Use the Open-face Club – The Sand-Wedge!

The hunger pangs began around 12:25 as I contemplated what I would consume for the best part of my day while at work (lunch). I hurriedly walked to Homemade Bakery across the way to purchase a pre-made sandwich. It is an understatement to call their egg-sandwiches the best in the world. It may be the forbidden Challa buns they use, always chilled and soft to the touch, or it could be the filling which is heavily peppered and containing equal parts egg and mayonnaise. Deep down, I know that a delicious treat like a Homemade Egg Sandwich is even more fantastic when eaten in the prison-like décor of the Beaumont office. Even more so when hung-ovies like I was, on this particular Sunday.

I made it through two-thirds of the 8-inch long sandwich, when I was interrupted by a small woman at the counter. She couldn’t have been more than 5-feet tall, as I could essentially met her eye-to-eye. She wore a black toque with the red and black stars that are representative of Toronto hardcore bands from my high school days, or of a common tattoo skinny girls get over their hip bones. What was a lot more interesting was her salt-and-pepper coloured facial hair around her jaw, not-unnoticeable when she spat at me an incoherent sentence of what seemed to be a language I have never heard.

“Comment?”

She repeated herself to me. Still not making sense. What was causing this impairment? Am I really that hung-over that I can’t understand? She repeated herself for the third time as she watched her husband and daughter enter the facility. She turned to them and demanded something in Spanish. I knew right away that this was going to be a very typical kind of Beaumont interaction. Confusion, mixed with miscommunication and annoyance.

I realized that the bearded lady spoke French poorly, with an extremely thick Spanish accent. Her English, when attempting to speak it, was some sort of hybrid language of all three.

I went with the family to see the locker they had rented the day before. The daughter, about age 12, translated to me in English (confusing her ‘s’ and ‘th’ sounds) about finding a new locker, as the one they had chosen is too small. I ran back to the office to see if we had a size larger then theirs, while sneaking a bite of the delicious sandwich. I brought them to the second floor, to see two different lockers of varying sizes. The three stood looking inside the lockers, wide-eyed, jumping from asking me questions in English/French and speaking Spanish with each other. The decision was up to the hairy matriarch. The husband and daughter took turns explaining to her what seemed to be the difference between the lockers in price, size, location, etc. The wife was unresponsive to her husband and daughter as they negotiated the use of space.

After deciding on the locker, I indicated the small difference that would have to be paid, since they were taking a room with larger dimensions. Again, the wife stood defensively stroking her prickly chin as the husband, with a diagram, told her how and why they would have to pay more for the locker. The daughter drew circles around numbers emphasizing that a larger locker = more expensive.

After paying the measly difference, I said goodbye to the family and devoured what was left of my lunch. I thought about having a crazy mom who wore hats with black and red stars and shaved her face.

Avis

The small spaces I was around yesterday, at B-Mont, reminded me of the other small areas in which I find myself. One new space is the Metro. Due to my project at the Douglas, I have become a regular Metro + bus commuter. The 112 leaves promptly from Jolicoeur every 20 minutes or so, headed West towards the hospital, into the suburban community of Verdun. The morning passengers are a fairly lively bunch of teenagers headed to the various high schools in the neighbourhood.

The trip from the Doug to the Metro in the afternoon is more exciting, as perhaps it is this time, between noon and five pm, when the interesting folk come out.

My last 'ride' began with my usual i-pod coma being interrupted with a passionate discourse about fictional and (potentially) non-fictional biblical anecdotes. The bald man across from me with bi-focal lenses lead the highly involved debate, making eye-contact with me at times acknowledging my seeming interest. Before I could hear the end of one of his tales, I was startled by violent nose-blowing of a young man to my four-o'clock. It was more striking to find that the idea of a kleenex was replaced by (both of) the sleeves of his hoodie on the 112, that day. His eyes were covered in eye liner, which may have been drawn on with a Sharpie. He sang loudly to the songs from the CD which played from his CD player. I watched his pant legs shake wildly as he compulsively bounced his legs. His eyes wandered and stared at the moist blots at the end of his sleeves. I wondered what he was thinking about and what ward to which he would belong.

I oscillated from the boy back to the theological conversation, and back again. It was only at the realization of my over-stimulation when my complete attention was overtly taken to a women seated beside the back door, who was vomiting profusely onto the floor of the bus with all her might. My eyes were fixated on the top of her head, which quivered as she released what seemed like two liters of heavy waste. Bright red and foul, those in her general vicinity pushed quickly towards the front of the bus, covering their noses with scarves and jacket sleeves to avoid the stench.

The bus was on the cusp from entering the Metro station, so an emergency stop wouldn't have worked. Sick-woman, at this point, was sitting up wiping her eyes, focusing her attention to a toddler beside her, who was most likely her child.

Sleeve-blower boy was the first to get up, stepping in the pile of puke as he exited the bus without any concern. I escaped safely, unscathed, and relatively grossed-out.

This experience, like some I have had at work, reminds me of how much significance can be had in one small area at one time. Whether it be intentional with personal belongings, or through nearly being coerced into encounter in borderline lunacy.

Reflections after hemmed jeans.

Feelin' alright after a somewhat productive week.

But really folks, this blog ain't about life - it's amount mini-storage.

My responsibilities at the entreposage are less than minimal. In fact, some would even remark that I have none - especially my boss. My duties consist of showing up around 9 am and turning on lights. Sometimes, I don't even have to worry about turning the alarm on/off, if Jeff shows up. Though rest assured, it's always on.

Sunday is homework day, and a day for catching a few friends on fb chat. It's too cold in the office to get all comfer-cozers.

At some point after 1 pm, but before closing time, a man will approach the office counter, often asking for Ibs or some other man who 'should be working'. This man will usually give an indeterminate description, and the profile usually fits a number of the guys who do the demenagements. Asking for the anonymous man never catches me by surprise, though I am often eager to encourage the brief of the sketchy character. The description of the man is generally: tall, Indian, has an accent, nonexistent. All I can do is apologize and state that I have not seen him.

Zoo has been the latest character of interest in my Sunday Beaumont experiences. An Asian, averaged sized man in his mid 50s with an English accent, Zoo bears a poncho-esque top with some sort of polyester bottom. He always has his lime green plush-material cowboy hat with zebra-print trim. The man goes in and out of his locker with half a dozen garbage bags, frazzled and usually wearing a look of confusion. His story is much to involved to describe fully, though his schizophrenic behaviours entice me with every interaction. Whether he is regaling me with an anecdote about his affair with 'Princess Di', or giving me his cheaply printed art with lesbian-mermaid-infused themes, his eccentric disposition reflects the tragedy of people like him, keeping garbage in 50 square-foot lockers for years at a time.