Three Arrivals, Always in the Morning (Part Three)

"...the police officer said to him, 'I'm not gonna charge you if you take my advice: respect your parents. They brought you into this world. They feed you, they clothe you, they send you to school. When you're a fine young man then you'll do your father proud.'

"Then he went to Fort Murray. He said, 'Dad, I'm leaving home.' I said, 'You're always welcome back here, but make sure you've got the money...it costs money to go to Fort Murray.'

"Well, he was good for a while, but then he fell in with these kids, drinkin' and causin' trouble. So I booked a flight and went over there, he didn't even know I was coming. I went into his place and he wasn't there, but another kid was there. This kid said 'I'm just staying here until James gets back,' and I said, 'No you aren't!' And I straightened that kid out.

"One day James called me and said 'Dad, I want to buy this house but I don't have the money.' So I sent him some money and told him that he'd better make sure he saved for the rest and make sure he got that house.

"Well, now he's in Alberta and he has a four-car garage. Married a nice lady, gave me a grandson."

Meanwhile, among the homeless, the conversation is about the weather and religion, and about holiday meals and the churches that have offered them charity in the bitter cold. The elderly -- who have always had homes, and now flee them out of loneliness -- talk with disgust about the celebrity who was spotted at the mall: his terrible music, his unearned celebrity, their own unconcern that they wish today's youth would share.

Fat Americans and Skinny Italians

Italians conspire and shush politics with their wife-birds, bedraggled, bluntly confused. They are Europe's ambassadors to this crass continent of progress and cannibalism; we are the ones who fall the fastest, but our huge gravity will pull them down with us, all those staring dark-eyed peasants and pilgrims and artists. They would declare us guilty if we believed in their gods but their quaint piety is antichrist to our admittedly divided forces.

"You have broken the rules and wandered too far from us!" they scream at the back-ends of our boats, and we respond: "Denial of your beloved elder statesmen! They are too fat on food that took them too long to cook and eat! We, here, eat only the quick things, which we have invented ourselves, the burgers, the beans! Our fat is made of proteins alien to your history, and therefore we are brand new men and women!"

Eat Your Eskimo Pie with the Six Brown Brothers While Playing Tops and Anagrams: A 1930s Trend Retrospective

The New Yorker was in a tizzy about humanism throughout 1930, as the philosophy had suddenly come back into vogue and gained national attention. Thanks to Charles Francis Potter and the establishment of The First Humanist Society of New York, discussing humanism became a frequent pastime among the New York intelligentsia. You can't pick up an issue of the magazine during this period without reading stories and sly jabs about the debates, the propaganda, and the reactionary religious response to the movement.

In the May 31, 1930 issue, Donald Moffat wrote "The Crime at Mrs. Ward's," in which a young man -- fed up with all the latest fads -- actually SHOOTS the guests at a swanky party when they are unable to tell him what humanism is. This supposedly indicates that lots of people gave lip-service to humanism at the time, and they loved to talk about it, but none of them had the faintest idea what it was all about (which seems strange to me, frankly).

Anyway, the interesting thing about the story isn't the heavy-handed plot, it's the long list of PREVIOUS crazes that are presented. Want to know what the highbrow fads were in New York between 1905 and 1930? Here you go.

...my friend acquired a leather-burning set, and happily joined the nation in burning Indian heads on leather--he was too young for the first ping-pong wave. He shouted 'Uneeda Biscuit' to street-car conductors and cabbies, 'Get a horse' to stalled motorists, and said 'ZuZu' to the groceryman. He was among the first of the 1906 diabolo addicts, and as the years rolled by he similarly took to his bosom put-and-take tops, Eskimo Pie, mah-jongg, Coué, scofflawry, categories (or Guggenheim), Queen Marie, crossword puzzles, sex, anagrams, badminton, Yo-Yo tops, and backgammon, as each in turn came into fashion. He seideled to Hoboken and taxied to Harlem when those were the things to do, and wrote little pieces on the social, artistic, and economic significance of....Charlie Chaplin, the Six Brown Brothers, short skirts, Joe Jackson, Lillian Gish, Will Rogers, the return of the corset, Rudy Valée, 'The Well of Loneliness,' Amos 'n' Andy, D. H. Lawrence, Krazy Kat, long skirts, Paul Whiteman, and kindred modern phenomena. He returned from France last summer wearing a beret and espadrilles, and he'd thrown away the top part of his bathing suit.

Whew! Some of them are self-explanatory. Here are my thoughts on the others that require a bit more explanation:

• Uneeda Biscuit: I assume this was just a joke on the name of the biscuit -- "Hey, you need a biscuit" -- along the lines of other knee-slappers at the time like "Do you have Prince Albert in a can? Then you'd better let him out!"
• Zuzu: A ginger snap brand. Their advertisements said "For a bang-up time take five cents to the grocery and ask for Zuzu ginger snaps. You'll hit the mark every time!" I guess this was similar to the hordes of people who walk into Tim Horton's and say "Rrrrrroll up the rim to win!" It's the adoption of a catchphrase.
• Seidel: I have no idea what this means. A seidel was a glass of beer, but how this relates to traveling to Hoboken I don't know.
• I also don't get the "beret and espadrilles" and "threw away the top half of his bathing suit" references.

I love a good piece of culture-spew, and I also love a good mystery! Any insights?

The Littlest Scammer

Some people seem like they're born to scam, even if they don't have to. It's like there's some part of the human brain devoted to "getting something for nothing," and in some people that brain-part has gotten cancerous and absorbed everything else in their skulls except for the little reptile nub that controls breathing.

For the last year I've been noticing a girl at the local Tim Horton's coffee shop. She's short and chubby and unpretty, and every time I see her she is trying to get something for free. Whether it's asking me endlessly if I have a spare cigarette, or concocting some ridiculous story about how she got the wrong order that morning and now she'd like a replacement coffee, or walking from table to table and canvassing for change...I never see this girl have an interaction that does not involve a scam.

Her performance on Friday took the cake. She walked into the store just as two university students were walking out, and she yelled "Hey, you're Judy, right? Hey Judy, wait!" as the students kept saying "What? No, we're not Judy, no..." and frantically trying to escape the girl's clutches. I can only assume this was the prelude to a scam that didn't work.

Anyway, she walked in and -- as usual -- started asking the patrons for cigarettes. Then she made a big show of counting her change and going "Oh no! Damn! I hate that!" When nobody responded, she got into line -- pushing in front of the last person -- and kept counting her change. "Oh no! Damn!"

As she got closer to the front of the line she became more and more demonstrative, trying to engage the people around her in The Scam. "Damn! I hate this, you know? Hey, you know?" Finally, with nobody biting, she actually yelled across the store at two men who were about to leave.

"Hey guys! You know how when you only have $1.50, and you want to get a coffee AND a Coke, you know how annoying that is?"

"No," said one of the men, baffled.

"I hate that!" she shouted. "I've only got $1.50 and I need $3.00 to get a coffee AND a Coke! I hate when this happens!"

"Yeah," said the men, and they scurried out the door.

The scammer eventually just bought the coffee, presumably because the rest of us are accustomed to her performances. It must be hard to carry on a racket -- even one so small -- in the same store over and over again. It must be PARTICULARLY hard when you have an unpleasant demeanor, as she does. Successful scammers need more than brute persistence, they also need charm.

Yes, The Littlest Scammer annoys me.

Happyhuman Report: The Good Mom

During most of my adult years I have had a low-level loathing for children. I understand that they're "little people" and therefore essential, but they're also loud and manipulative and messy...in other words, small adults with poor impulse control.

Part of my bias is due to never spending much time with children, so all I'm aware of are their most obnoxious qualities. I still haven't spent enough time with them to grow to ADORE them, but I have found myself paying attention to GOOD children -- not the blatantly spoiled ones that tend to draw the most attention -- and I've got to say that I have fallen totally in love with a few kids. Very few.

But nothing makes me happier than seeing good children whose PARENTS are good as well; the parent-child bond is something sweet and heartening to behold. During lunch today I sat next to a mother and her two sons, and even though they were rambunctious and emitted a constant spray of crumbs and powdered sugar, their mother was possibly one of the most wonderful mothers I've ever eavesdropped on.

The boys were probably aged three and four, and while the mother ordered lunch they came and sat at the table next to me. The older one was tormenting his younger sibling in this ingenious way.

OLDER: You're a baby-stick.

YOUNGER: Stop saying that!

OLDER: You're a baaaaby-stick. You're a baaaaaaby-stick. You're a monnnsssster. You're a draaaaagon.

YOUNGER: Stop it! Stop it!

The mother arrived and gradually calmed the children down using misdirection -- "Look, it's snowing!" and "Did you see your friend Ryan at school today?" They became so quiet that I managed to get back to my book, but just when Gimli was threatening to chop Saruman's head off I heard this:

MOTHER: Did you know that some people are colour blind?

OLDER: What's that?

MOTHER: Hmmm. Let's say they're looking at something that's blue -- like your cup -- they might think it's actually brown!

YOUNGER: But it's blue!

MOTHER: They see it as brown.

YOUNGER: How?

MOTHER: Maybe, if a boy with that kind of colour-blindness put on brown pants and blue socks...he'd think that both his pants AND his socks were BROWN!

OLDER: Why does he think that blue is brown?

MOTHER: He just sees it that way.

YOUNGER: How do we see?

MOTHER: Well...your eyes see things, and then they tell your brain what they see.

YOUNGER: How does that work?

MOTHER: I don't really know. When we get home we can look it up in a book.

YOUNGER: Okay.

Wow. Not only is this mother describing colour blindness in a way that her children can somewhat understand, but she's also telling them that they can learn more information about it...in a book!

It's nice to know that those kids will grow up to be curious, smart, and capable. Even if one of them is a baby-stick.

A Very Stinky Lunchour

The last time I quoted a conversation between two prototypical "Stinkies," the transcription was referred to as "a weird sort of poetry." I couldn't have agreed more.

Now I'm happy to present you with an extended transcript of BOTH SIDES of a stinky conversation, including a bonus "Muffy vs. Stinky" moment at the end.

During lunch today at Tim Horton's, the stinkies sat down at the table next to me as I was trying to write on my portable "Alphasmart Neo." The male stinky (Robert) wears suspenders and looks a bit like a turtle. The female's plumage is brighter -- pink shoes and fuzzy baby-blue pantsuit -- but her mental abilities appear far below Robert's...she repeats herself endlessly and always seems to be annoying him.

Their conversation here starts with the two of them sitting down, then the female stinky lurching to her feet and asking:

You want a donut?

No, I don't want a tea donut, ohhh.

One honey dip. You want it?

Nooo.

She buys a box of timbits and puts it on the table, then stands.

You be here for a while? I'm goin' home now.

You don't need that coat.

I'm cold, my back's cold.

Ohhhh.

I don't wanna get cold on my back. I'm goin' home now. You want your coat?

NO I don't want my coat.

Goin' home now. Goin' home now.

She leaves the store. Robert, alone, sits quietly for a while, then he starts leaning toward me and saying "Ma'am? Ma'am? Ma'am?" I ignore him because I know that if I make any sort of response, he'll start talking and he won't leave me alone.

Fortunately he is interrupted by the store's mentally handicapped employee. This is amusing because the employee really likes Robert, but Robert obviously DOES NOT return the sentiment. The employee keeps telling Robert not to eat donuts because they're bad for his health and will give him a belly. The employee won't go away. He thinks Robert is his best friend.

I become aware that even the stinkies have a pecking order and I feel less bad for ignoring him.

Eventually the woman comes back. She talks with Robert for a bit, and soon I start transcribing again.

It won't last that long. Won't last that long. Got a honey dip, another honey cruller, one honey dip. Got that one. He doesn't like that, you know that? Doesn't like honey cruller. He won't eat that cruller.

How do YOU know what he ain't gonna have?

One boston cream that he'll eat tonight. One boston cream that he'll eat tonight. I tole you.

(A moment of blissful silence).

They makin' honey crullers. You think they makin' honey crullers? You think they makin' honey crullers?

HOW DO I KNOW!

Two of them back there. They two of them. You think they makin' honey crullers? You think they makin' honey crullers?

Suddenly Robert leans toward me and starts saying "Ma'am? Ma'am?" again. I ignore him, pretending to be busy. The female stinky asks him what he wants and he says "I wanna know if she gets a SIGNAL on that thing," gesturing at the keyboard. "MA'AM! MA'AM!" The female stinky says "She's busy" and Robert says "I don't care, I'LL GET MY ANSWER. MA'AM! MA'AM! MA'AM!"

He is now literally YELLING at me and the people in the store are looking at us. I glance up at him and he says "Do you get a signal on that thing?" I say "no" and go back to typing.

The female stinky says "That's a guy, not a ma'am." However confused the female stinky seems to be, I suddenly realize that she's the more socially capable one.

Robert is very disgruntled, muttering at an old lady nearby who's been staring at us. The old lady says -- by way of obvious explanation -- "She's busy," and Robert says "He wants to be like that? He wants to be like THAT?" There is some degree of gender confusion going on now. I continue typing as though nothing's happening

Eventually he calms down. I don't dare transcribe any further now that he's got his eyes on me.

Empowering the Servile Employee

It goes without saying that serving customers at Tim Horton's was not an empowering job.

I worked there for five years between 1994 and 1999, and while the owners were fantastic and we usually had good managers, workers, and customers, a shift couldn't go by without some jerk trying to "put you in your place" (meaning, make you feel bad and inferior).

As a result we felt justified in empowering ourselves in passive-aggressive ways. The employee motto was "the customers are always right...except when they are wrong" and it was open season on evil, obnoxious, and greedy people.

I now present portraits of each type of person, and techniques of empowering yourself when confronted by them.

The evil people behaved with undisguised maliciousness. They'd come in angry about something that had happened to them at work, and they'd instantly try to mess you up by being intimidating or deliberately confusing. They wanted to find something to yell at you about, and if you weren't going to screw up accidentally they'd make sure you did it in some other way.

They'd order something, then say that they didn't order it. They'd claim that you shortchanged them, even though you didn't. They'd mumble their orders, then scream at you when you asked them to speak up. They'd watch you like a hawk and question your every move: "Did you wash your hands? When were the donuts made? I said I DID want a tray, aren't you listening to me? Do you want me to call your boss and complain about you?"

What set the evil people apart from the simply anal people was the smirk on their faces: they made sure that you knew that they were out to get you, because they knew you couldn't call them on it.

But the perfect weapon against these people was an equally evil smirk in response. Just as you couldn''t refuse to serve them because they were smirking, THEY couldn't complain that you were smirking BACK. I followed their orders, and I was always polite, but I'd SMIRK at them in the most obnoxious way, and they HATED that. I'm sure it spoiled all their fun.

Plus, you had nothing to fear from such people: if you were a good employee, you knew your manager wouldn't give such complaints a second thought. So when the evil customers pulled out their trump card -- "I'm going to talk to your manager" -- I'd always reply "She'll be in tomorrow at 9am...do you want me to write down our store number for you?"

Obnoxious customers behaved as though they were part of a performance called "entertaining everybody at Tim Horton's." They'd crack annoying jokes or ask you "funny questions." They'd put on a big show of deciding what to order. What they considered to be entertainment was what other people called "a waste of time."

There was a kid who used to come in who we called "The Orange Drink Kid." He'd always say he wanted an "orange drink," and when you tried to clarify -- "you want a peach drink, right?" -- he'd say "no, I want whatever's orange-coloured." He would pick out his twenty timbits one at a time, giving a running commentary on each decision. He'd ask for HALF of a timbit, or say stuff like "How many can I get for 83.25 cents?"

Obnoxious customers weren't just annoying to the staff, they were annoying to EVERYBODY. So you could very easily be rude to them and refuse to put up with their crap. It helped that they tended to do the same routine every time, so you could be prepared: "We don't serve anything called 'orange drink,' so look at the menu and call me when you can name what you want." You could just walk away from them and leave them chuckling to themselves, or you could bypass them entirely and take the next customer until they got hungry enough to stop acting stupid.

A subset of obnoxious customers were those who'd bypass the speaker and drive right to the drive-thru window to order. Drive-thru had to be done in a rigid way because it could so easily go haywire, so a person who just decided to order at the window was potentially screwing you up.

It was easy to deal with these people: you pretended not to see them. You'd hear them "ding" at the speaker and then you'd hear their car speed off, giving you time to quickly run to a part of the store where they couldn't see you. Then you'd amuse yourself serving other customers, doing dishes, or sweeping the floor. After a few minutes you'd come back and pretend to notice the furious guy at the drive-thru window, and if he complained you could say "since you didn't order at the speaker, I assumed you drove off." This was IRONCLAD.

The Greedy people wanted something for free; they wanted to bypass the rules. They knew that bagels could not be microwaved or sliced and still be purchased at "bulk bagel" prices, and they knew that they couldn't get a raisin tea biscuit instead of a plain tea biscuit with their soup deals.

But they'd ask for this stuff anyway, and then act surprised and offended when you refused. They assumed that by making enough of a stink you would eventually just give in.

The key to dealing with these people was to know the rules, know the situation, and know your manager. If you were 100% certain that the people were breaking the rules, and the situation offered you some free time to argue about it, and if you knew your manager would back you up, you could have SO MUCH FUN simply refusing. You had to be polite, but also firm, without any waffling: no, I can't do that, it's against the rules. No.

If your manager was a wimp or there was a huge line-up, though, you'd have to give in.

Another type of greedy person was the one who'd order something, take it away, and then hand it back to you and say "actually, can I trade this in and get something else?" The rules said you had to obey, but it was fun to shame them publically anyway. You'd take the food out of their hand and then dramatically throw it into the garbage, and everybody would gasp. Then you'd politely hand them their next item of food as they sputtered "I didn't think you'd throw it away!"

We had to throw it away. And we threw everything out at night anyway. But it was GREAT fun to make them look like they were snatching the food from starving third-world children.

BONUS:

It always surprises me that customers will be unpleasant to the people who prepare their food. They know what is freshest, and -- if you're particularly nasty -- they can spit in your drinks. You might think that, just because they're standing in front of you, they can't get a foreign substance into your coffee...but what if they rub their finger in something gross, then stick their finger into the coffee while they stir it?

I did spit in coffee, but only once, for a particularly evil regular customer. Otherwise I was always sure not to muck with people's food.

But here's the most important thing to remember: if you're nice to the servers, and they see you enough, you may start to get deals: the freshest coffee, free stuff, and little bits of rule bending. I was very happy to slice the bulk bagels for NICE customers...but you always needed to warn them, otherwise they'd come back and say "Why won't you do it for me? That OTHER person always does!"

My Little Black Cloud of Mishaps

Sometimes it seems like the world is out to get me. You know this is leading to a story about intense frustration, so let's get right to the point.

Sunday, December 16th: a tremendous snowstorm -- the second in three weeks -- wallops my little town.

It's the night of Club Abstract's Christmas party. Since the party is mainly for staff members, they insist you arrive before 10pm so all hands can lock the doors and retreat into debauchery. With this in mind I call a cab at 8:45 and wait.

And wait. And wait. Once again a cab driver has been unable to find me, and instead of calling to check my address he's simply driven away, leaving me without transportation. At 9:30 I am frantically talking to the cab company: they can send somebody else, but not anytime soon; they're booked solid with Christmas parties and the roads are terrible. The fact that THEY screwed up doesn't seem to change the situation.

I make a snap decision. I put on my sturdiest boots and begin to walk, over twelve inches of mostly-uncleared snow, through 60kph winds. Here's a brief excerpt so you can share the joy with me. I make an appearance at the end that turned out surprisingly well. I figured that if I died like a stranded Jack London character, they could use my camera to learn about my last desperate moments.



A survivor, I arrive at Club Abstract...and discover that I'm dressed like a bar skank at a formal event. Alright, maybe I should have asked about the night's "tone."

I feel terribly out of place, I brood about the inevitable walk home, I get increasingly nervous and repetative. People are looking at me strangely. Eventually I discover that my blood sugar is catastrophically low; the walk through the snowstorm has done me in.

A sweet bartender serves me Shirley Temples, I eat a bag of Skittles, I acknowledge that things couldn't possibly get worse.

THEN THE SOLE OF MY RIGHT BOOT FALLS OFF. I cannot walk back home, in a snowstorm, post-insulin shock, with only one boot. I want to kill myself.

Fortunately a quick-thinking staff member gives me an early Christmas gift: duct tape.



Desperate for home, my little black cloud parts long enough for me to grab an impossible cab. I count my considerable blessings.

The next morning I walk to work; a half-hour ordeal through a city paralyzed by the storm. I stop at Tim Horton's for food and realize I've left my wallet at home. I only have petty change with which to buy lunch. I am going to cry.

I sit down to eat my paltry food, I reach into my bag to give myself insulin...and realize I've forgotten my insulin as well. I've come all the way to work and I can't buy or eat anything.

My heart has gone cold and squishy. I gently put my head on the table. I cover my head with my hands and press, scratching my scalp, moaning slightly. I have had a terrible, terrible weekend. I am actually looking forward to going to work; I can't get hit by a car while sitting at my desk, probably. I do not feel safe in the world.

I wait patiently for a cab to take me home so I can grab my wallet, my insulin, and return to work. This costs me twenty dollars. Smiling over its shoulder, my little black cloud of mishaps laughs and wanders off to torture another soul, hopefully not you.

The Ambitious Kitchener/Waterloo BusWalk Tour: Route One

ROUTE ONE: Stanley Park (In which our intrepid explorer discovers the plan's weaknesses). Go here for pictures!



I'm doing these routes in numerical order, and this is my first one...but fortunately I've been this way before. My friend Clay used to live in Stanley Park, though now he's famous in Japan for drawing hardcore anime porn.

I've packed Skittles and cola and a camera. I'd considered bringing a microphone in order to capture the whole sight, thought, and sound impression, but that would have been overdoing it.

I'm open to all possibilities except mugging, I have no priorities. I figure I'll get off at the furthest point and take a zig-zag, shady route back. This tour is about exploring new things, not revisitng old things.

* * *

Sitting in the shade, on the grass in front of a school called Crestwood. Fifteen minutes and I'm already lost, exactly as I'd hoped to be. This isn't exactly suburbia -- the houses are too old and the streets too orderly -- but it's certainly off the beaten track. You can't tell if a road will take you to a traffic artery or to yet another dead-end crescent, and while I don't begrudge a wrong turn I HATE retracing my footsteps.

This is a rest to get my bearings and enjoy the shaded grass. I'd like to say it's a pretty school, but like so many Southern Ontario schools it appears to be built on a 1960's plan: single storey, red brick, lots of angles, lack of flair. I could be anywhere.

The weather is oppressively, beautifully hot. Low-flying planes make it sound even hotter. Vague nautical associations. Vague nausea. Forebodings.

* * *

I have travelled far and talked to elderly people, who drank summery drinks on their front porch and pointed me in the general direction of downtown Kitchener. The wife thought I was particularly stupid. Men are repairing their roofs and carrying boxes from apartment to car, keeping to the shade. Some women have strollers, but not many. I orient myself by power lines and the sound of River Road, which I don't believe actually follows a river, unless it's one of the ones my ancestors bricked up and buried long ago.

* * *

Middle-class homes are generally boring, so exploring residential areas is like walking endlessly in circles. Now that I'm walking through the comparatively interesting Shantz Park, I think maybe these adventures should become a series of park tours? Now that I'm away from the ashphalt and the traffic, that idea sounds pretty good.

This is a wide strip of grassland and dense forest that runs parallel to the distant expressway. The only vehicles I can hear are motorcycles, and they're very far away. Soon I can't hear them anymore either. I'm sitting on a bench that's more moss than wood, carved with old names and initials. No garbage here, no people. The moths are of the small white kind, cat-chaseable but with no cats, no animals at all that I can see.

I go deeper, further. I am in the wilderness. Culverts bleed the recent rains and feed ropes of nearly-dead vines in long, sloping hollows. Poison ivy and flowers and endless shade. A single jogger passes me, then a man with his daughter. Otherwise it's a ghost trail. Just the breeze, which gradually blends with approaching traffic. After walking forever I am near the end of the park.

* * *

After exiting the secluded shady forest I am where I least expected to be: Ottawa Street. It's a major four-lane thoroughfare, sunny, shadeless, radiating, SWELTERING. I want to take a detour through a cooler area but I know that Ottawa Street is my only path across the expressway; if I stay on this side I'll NEVER get home. I'll die and the truckers will find my bones.

Apparently I've travelled in a huge loop and now I'm boiling, I'm sweating terribly. My sunscreen is long gone, I have no sunglasses, I'm out of liquid, I think I'm losing my mind. There is no shady place to sit down and I'm breathing exhaust fumes that are physically, tangibly hot. I'm lost in a desert of pavement and cars and I know my skin is baking. I'm light-headed and woozy, almost sunstruck. I must get out of the sun. Pronto. Now.

I keep walking until I reach an area where people are SUPPOSED to walk: across the expressway and into an oasis. An air-conditioned Tim Horton's.

The staff is surly but the drinks are cold and sweet. My blood sugar is far too low and I'm red and drenched and deshevelled. I sit with old men, skateboard kids, construction workers, ostentatiously typing. Gradually my blood sugar returns to normal and I make careful note of lessons learned: more sunscreen, more liquid, and LOTS more rests in the shade.

There is not much to see between Ottawa and downtown Kitchener, other than my grandfather's grave, but I'm not sure exactly where it is. Instead of searching, me and my red face go home. I'm sure I'll pass this way again.

The Stinkies Overheard

I mentioned in a previous post the phenomenon of "The Stinkies," a strange subgroup of physically odd and socially inept people who I first discovered while working at Tim Horton's.

I spent part of my morning at that very same Tim Horton's store, typing up a DVD review for Generation X's irreverent movie magazine. The concept of "The Stinky" was INVENTED in that store, and as luck would have it the two ARCHETYPAL examples -- who we naturally called "Mr. Stinky" and "Mrs. Stinky" -- were sitting in the store and having a bizarre argument.

Mrs. Stinky was clearly brow-beating Mr. Stinky in her creepy, phlegmy, piercing, almost unintelligable voice. I couldn't hear a word HE said (and I could barely follow her side of the conversation either), but here's the most accurate transcription I can give. I think it offers some insight into how the Stinkies communicate with each other:

No I'm not goin! I'm not goin! Nope! I'm not goin! No I'm not goin! I asked you three years ago, forget it! I'm not goin now! I'm not goin now!

You screwed up! What? What you mean? Where you goin? Sit sit! You screwed up, didn't ya? You screwed up good, didn't ya? Didn't ya? You screwed up good, didn't ya? We could-a gone three years ago. Why didn't ya? Why didn't ya? Why didn't ya? Nope, I'm not goin now. I asked you three years ago, didn't I? I'm not goin now. I'm not goin. I'm not goin noplace. You said no. I ain't got time for it.

You can fix it so they have-ta come here.

Kicking Out the Crazies

I served so many customers at Tim Horton's that I was bound to deal with many difficult, aggressive, and downright crazy people.

If you've never been in that situation, then you can't imagine what it's like to have to assert a non-existent authority in the face of downright nuttiness: you can tell them to "get out" a hundred times, but they can simply call your bluff until you phone the police, and even then it could take half an hour for them to show up. Crazy people also tend to act up during the busiest times, when you can least afford a distracting confrontation...they probably know that if they bug you when you're busy, you might give in to their demands just to get rid of them.

I was sitting in a Tim Horton's tonight when a bouncy girl came in with her boyfriend. She started talking to one of the new employees:

GIRL: You're new here, right? I used to work here too, I'm still waiting for Sandra to send me my last cheque. I quit last week, and you know what? I had five dollars in tips from my last day, but I forgot to take them with me, and somebody STOLE my tips, can you believe that?

EMPLOYEE: Wow.

GIRL: So I called Sandra today and she said I could just come in and get two free medium cappuccinos. I'd like to get those now, one with milk and one with lots of chocolate.

EMPLOYEE: Uhhh, just a minute...

GIRL: Hey, I just want my cappuccinos, Sandra said it's okay.

It was obvious to me that this girl was full of crap, but she was so bald-faced CHEERFUL about it. The employee went and got her supervisor.

This supervisor is only about 17 but she's a tough girl...it was fascinating to listen to her struggling to keep calm, ALMOST swearing but then remembering her role and cutting herself off. It was an admirable display.

SUPERVISOR: Yeah, Eileen, you've got to leave now.

GIRL: I came for my cappuccinos. Sandra said I could have them.

SUPERVISOR: You stole sh... You stole stuff and Sandra said we can't give you anything.

GIRL: You get on the phone and call Sandra, she'll tell you.

SUPERVISOR: Sandra was already here and told us we can't give you sh... Ahh, get out of my store NOW.

GIRL: I'm not leaving until I get my cappuccinos.

SUPERVISOR: I'm calling the police.

GIRL: Call Sandra!

SUPERVISOR: Get out of my store, girl!

GIRL: {Appealing to the customers standing in line} I can't believe this place, I can't get my cheque, they won't give me the cappuccinos they owe me.

SUPERVISOR: You are DAMAGED, girl!

GIRL: Huh? I have a UNIVERSITY DEGREE, you know.

SUPERVISOR: You got a degree, why're you workin' at Tim Horton's? Get out of my store NOW.

The girl did leave, promising to call the manager to get it all "straightened out." The supervisor, suffering post-adrenaline freakiness, explained to the customers that this person does this every day.

As Delirium-gal Annissa screamed at me last week: "Has the whole world gone MAD?!?"