…And you’re a Mommy’s boy who still lives at home!”
In that heated exchange I was unable to learn of nothing new. I had always been aware of the proclivities of my kitchen staff and I was not the drill Sergeant from one of those aforementioned Vietnam films. I knew that most of these folks were also just younger versions of myself and they too were disillusioned to find themselves cooking in the service industry instead of that grand cowboys and astronauts life that they had envisioned for themselves in their younger days.
“HEY!” I yelled but not as forcefully as capital letters might indicate.
I was also very aware that Gabe was a hothead and Rudy was holding a potential weapon, so firm but not angrily. Just louder than I normally spoke otherwise. It worked temporarily though and they looked at me spitefully, challenging me, as if warranting their attention would need to be justified.
“Listen,” I continued, “both of you guys are good at what you do. I won’t deny you of that but you seriously need to understand that you’re fucking cooks!”
There was that immediate glare that I had anticipated and was very quick to not underscore their very obvious self worth.
“And I am a cook too.” I was hastily added, alleviating any sense of hierarchical privilege.
“But I am an old cook now, boys. And if you guys work real hard then maybe you’ll get to be an old, fat goof just like me. Standing before you as a supervisor because, guess what? That’s my reward for 45 years of flipping burgers and tossing fries..”
I walked over to the dish pit and found a measuring cup. Both of them stood silent and watched as I filled it up with tap water. Perhaps they were just baffled by what this old man could possibly be up to. He was 63 and dementia could not be ruled out entirely.
“I wanna show you guys something a fat, old cook once showed me a long, long time ago..” I continued, sticking both the pointing and index fingers of my right hand into the measuring cup of water.
I still had their attention and it dawned on me that might be a result of them being high on cannabis.
“Whatever,” I said to myself, “I just hope this works.”
Bearing that thought in mind, I removed my two fingers from the cup of water and flicked the water arrogantly in their direction. Before they could react defensively, I held up the measuring cup before them.
“You see that?” I asked dramatically.
I moved the cup back and forth before their eyes for effect, assuring that they could take in the cup of water.
“The water that’s missing from this cup right now is how much we’d be missed by this restaurant..”
I was proud of myself for still somehow managing to find this analogy hiding in my own tired memory banks.
“That’s it guys! Not very fuckin’ much unfortunately..”
And still, I had their rapt, undivided attention. I then turned my attention to Rudy first and raised an eyebrow.
“Rudy, I don’t try to rag you out constantly for being late but you are constantly late anyhow..It’s almost like you don’t really care and if you don’t care then why would you expect somebody would want to pay you out of their own pocket? If you can’t respect that then I think it’s safe to say that you’re bound for homelessness..’Cos I ain’t gonna carry you..”
I turned to see Gabe warming up to my approach and I was presciently amused in the knowledge that his change of heart was fleeting. I took that brief opportunity to nod towards Gabe in acknowledgement before turning quickly back to Rudy’s scornful gaze.
“I think it’s safe to say that Gabe here is not going to carry you either, so my advice to you is simple. Show up on time, do what’s asked and you’ll probably continue to earn money as a result of that effort. That’s what we used to call working back in the day.”
I raised my finger and cut Rudy off before his obligatory paper mache defence rebuttal. I shifted my gaze to an unsuspecting Gabe who, for a few precious seconds, was feeling vindication in thinking that I would be backing him up.
“And you, pal..you gotta stop with this inferiority complex bullshit..”
Surprisingly, it wasn’t Gabe who one might’ve suspected would be the first to break this holy golden silence. It was Rudy’s protest that shattered the temporary respite.
“Whaddya mean inferiority complex? This guy acts like Donald Trump! He thinks he’s better than everybody else..”
I gazed at Rudy quickly and tried to recall that familiar look of paternal forewarning that I would use so effectively with the girls when they had wandered precariously close to my tolerance threshold.
“That’s because he wants to be respected just like you do, Rudy. The problem here is that you guys are literally in competition for a respect that neither one of you is ever going to get. If you both act like idiots then everyone around you is definitely not going to respect you.”
The glorious sound of nothingness returned once again and I let the two of them ruminate on that observation for a brief moment. It was in my nature, of course, to add a smartass quip to lessen the tension.
“Man, with all of this competing nonsense, I can’t imagine what’s next to come.” I chuckled weakly, “Is the bathing suit portion of the competition next? ‘Cos I’m just letting you know, you’d both score horribly in that one..”
So far, so good. Now it was time to wrap it up on a high note. The coup de grace. The big Vegas ending.
“Guys, if you want respect then the only way you’re going to earn it is by embracing the team spirit philosophy. If nobody wants to be on the same team as you then I think you’ll eventually have to look at yourself…”
I pointed to the front of the restaurant where the customers would soon be filing in, ensuring that we’d continue to have gainful employment for a while longer.
“Joan and the servers out there..They’re the offense of this team. And us? Us, back here? We’re the defence. This is where the buck stops! This line right here is going to be the difference that decides whether we win or we lose. Do you know why that is?”
While I was pretty sure that both of them would be familiar with those tired sports cliches, I couldn’t be absolute about it, and so I quickly blurted out my own inspirational half-time moto.
“It’s the defence that wins championships, boys! Now remember this and play as goddamn unit!”
On that note, I turned and marched directly out of the kitchen and continued out the front door of the restaurant. There would be no definitive conclusion as to whether or not Gabe and Rudy might take some kind of inspiration from my monologue or not. Perhaps they might find common ground in the fact that they both thought I was an asshole. Who knows? I do know that I put forth an effort and I could continue to live with myself regardless.
It was while crossing at the intersection that I realized I was now committed to walking home, rather than taking an Uber to avoid the physical discomfort of trudging uphill.
“Oh well.” I said with tired resignation, pulling my cigarettes out of my coat pocket.
About an hour later, in the midst of playing a mediocre round of video golf on my Playstation, it occurred to me that I had also completely forgot to check on the restaurant supplies for a potential order.
“Oh well.”
Not surprisingly, the same tired resignation. I was going to let the great Universe decide this one on my behalf. If we ran out of something then I suppose I would have to deal with the consequences tomorrow. At that very moment I was finding great freedom in not giving a damn.
The next couple weeks seemed to come and go rather uneventfully and I took relief in that stale monotony. I had been taking my champix medication faithfully along with the prerequisite blood pressure meds, a common staple of the fat person’s pharmaceutical menu.
There was one particular dream that could have been attributed to the Champix but it was not in the least bit terrifying. It was undoubtedly graphic in nature but it was more aligned with the kind of dreams that adult men and prepubescent teenage boys rather enjoy. I awoke on that particular night wondering if perhaps I hadn’t been taking the wrong medication. If anything I found myself extolling the virtues of Champix and finding an upside to the withdrawal process.
I was also continuing to pound away on the treadmill slowly increasing my daily requirements, determined to banish my unsightly beer gut to faded memory. If I found myself bored and naturally leaning towards that old habit of smoking, I would instead jump on the treadmill until I was left gasping for breath and unable to smoke anyhow. It seemed to be working!
While I still continued to drink, I was making a conscious choice to not drink on particular days of the week. Another method of trying to change my patterned behaviour. I didn’t go to Red’s Smokehouse during that time as well and I was definitely missing that time with Lenny.
I kept thinking about my last visit and the Billy Joel “Piano man” reference that Lenny had used to describe his desire to pass on that evening’s invitation. For some strange reason I had the sneaking suspicion that he might be tired of the barfly circuit and its colourful cast of characters, myself included. No doubt his absence resonated with me and I too had decided to take pause as a result.
I dearly loved the man like my own brother and I most certainly would not want him to be uncomfortable in my company. I’d always felt a very strong connection to him and would be truly devastated if I was no longer able to enjoy his friendship.
I felt it might be best if I were to avoid pestering him on the phone like some forlorn lovesick teenager and wait until our next counselling appointment which was upcoming. He still called but I was kind of brief on the phone with him, explaining my behaviour away to the Champix and work related issues.
Finally, one night I received a text from him about 10:30 p.m. It also happened to be the night before our next scheduled appointment.
“Are you mad at me for something?” was the cryptic message.
“No. Not at all. Why would you think that?”
“We haven’t gone out for beers in a while.”
Oh, I thought, maybe I’ve completely overreacted to the Billy Joel reference and it just happened to coincide with other completely random events.
“I thought maybe you were trying to quit drinking..” I confessed, via text.
I suppose there are times when texting is the preferred mode for that embarrassing plea of guilt for being an idiot.
“WHAT?”
“Please don’t use all capitals. I feel stupid as is.”
There was a pause and then another text.
“We’re definitely going for beers tomorrow after our session.”
I felt much lighter suddenly and proceeded to send a smiley face emoji and an agreeable thumb’s up.