Anyways, here's another anecdote.
After SB's instructions, I went to the floor 3 to show some tramps* a mini-storage. We approached the long row of evenly spaced upper and lower mini units that occupy most of this particular wing. When we turned the corner to the adjecent row, I saw a pair of burly legs protruding from a lower mini locker. At first, I was kind of startled, then mostly angered. Though I hate the job mostly, I felt that I couldn't let some nasty bastard sleep here. The tramps were also put off, but I couldn't really understand what they were saying. I passed the unit with the legs sticking out, and recognized the man immediately - he had asked me my name earlier that week, which is a sign of insanity in my books. He was lying there with his eyes closed, topless, with his large belly pressed against the cold cement flooring. I told him he is not allowed to stay here like this, and that mini storage is 'not a motel'. He began to collect himself and casually put his glasses on. I watched him collect his things as he smiled at me and told me he was leaving.
To be honest, I kind of wanted to call the cops on him. Few moments in life happen where you can really have pure, legitimized authority. Maybe I wanted to call the Po to get back at the bearded lady for ruining my life. My heart was racing as I threatened and told him to leave. The tramps were clearly impressed with my assertiveness and amused by my poor french.
*In this context, I use the word 'tramp' as SB used it at the time: he was referring to four quintessential Quebecoise women - aged between 25 and 35 - they were wearing cheap denim and tight t-shirts with bejeweled slogans or some shit. One of them had rubber platforms. All of them had the same build; bottom heavy with large boobs, and thin, greasy hair. They have the worst french accents, smoke cheap cigarettes which result in a set of gnarly teeth.
