society

Decorations

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Last night I was in  front of a chalkboard covered in  undecipherable symbols. People were dancing – backs on the ground, hands behind their head  with hips bouncing up and down as if they were a swing bridge.  The group wore identical grey tee-shirts with a colourful swirling label pasted on the front and bright pink  pants.  All were in very good condition, not an ounce of jiggling.  They gave their presentation, and after everyone clapped.  I said I must go downstairs and rearrange the Christmas lights. It was April and getting late.

I went into the basement of the old school. The well worn steps were steep, shaky and crackling with every movement. Once the door closed behind me, the world turned black. I hit the bottom.  I took my phone out and pressed the torch. Where was the light switch?  I spanned every wall and the ceiling looking for illumination. Nothing. No bulbs, switches, or any hope for light.

As I walked along the bottom, I saw cubicles on each side of a long dark corridor. The storage compartments were sectioned off into small three by three-foot spaces, jammed to the top with colourful cardboard crates. Letters and numbers scribed, but unknown. Each compartment had a chicken wire front door framed with two-by-two pieces of wood  with an engraved number on top, but no order. On each door was a lock. I forgot to bring keys.

I shone the light in each compartment, hoping I’d see a Christmas decorations label. I finally found what I was looking for on the bottom shelf of number fifteen. The door was locked. However, unlike the other locks, this one needed numbers. I used the last seven digits of my school identification.  The metal clicked.

I opened a box and took the tree lights out, pulling the cord while wrapping the green and red bulbs around my shoulder and hand.  A colourful circle of lights.  My arm was getting sore. Just as I thought my arm would fall off, the lights came to a stop and lit up like, well, a Christmas tree. I put the glowing  bundle into a bag labelled “Decorations,” closed and locked the door.

I started walking back down the corridor. I couldn’t find the stairs I came down. I was confused and lost. Just as my eyes started to swell, a glowing rectangle frame appeared. I opened the door. Bright lights. Many voices. I smelled pine,  banana and old spice.

I went to a directions counter. I knew the server. Her English was good, but not proficient enough to understand my predicament.  I said hello. She was very concerned because she didn’t give the right amount of change to the previous customer. I said, don’t worry I know the person.  I found her.  She was flexing in the hallway. Her body bent in pink pants. I told her the counter person was upset because she didn’t give her the right change. She said, laughing, don’t worry she can keep it.

The Struggle

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While sitting in my very comfortable and safe  backyard I was thinking about human struggles. Doesn’t everybody struggle? Isn’t this the human condition? Aren’t we always fighting some internal issue?

I look across the street and I see three adults and two children, basically two families, living in a two-bedroom main floor apartment. They are probably paying an inflated and unreasonable price for the place (greedy landlords are sweeping my city). I also see them working like dogs. The blue car man leaves his house at six a.m. and doesn’t come back until six p.m. The silver car person drops her kid off at day care at seven and isn’t home until the evening. Ditto with the other red car adult. They are working too many hours while living in expensive and cramped conditions. Financial struggle for everyone except the landlord.

Then there’s another young couple living next door to the financial struggle. They are out walking every day for hours. One day I saw a very expensive treadmill delivered to their house. I’ve also seen food delivery perhaps one too many times (again due to working too many hours). He works in IT, so he sits  in front of a screen all day. She also has a sedentary job in the health sector (I’ve met them a few times). Jobs with eight hours of little or no movement. One can guess their struggle. A difficult problem for everyone in our desk trapped culture.

Then I think about my minor struggle with a little too much wine on a Friday night. I am very, very lucky and I am thankful  everyday – I don’t have financial struggles – so lucky to get a mortgage when the price of housing was low. I don’t have weight issues because I can afford to eat good quality food. I also have lots of time to go for walks in the woods or around my neighbourhood or take my bike for a spin or run whenever the conditions are ripe. Yes, I am so lucky. I have one struggle, but it could be so much worse.

However, it’s all about how you deal with the struggle, right? Buddhists tell you life is a struggle, and the reason why we struggle is impermanence – shit happens outside your control. Hence the reason to live in the now – accept the now. Fredrick Douglass, the American slavery abolitionist: “If there is no struggle, there is no progress.” Or my favourite by Lucretius, the Roman poet, “Life is one long struggle in the dark.” Now, ain’t that the truth.

It’s all about how you deal with the struggle. Is it negative? Enough to draw you down into the pits of despair and leave you groping in the dark for anything solid and familiar. Or do you rise above the struggle and stand a top a mountain and shout – everything is fine and become so much wiser rising above the challenges life brings.  Or how about just accepting the fact we all struggle, it’s not a big deal. Accept it and move on. Don’t we just finish one struggle only to have another bounce up? I have no idea. But right now, I have to take my empties back to the bottle depot and go weigh myself.

Ward 14

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Last night I stepped out of a cab – directions unknown. The rain poured in slanted silver sheets. I was saddled with a horribly disgusting passenger. The object next to me was all black and gooey as if covered in shiny tar. I have no idea where he came from. He was just there.

You would have a hard time telling if the blob riding with me was human. The thing rolled out of the cab and lay in a dirty puddle, floating like a lung oyster in the toilet. And the putrid smell, decaying organic matter not of this universe. The sick shit was my roommate and I couldn’t have walked into a more horrible condition.

I was renting a cramped but clean studio apartment from a guy who worked with me at the hospital. I was very sad because my previous roommate was an outstanding fellow – kind, considerate and the most honorable human I’ve ever met. My landlord hooked me up with the new roomy but warned me to be careful. Honour was not a genuine blob quality.  I had no choice because rents were so high in my city, one had to take on a roommate. I got stuck with a piece of shit. Soaring costs and terrible humans cause havoc on social fabrics.

I got home with misery following and decided to go for a run. The apartment was close to the hospital where I worked. I ran around the hospital and then went inside because I was getting wet. As I ran through the hospital, I saw a guy slouched over on a bench with his head in his hands. I went over and asked him if he was all right. He lifted his head; his eyes rimmed raw red, his face clean and never shaven.

He was carrying flowers – all purple, red and white, but they were sagging and shaking in his hands. I asked if he was all right. He said he was fine, but he didn’t know how to get to ward fourteen. My mouth dropped. The worse ward in the hospital. Once you go into ward fourteen, you weren’t leaving without a uniformed escort. I pointed to the candy-striped elevator. Only one ride to ward fourteen. I hugged him. He thanked me, lowered his head, and got on the elevator. A grey woman wearing a white paper hat shaped like a boat looked at me, smiled and nodded her head.

I finished my run through the hospital and went home. Immediately, I checked all my secret hiding spots. My valuables were still in place. I went into the living room and spotted the black disgusting slug on my couch. I thought about asking him to move because he was staining the furniture, but I didn’t want to anger him. Let sleeping dogs lie, literally. I went and took a shower to remove the hospital and sweat from my bones. When I came out, the slug was gone, replaced with a paper hat. The stain removed from my couch.

What? You can’t help a guy out.

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A troubling incident happened a few days ago.  I was brain dead from lingering wine excess (no excuse, pal), waiting for my best mate outside the smoothie store – a health jab after the debauchery. To kill time and shake the cobwebs, I took a stroll around the little strip mall near the purée fruit boutique when this fellow walked up and said,  “Hey pal I’m struggling. Can you help me buy a pair of work boots?”

Now the dude wasn’t down and out looking. Not in the stereo-typical sense (no needle hanging from his arm). He was in good shape, tanned and covered in impressive and expensive ink. He’d obviously spent a considerable amount of time outside. He looked like a construction dude.  Of course, with my numb and stupid brain, I said, “Sorry pal I don’t have any cash.” Truth. I didn’t and haven’t carried actual cash since the early two thousands.

After rejecting the dude, I just walked away.  Right after me he asked another guy, and crickets. I got home and slammed my head on the table. Bang, bang. What was I thinking?  I should’ve walked up to the guy and said, “Hey,  let’s go inside and I’ll buy you some boots.” How expensive can they be? A couple of hundred bucks? I’m not a rich guy but I can surely afford to help some dude out. Isn’t this my social responsibility?

My best mate, wouldn’t bat an eye;  she would’ve walked into the store and either bought his boots outright or at least bought a gift card to help the man out (the voucher idea came right after my bruised forehead). She is the same person who would make sandwiches in the evening and then ride her bike to work and hand them out to those who needed them. I’d take half of her humanity.

A few days after the incident (ironically), I came across an article about Simone Weil, the French philosopher, mystic and all-round super-humanitarian. A woman who as a child refused to eat sugar in support of soldiers soaking in the stinking trenches of World War One. She even fought in the Spanish Civil war even though she was short-sighted and couldn’t shoot.  And what I can’t give up a hundred bucks to help some guy. Geeze, I spend that on Costco steaks. I’m sure I could’ve given up some luxury (and many I have) to help a man who’s just trying to get ahead. I’m so sorry Simone, I let you down.

The universe tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Dude, you live a great life, and you have so much. You couldn’t help some guy who needed shoes? How grateful are you? How much do you care about humanity (you sure profess it’s greatness)?” The universe just tossed me a ball, an easy shot and I let the ball bounce behind me – game over. Thankfully, the universe is forgiving. I’ve taken this as a lesson.  I can still win the match. I won’t ever miss an easy opportunity when a ball lands in my court.

Burning Down the House

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The greatest  gift to give a teenager (so they say) is teaching them how to cook. The obvious benefit is an option from throwing bad food in a microwave.  Another is precious time away from a screen and spending gleeful hours with a potential filled young person. You can make a difference. Ok, so I got that off a parenting website, “Teenage Monsters.”

Anyway, my niece came over a while back and together we made carbonara and Caesar salad  with homemade bread. The only problem with the carbonara is while cooking the pancetta, it got very smoky in the house. Our fire alarm started screaming like a banshee. Now we have a security system, meaning when the alarm goes off, we usually get a call from the company and if they can’t reach us, hotline to emergency services.

Weirdly,  I didn’t get a call or notice on my phone.  We kept looking out the window while waving towels over the alarm – not sure if the fire department was called or not. All our doors and windows were open, even though it was below freezing.  Every fan blasting on max. Then we heard sirens blaring with lights a- flashing.  The big red trucks stopped in front of our house. Curtains open, nosy eyes, chins a-wagging with,  Hey look they have an alarm system, the idiots.

My niece ever the brave one,  ran for cover shouting: “Don’t tell them I’m here.”  “What?” I said. “They’re firemen, not cops. And you watch too much TV.”  Ok this has potential for learning lesson number two, but before I could take her outside she ran, tail between her legs,  flying  down the  basement stairs.

Left alone, I went outside in my slippers and wool socks and explained to the very understanding firemen:

“Sorry, we were making carbonara and cooking the bacon (not sure they’d know pancetta), but then boom too much smoke. I musta missed the call from our security company. I am really sorry.”

“You used bacon? Not they way I make it.  I use pancetta,” said the fireman, smirking.

“Yea, next time I’ll use pancetta. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Dinner was saved?” asked the fireman.

“Yep.”

“Then all is good. You’re safe and so is dinner. That’s all that matters.”

“Again, I’m so sorry.”

“Not a problem,” said the very understanding high-res man, “better a nice chat on the sidewalk then pulling bodies out.” (Ok he didn’t really say that, but)

I turned and walked  back into our pancetta lingering freezing cold house.  I checked my phone. The alarm company called but I didn’t hear the ring (curse you fruit company). I want to go over to the firehall and cook them dinner with my niece out of appreciation.

A few weeks later, however,  I got a letter from the fire department. Your first alarm is free. After that five hundred bucks for the second call and then a thousand for the third. My first thought, Do I really need an alarm? Second thought, maybe we’ll order carbonara and I’ll teach my niece how to pay with my credit card. Oh wait, that’s a lesson she knows very well.

Apple Sucks

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“De phone, de phone has arrived.”  The fruit company announces. We leave early, thinking maybe grab some lunch and then a movie after I pick up my new phone. I bought it online the night before, so all I have to do is walk in and pick it up. I get to the fruit store and say, “I know I’m early, but can I grab my phone?” As I open the email and actually read the stupid thing, I notice at the bottom: “Please bring photo ID.” Well, shiver me timbers. I didn’t read the whole email, surprise, surprise. Now, in my defence it was about the twentieth email they sent me. “Shit,” I say to the nice fruit representative, “I have a photo of my ID on my old fruit phone.  Nope. Government ID only, sorry,” she says with a half-jerked smile. Yep gotta watch tiny retail people with a little bit of power and a rule. They will shit all over you and who wouldn’t when your wage doesn’t cover rent.

I phone my car passenger and explain the situation. I walk with the pace of an Olympian to the car.  Then Mr. Impatient gets a golden idea, “Well. I can probably drive home, grab my wallet and be back before my passenger even gets down the stairs to the underground parking.” You sad sorry moron. When will you learn? I get in the car, fly out of the garage and zoom down the causeway.  I get a call, “Hey where are you?” “Yea, sorry I’m halfway home. Meet me at the fruit store in twenty.”  The line dies. I can feel the  sardonic smirk down the highway between us. I get half-way home when I remember, I don’t have my keys, so I can’t get into the house without throwing the barbeque through the window.

I call back, but before I even speak, “You don’t have your keys, numbskull. You gave them to me this morning. Remember? I don’t want the pocket bulge you said. ” “That’s right, I say.” Passenger says,  “Ok, meet me in front of the drugstore. No better yet, meet me in in front of the bank.” “Ok,” I say, but am I really listening? I get to the drug store. I call. “Where are you?” “In front of the bank like I told you.” “Oh shit.” I scoot around the drug store and drive over to the bank. I see the passenger’s  head, shaking with disgust and then while sliding into the car, “Do you want me to drive? You seem a little tense.”

We drive home, get my wallet, and go back into the phone store. I gingerly put my Government ID on the counter. We wait. Dude tries to sell me shit I don’t need. Thanks. I walk out of the store new phone in pocket, bulging like square fruit in a round tree.

I go home. So many passwords to renew and new fruit wants to use my face for ID. Nah, Apple doesn’t suck – you do.

Lest We Forget

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I woke up this morning, looked out the window to silence and cold. Where are the school buses and the people going to work? And then I slapped myself in the head. How could I?

 I pulled a cup of warm java to my lips and read about a dude getting gunned down in the street, “bullets riddled his back and he fell into the street.”  A little too harsh first thing in the morning, so let’s read something else.  I open my other book and was faced with a dude jumping off a cliff in alcohol induced frivolity. Divers found his body stuck in three feet of mud.  The idea of death brought me to  soldiers sitting in stinking,  wet and cold mud trenches. Then to other heroes blowing on their fingers to keep the cold off as they sat in a frozen fox hole surrounded by newly fallen snow. Warm fingers equal  warm triggers.  And the fear. Not knowing if today was your last day on earth.

The reading passages weren’t  a coincidence. Someone was knocking on my dull brain reminding me of the  many men  who died for our democracy, for our freedom. Deaths that allow me to sit in a comfortable chair, sip a warm beverage and read whatever I like.  I was walking with my niece  in the mall a few days ago. I bought a poppy from a vet and put money into his bucket. An action I should’ve done weeks ago.  As we walked away,  she asked, “Why did you give him money? It’s not like anyone cares.” Ok, so after the shock,  I picked my jaw up off the floor and said, “How’s your German? Because no victory in the war and you’re speaking German. And the colour of your eyes? Ah, the work camp for you.”

I’m also a bit worried because this year I kept forgetting. In the past, this memorable day was an occasion  – go to a service, walk around the row of crosses. (I just looked at my watch and missed the 11/11/11.  I’ll get the last 11 – 11 minutes. I stop.   A moment of silence, just in time.)  This year the occasion nearly slipped by. It took me a few minutes in this morning to remember it was Remembrance Day. It took me so long to get my poppy on, just a few days ago. In fact, yesterday, when I walked to my car I saw my poppy had fallen off. It lay in the snow almost buried. Again, not a coincidence.

Yes, I almost forgot it was Remembrance Day, leading me to another thought. My mother-in-law is ninety-three years old. She was a teenager during the Nazi occupation of Belgium. Using her age as a guide, how many World War Two vets are left?  With my blank out memory and my young niece’s who cares attitude, how long will it be before the Wars and the men who died for freedom are forgotten. It’ll be a very sad day when  “Lest we Forget” becomes a reality.

Sober thoughts

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I don’t go to AA (alcoholics anonymous) although I have considered the option more than once. Who doesn’t during that morning after when your head feels like soccer ball batted around by Liverpool? I also think it’s a great organization that’s saved millions of lives. However, I do like to go “dry” several times a year. A plight that’s been particularly hard recently.

On a monthly dry surge, I ran into a few problems in places that sell alcohol. I get it. Restaurants and bars make a lot of money from booze and in these pandemic times, they need all the extra cash they can get. A reason why I always tip twenty-five percent. At least. (Even if I know my salad was just dragged across the floor.)

Recently, I went out for dinner at a popular pizza chain. A pleasant server came to the table and asked if anyone wanted something to drink. One person ordered a very over-priced glass of wine (I get it. Money. Pandemic.). Another asked for a something and coke. The daily special. Reasonable price if you don’t mind drinking alcohol, you could start your truck with. When it was my turn, I asked, “Do you have any alcohol-free beer?”  The poor server looked at me as thought I just got off the Martian shuttle. I ordered a diet soda.

The next night we went to a bar in the hotel where we were staying. This time I ordered a virgin Caesar – Clamato juice (Ok who came up with this? Some dude is sitting on a sunny patio, drinking tomato juice when an epiphany sounds, “You know what this drink needs? Clam juice.”), tabasco, spices and rimmed with salt.  The drink is also garnished with salad on a stick. This one, had a pickle, spicy green bean and celery. Now, the virgin, of course, means no vodka. With one of these sexless babies on the table you fly right under the sloppy, slurring radar, no one has a clue you’re sober.

However, my second drink was a bit of a scare. I ordered a soda with ice and lime. The thought here was a mock vodka and soda – the calorie conscious drink of the year. But the server brought the drink in a massive cup, super big gulp size. Not very inconspicuous. One look at this drink and, “Hey buddy maybe you need a meeting.”

Now, yea you’re right. I shouldn’t give a shit what other people think. And really, I don’t. But perhaps owners, bartenders and servers should have a bit of sensitivity. If a person orders a non-alcoholic drink. There’s a reason. Not only for health reasons, but the a sober person doesn’t want to be excluded from the excitement of vomiting, slurred words and a million “I love you, man.” Owners, managers, it’s not a big deal to have an alcohol free beer. Even Mexico has an NA beer. And that’s saying something.

NB: This Naked Mind is also a wonderful resource for quitting or slowing down alcohol use.

 

The Mall Walk

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Let me describe the weather. It’s brutally cold. So cold cat’s ears fall off. So cold that in thirty minutes your nose turns black if left naked. So cold our city hit number nine on the list of coldest places on the planet. Right up there with the frozen Northern tundra and Vostok Station, Antarctica. Polar bear and penguin weather. And what do you do on frigid days? You walk the mall, but  you must go early. Before the teen hoards wake up and hound their mothers to zip outside, risk frostbite while warming the mini-van and drive them to the mall.

We got there early. The stores weren’t even open and parking was only a twenty-five metre Olympic sprint to the main door. The mall does retain a special magic in early morning especially during the holidays. Lovely to look at the empty Santa workshop (without lines of snot dripping adolescent munchkins)  or enjoy Valentine hearts plastered everywhere like a kindergarten classroom. Even the security dudes don’t give you a second thought because they’re more interested in their morning cup of java.

Today however, I was shocked. After we walked around (5438 steps to be precise) I looked into the food court after ordering my ham and eggs and my jaw smacked the short-lived clean floor below me. Look! A retired dude. Oh my, a happy group of retired women.  Another group of grey haired men.  Look a retired couple. Oh shit that’s us. But we don’t look like the others hanging around the vaccinated eating area, right? I zip to a mirror. Hard to tell in toque and mask. Phew!

Then another slap to the head. Look it’s all the retired people who can’t afford to go to Phoenix or Palm Springs. We are included although even if we had the cash I’m not so sure we’d go with all the restrictions and the global virus disaster. Nope we are happy sitting here in minus thirty-seven freezing our asses off and bingeing Netflix. Who am I kidding? Time to grab the little dog and …

Now would I rather be walking among the California palms or skidding on ice patches? Would I rather be sipping a local California Chardonnay or sitting in front of my TV watching the allied attack on Italy? Would I rather be sucking air cold enough to freeze my lungs solid or constantly worried that I might not make it home. I don’t know but there’s always next year, right? (Didn’t I say this last year?) Hopefully the decision in twelve months will be, do I wear my mask because it’s retro cool?

Side Story

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Free picture: book, eyeglasses, geography, product ...So, I’m reading this article and it’s about a women who spent time in Paris jotting down notes and observations about people who get on and off the bus – a woman runs to catch a bus and finally does at an intersection- Why was she late? Where was she going? What is her side story? Or about this guy who’s rapidly texting. Is he breaking up with someone or is he making dinner plans? We don’t know. We make side stories about our observations. Sometimes good. Sometimes naught.

A kid runs to catch a train in New York. He has a basketball under his arm and as he stands in the doorway, the door bops back and forth unable to close. The passengers look at the kid in anger. “Just let the fucking door close,” they say with darting, laser eyes. About thirty seconds later a woman hobbling with her cane comes up to the door and smiles at the boy. He lets her pass and then walks on the train. The door closes and the train moves on. Now without the side story – his grandmother, aunt or whomever with mobility problems perceive the kid as a nuisance. Without our sense of compassion, he’s just a little puke slowing the train down.

I was thinking on my run this morning, that before we make horrible judgments about people we should find out or at least consider what is causing people to react in certain ways. The homeless guy asking for change is not a drug addict or a thief who’s too lazy to get a job. Maybe he’s incapable of working because of a physical or mental disability. Maybe he’s living on the streets even though he has a part time job because he can’t afford rent and the rules at the shelter do not coordinate with his job needs so he’s forced to live on the streets.

Just as this was passing through my endorphin riddled brain this morning, I passed a guy, saying, “Good Morning,” as I do everyone. A little further on, my brain said, “You know this dude.” I’m sure I’ve seen him before, but a long, long time ago. The last time I saw him he wasn’t in good shape. He was suffering from a few rounds of cancer therapy. I did my turn, and I was going to engage him on the way back. “Hey, aren’t you that guy who had two large dogs? I haven’t seen you here for ages, literally years. You’re looking really good.” Yep, I had the whole conversation mapped out in my head. By the time I made my way around the pond, he was gone. I lost a golden opportunity.

Now, I’m left to my imagination. Two years ago, he flew down to Mexico and met up with a faith healer. The man was magical, sending his cancer into remission and the last few years he’s been working at his old job as dispatcher for a delivery company. He loves the work, but it’s very busy especially now as it’s leading up to Christmas. He has two children who live in the city, and he sees them quite regularly. The dogs are fine but old and they don’t want to walk any more. Plus, he’s getting too old to manage them on his walks.