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.
hungovaries
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