Dear Anne-Gaelle,
My name is Dennis McIntyre and I’m thirty-five years old. I live in Scarborough, Ontario, Canada.
On June 26th, 2000 your self-described “obligatory style of baseline tennis” came to my attention. You were playing at Wimbledon. I was watching on the television in my parent’s bedroom in Mississauga. You beat Anna Kournikova 6-3, 6-4 in the third round.
And what a match! You dismantled the “John Daly” of tennis in just over an hour. I was glued to the screen. Afterward, I remember the camera closing in on your un-expectedly smiling face as you packed up your rackets; while walking to the tunnel, you waved both hands to the rapturous crowd.
And then you had the post-match interview with Billie-Jean King, your sweat drenched hair sticking to your forehead, your cheeks rosy, flush from exertion. It was a special day for me as it must have been for you: it was the highlight of your career!
This isn’t a fan letter. I’m not some crazed person who writes to famous people- you’re not actually that famous, anyway. But you’re a human being like me. It’s just that I think we’re a lot alike, that we’ve lived the same type of life, a life of great potential cut short from what it could have been.
Let me tell you a little about myself. I was an honours student at the University of Toronto school of Dentistry. The “prodigy” as my professors called me. They said they’d never seen anyone make a teeth-mould quite like Dennis McIntyre.
Then it all fell part. It was the spring semester of my third year. The course was DEN321H1, Pharmacology. I got addicted to fluoride. I was missing classes, staying up all night with tubes of the stuff. I started stealing it from the office I was doing my practicum at, Dr. R.F. McNeil’s in Oakville. Instead of using it on patients I pocketed it, took it home, etc…. Needless to say, I got expelled and barred from the profession.
I’m clean now- ha- but my name is tarnished. I find myself working at Lady Footlocker in Scarborough selling women’s shoes. It’s all right, I guess, but nothing compared to the thrill of removing plaque!
It saddens me that you stopped playing at the tender young age of twenty-three. You must have dreamed of walking out to Centre Court at Roland Garros and winning the French Open in front of the hometown fans?
Do you ever question the missed chances, the opportunities, the double-faults, the unforced errors? I used to fear slicing gums with a periodontal scaler, or letting a suction tube slip down someone’s throat. It’s kind of the same thing, right: succumbing to the pressure in the critical moment?
Since you dropped off the circuit in 2002 I’ve often wondered what you do, the path your life has taken. Through a little independent research, I’ve found that you teach at a local academy, in Montiigon, mentoring young French girls, enriching them with your experience as a professional tennis player. But that has to be limiting, living in the background of others future successes, successes you never had?
My excommunication from dentistry has been difficult. I miss root canals and the extraction of wisdom teeth. My only consolations come from slyly telling Lady Footlocker customers the right type of toothbrush to use or that they have a winning smile. I spend long evenings reading Oral Health Journals wondering what could have been.
I know the circumstances surrounding my failure in the field of Dentistry are different from the reasons you retired from professional tennis- a persistent injury such as plantar fasciitis, or your overall lack of success at the sport? I’m can only speculate. But my point remains: we both could have been something more than we were.
I don’t want to spook you with this letter. It’s not like I’m some Line Judge screaming, “Out” when you thought the ball was clearly in. I’m just a normal guy living in the shadow of a former dream, a little lost, and down on my luck.
I’ve got some money put aside and I’m a three-quarter qualified dentist. So, Anne-Gaelle, I’m going to make a proposition: I come to France and we begin a life. I’ll set up an office in the apartment we discover together. Every morning I’ll clean your teeth with loving affection- you’ll have the perfect Parisian smile! In the afternoons we will go down to the nearest clay court and you can beat me six-love, six-love- I’ve even made a trophy that says, “Anne-Gaelle Sidot – Champion of ‘Our’ World.” In the evenings we’ll drink Bordeaux, snack on crackers, cheese, olives and the finest cured meats. In this way, through each other, we’ll satisfy the desires we never achieved: champion tennis player and practicing dentist.
I’ve anticipated your acceptance of my proposal. So, I’ve taken it upon myself to learn your language and familiarize myself with the many aspects of “la culture Francaise,” such as the poetry of Arthur Rimbaud.
In closing, I’ll leave you with a quote from his poem A Season in Hell, to which you can surely relate: “In the dawn, armed with burning patience, we shall enter the splendid cities.”
Faithfully awaiting your response,
Dennis McIntyre
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
Monday Magazine Food Reviewer Application
So, on a whim, I applied to be the Monday Magazine Food Critique. Obviously, I failed. So, I'm posting my "resume" as you might call it.
It required the answering of a few questions followed by a brief paragraph as to why "you" should be the chosen one. The questions were: the five most recently visited restaurants; five restaurants that must be reviewed; and five current food trends- I'd like to thank Google for aiding me in answering these questions (except for the recently visited ones of course. I actually went to them).
The recently visited:
1. The Fort Café (Victoria)
2. Sabhai Thai (Sidney)
3. Chez Nam (Ottawa)
4. Pancho Villa Mexican Restaurant (Ottawa)
5. Modern Burger (Vancouver)
Those of the must review list:
1. The Office Lounge (Victoria)
2. Pig BBQ Joint (Victoria)
3. Hernande’z (Victoria)
4. Aura (Victoria)
5. Paprika Bistro (Victoria)
Current food trends worth exploring:
1. Lamb
2. Fried Chicken
3. Pairing beer with food of its origin/region
4. Chef-driven quick serve concepts
5. Minimalist design (both in menu and venue)
A brief paragraph about being a great addition:
As a homo sapien I have the ability to enjoy taste and recognize flavour. I also have a stomach and the ability to chew. As an added bonus, I understand language and learned to write at a young age. Shortly after my eighteenth birthday, I discovered my father’s homemade beer and wine. The combination of the previous four sentences are the basic ingredients for successful food writing.
I recently moved to Ottawa for two months but now live back in Victoria. I’m thirty-one years old. Most nights I cook for one.
I’m aware I’ve written three paragraphs.
It required the answering of a few questions followed by a brief paragraph as to why "you" should be the chosen one. The questions were: the five most recently visited restaurants; five restaurants that must be reviewed; and five current food trends- I'd like to thank Google for aiding me in answering these questions (except for the recently visited ones of course. I actually went to them).
The recently visited:
1. The Fort Café (Victoria)
2. Sabhai Thai (Sidney)
3. Chez Nam (Ottawa)
4. Pancho Villa Mexican Restaurant (Ottawa)
5. Modern Burger (Vancouver)
Those of the must review list:
1. The Office Lounge (Victoria)
2. Pig BBQ Joint (Victoria)
3. Hernande’z (Victoria)
4. Aura (Victoria)
5. Paprika Bistro (Victoria)
Current food trends worth exploring:
1. Lamb
2. Fried Chicken
3. Pairing beer with food of its origin/region
4. Chef-driven quick serve concepts
5. Minimalist design (both in menu and venue)
A brief paragraph about being a great addition:
As a homo sapien I have the ability to enjoy taste and recognize flavour. I also have a stomach and the ability to chew. As an added bonus, I understand language and learned to write at a young age. Shortly after my eighteenth birthday, I discovered my father’s homemade beer and wine. The combination of the previous four sentences are the basic ingredients for successful food writing.
I recently moved to Ottawa for two months but now live back in Victoria. I’m thirty-one years old. Most nights I cook for one.
I’m aware I’ve written three paragraphs.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Sunday, December 6, 2009
News
To all my followers, of which there are none: The Delivering of Food will appear in the inaugural edition of Bananafish Magazine in January, 2010. Stay tuned- ha!- for a link.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
How to count directionally, by Art.
Art was informed that he needed money. He received a Government issued letter that read:
Dear Art,
You need money. You have five hundred words to get some.
Warm Regards,
The Government
Art knew he was fucked. He was a painter of little talent. But it's all he really knew how to do. He lived in a square apartment, somewhere east of the centre of town, which is irrelevant to his plight, but important if only for geological reference. He once studied urban planning.
Art is easily distracted. His numerous half done paintings showcase this. Most of them are attempts at large office buildings, small inner-city parks, and tragic car accidents at intersections. He conceives his ideas from his balcony on the fourth floor. But the Macdonald's at the corner of Vancouver and Quadra partially blocks the west side of one of the streets, thus impeding some of the potential gore of tragic car accidents at intersections.
But what about money? Art had never contemplated money. He'd never needed it. As he studied this he wondered how he got by every day. Where did his food come from? Why was there always toilet paper in the bathroom? How did he have a place to live?
Art noticed the aging geranium on the fifth row of the west facing shelving unit. He should water it. Art paced about the apartment for an hour. He sat randomly in a chair. He moved some magazines from the coffee table to the banister between the kitchen and living room. He showered. And then he made bread.
Money. There it was again! Art couldn't figure out why he kept thinking about it. Had his mother called? Would money make him sleep easier at night? “What is money”, he said to the most eastern wall of his apartment.
Art heard his own voice. It disturbed him. So he turned on the radio located to the north of the television. He put on a talk show. Art decided that listening to talk-radio and talking to oneself at the same time was much like a conversation. This soothed the sudden anxiety he got when he was thinking about...?
He left the building and went for a walk. About three blocks in, to the exact southeast of the MacDonald's, he found twenty dollars near a bus stop. He picked it up, examined its texture, and licked it. The taste was sour and a bit dirty. He laughed as he thought of the taste as the “sweat of the earth.” Art put the cash in his pocket. After completing the walk he went home.
Art decided he should paint. He'd been avoiding it all day. He sat down at his easel and arranged his paints. And then picked a medium width brush and the colour green. He removed a small paper-like document from his pocket, tacked it to the wall with a sewing needle, and painted the most glorious painting of the number six.
Dear Art,
You need money. You have five hundred words to get some.
Warm Regards,
The Government
Art knew he was fucked. He was a painter of little talent. But it's all he really knew how to do. He lived in a square apartment, somewhere east of the centre of town, which is irrelevant to his plight, but important if only for geological reference. He once studied urban planning.
Art is easily distracted. His numerous half done paintings showcase this. Most of them are attempts at large office buildings, small inner-city parks, and tragic car accidents at intersections. He conceives his ideas from his balcony on the fourth floor. But the Macdonald's at the corner of Vancouver and Quadra partially blocks the west side of one of the streets, thus impeding some of the potential gore of tragic car accidents at intersections.
But what about money? Art had never contemplated money. He'd never needed it. As he studied this he wondered how he got by every day. Where did his food come from? Why was there always toilet paper in the bathroom? How did he have a place to live?
Art noticed the aging geranium on the fifth row of the west facing shelving unit. He should water it. Art paced about the apartment for an hour. He sat randomly in a chair. He moved some magazines from the coffee table to the banister between the kitchen and living room. He showered. And then he made bread.
Money. There it was again! Art couldn't figure out why he kept thinking about it. Had his mother called? Would money make him sleep easier at night? “What is money”, he said to the most eastern wall of his apartment.
Art heard his own voice. It disturbed him. So he turned on the radio located to the north of the television. He put on a talk show. Art decided that listening to talk-radio and talking to oneself at the same time was much like a conversation. This soothed the sudden anxiety he got when he was thinking about...?
He left the building and went for a walk. About three blocks in, to the exact southeast of the MacDonald's, he found twenty dollars near a bus stop. He picked it up, examined its texture, and licked it. The taste was sour and a bit dirty. He laughed as he thought of the taste as the “sweat of the earth.” Art put the cash in his pocket. After completing the walk he went home.
Art decided he should paint. He'd been avoiding it all day. He sat down at his easel and arranged his paints. And then picked a medium width brush and the colour green. He removed a small paper-like document from his pocket, tacked it to the wall with a sewing needle, and painted the most glorious painting of the number six.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
The Haircut
I hadn’t looked at my new haircut in about ten minutes. I went to the bathroom. I’d just got to the pub. I looked at myself in the mirror and stuck my neck out like a chicken- I read somewhere this makes you look younger. I turned to the side and admired my profile. I decided I was irresistible.
I went to the bar. I waited for one of the waitresses to talk to me. Olivia smiled. She said, “You got a haircut." I told her I got them all cut- I got that one from my Grandfather.
Olivia emptied a few mugs of flat beer. Then she walked away. I said hello to Rob. He’s from Scotland. And he’s balding. I must have appeared like Jesus before him. Rob didn’t have much too say other than, “how you doing?” I said I was all right. I was playing it cool.
I turned around and faced the keno screen. The regulars lose a lot of money to it. I could see them clutching tickets in their hands, crumpled, and sweaty.
I’m too good for gambling. I pretend to play by picking up stray tickets from the floor. I say things like, “Darn, not a winner”, and destroy my ticket in haste. Then I throw the pieces towards the bin. The gamblers like seeing other people lose as it justifies their plight. I fake gamble for them because I’m a humanitarian, a real people person.
The mumbling drunk at the corner of the bar ordered an Irish Car Bomb. He had a full neat whiskey too. He was out of it. He fell off his stool and popped right back up. There was a mixture of laughter and concern. I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, nodded, and got another pint.
The bartender, Tim, told a story about Roger- he was in earlier. Everyone started to make fun of Roger. Then they talked about him nicely in case he was still lurking around. They all looked over their shoulders. It got quiet for a second.
Roger told me once that he looks after his dying mother. He says the family is worth a lot of money. I think he’s waiting around for the Will. So does everyone else. He’s never had a job in his life. He’s also adopted.
A guy named John paid his bill. He got assistance from Rob because he couldn’t read it. He paid with a hundred. I watched Tim give him his change. He’d spent sixty bucks. I didn’t notice if he tipped. He went and had a conversation with a vacant table. We all figured he had a half-sack before he got here.
I was fishing for old keno tickets near the exit when John finally left. He had a joint in his mouth and walked into the door while trying to get a lighter out of his pocket. I thought he could do with a haircut.
I asked for a pint and played a round of “Darn, not a winner.” Norm started talking to Rob. Norm is a mechanic. Rob used to be a mechanic. Listening to Norm speak is like listening to the narration of an educational film about geological processes.
Norm was wearing a hat. It said Ford on it. He talked dryly about radiators and fuel injection. Rob couldn’t shake Norm. He was stuck with him for a while.
###
I paid with my credit card. It didn’t work. I used a gift certificate instead. I tipped with quarters and nickels. I noticed the sole of my left shoe had come apart from its heal. I still had a pint coming.
The place started to empty. Most of the regulars had paid. Some promised to pay the next day. There is a ledge where unpaid tabs go. It’s called the Wall of Shame. I was on there once.
My eyes were getting heavy. I wasn’t sure why. I’d slept till noon. My beer spilled a little when I moved to a barstool.
It was after last call but I hung around with Tim. He filled my beer to make up for the spill. Olivia sat down at the bar to do her cash-out. I waited for her to talk to me. She kept counting her money.
I rolled up my sleeves so my tattoos were visible. I’d heard somewhere that girls like tattoos. I talked to Tim. I spoke louder and slower than usual. Tim asked me to repeat what I said a few times. Olivia moved to table nine.
Tim asked me to finish my beer. I drank it quickly. I got some on my shirt but I don’t think Tim or Olivia noticed. I went to the handicapped bathroom. I forgot to wash my hands when I was finished. My jacket had fallen off the stool. I picked it up and put it on. The lights were turned off and I had a smoke on the front steps. It was cold out. Tim locked up while Olivia got in his car and then it started to rain.
I went to the bar. I waited for one of the waitresses to talk to me. Olivia smiled. She said, “You got a haircut." I told her I got them all cut- I got that one from my Grandfather.
Olivia emptied a few mugs of flat beer. Then she walked away. I said hello to Rob. He’s from Scotland. And he’s balding. I must have appeared like Jesus before him. Rob didn’t have much too say other than, “how you doing?” I said I was all right. I was playing it cool.
I turned around and faced the keno screen. The regulars lose a lot of money to it. I could see them clutching tickets in their hands, crumpled, and sweaty.
I’m too good for gambling. I pretend to play by picking up stray tickets from the floor. I say things like, “Darn, not a winner”, and destroy my ticket in haste. Then I throw the pieces towards the bin. The gamblers like seeing other people lose as it justifies their plight. I fake gamble for them because I’m a humanitarian, a real people person.
The mumbling drunk at the corner of the bar ordered an Irish Car Bomb. He had a full neat whiskey too. He was out of it. He fell off his stool and popped right back up. There was a mixture of laughter and concern. I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, nodded, and got another pint.
The bartender, Tim, told a story about Roger- he was in earlier. Everyone started to make fun of Roger. Then they talked about him nicely in case he was still lurking around. They all looked over their shoulders. It got quiet for a second.
Roger told me once that he looks after his dying mother. He says the family is worth a lot of money. I think he’s waiting around for the Will. So does everyone else. He’s never had a job in his life. He’s also adopted.
A guy named John paid his bill. He got assistance from Rob because he couldn’t read it. He paid with a hundred. I watched Tim give him his change. He’d spent sixty bucks. I didn’t notice if he tipped. He went and had a conversation with a vacant table. We all figured he had a half-sack before he got here.
I was fishing for old keno tickets near the exit when John finally left. He had a joint in his mouth and walked into the door while trying to get a lighter out of his pocket. I thought he could do with a haircut.
I asked for a pint and played a round of “Darn, not a winner.” Norm started talking to Rob. Norm is a mechanic. Rob used to be a mechanic. Listening to Norm speak is like listening to the narration of an educational film about geological processes.
Norm was wearing a hat. It said Ford on it. He talked dryly about radiators and fuel injection. Rob couldn’t shake Norm. He was stuck with him for a while.
###
I paid with my credit card. It didn’t work. I used a gift certificate instead. I tipped with quarters and nickels. I noticed the sole of my left shoe had come apart from its heal. I still had a pint coming.
The place started to empty. Most of the regulars had paid. Some promised to pay the next day. There is a ledge where unpaid tabs go. It’s called the Wall of Shame. I was on there once.
My eyes were getting heavy. I wasn’t sure why. I’d slept till noon. My beer spilled a little when I moved to a barstool.
It was after last call but I hung around with Tim. He filled my beer to make up for the spill. Olivia sat down at the bar to do her cash-out. I waited for her to talk to me. She kept counting her money.
I rolled up my sleeves so my tattoos were visible. I’d heard somewhere that girls like tattoos. I talked to Tim. I spoke louder and slower than usual. Tim asked me to repeat what I said a few times. Olivia moved to table nine.
Tim asked me to finish my beer. I drank it quickly. I got some on my shirt but I don’t think Tim or Olivia noticed. I went to the handicapped bathroom. I forgot to wash my hands when I was finished. My jacket had fallen off the stool. I picked it up and put it on. The lights were turned off and I had a smoke on the front steps. It was cold out. Tim locked up while Olivia got in his car and then it started to rain.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Delivering of Food
912 Finlayson Street
I pull up and park. Got steaming hot pizza here. It's a remodeled older house on a busy street. There are a couple of decent foreign imports in the driveway. I imagine a young couple with a child ordering out after some evening renovations. The lawn is elevated by nice stonework. The eccentrically large door opens after numerous locks are unhinged. I'm greeted by a giant painting of a hairy vagina. Two dykes appear. Both have short hair, glasses, and wear overstretched denim. They hated me before I arrived. They both say “about time.” I glance at the bill. It’s taken me twenty minutes to get here. I am, of course, in error when I correct their credit card receipt. They’ve tipped me a hundred dollars. My honesty is inevitably rewarded with a one-dollar tip. No one says thank you or good night. I kick over a flowerpot on the way back to my car.
23 Shady Willows Lane
If you're going to complain about your food being cold when it arrives don't order souvlaki from thirty kilometres away. It’s simple mathematics, right? It takes me an hour to find this place. It's in farm country, down a private road, down an even more private driveway. There are three houses with no address. The last one I knock on is the right one. I'm berated with a story about another restaurant that is inexplicably closed on a Monday night, their usual Greek place. And then I'm berated about the food “feeling” cold through the brown paper bag. I honestly don't care. I listen, smile, take the cash and as I leave I run over a garden gnome, it’s crushed torso with its etched grin left gazing at the evening sky.
I’ve just graduated from University with a degree in Anthropology and got a job as a Dishwasher/ Delivery driver at a Greek restaurant. My girlfriend works there, too. In September she will defend her masters thesis. Then we will go to Greece and get married at the restaurant owner’s villa. Beyond that, plans are vague.
Most evenings after work we drink our tips away with the restaurant manager at the pub next door. He tells fantastic stories, like sleeping with a Conservative MP in Ontario and doing cocaine with her off marble tables. He drinks gin and sodas quickly out of short glasses. His stories have you leaning forward on the table with your elbows, your hands supporting your face. I believe every word he says.
#1-1434 Mt. Pleasant Ave.
This place is just around the corner from the restaurant, a basement suite. I walk up and knock. There is some commotion and it takes a second before the door opens. I assume I was too quick. A short man opens. He stands there like a wounded sparrow. Through the crack of the door I see another man putting on his socks. They will be sharing one small pizza, cheese only. The man asks me if I've seen Dangerous Liaisons before. I say I have. He invites me into to watch it. I tell him I'm working but thanks for the offer. He tips me forty-five percent. I remember this house for the cash bonus.
9765 Birch Park Terrace
You've got to be kidding me. Who orders ten pizzas to Broadmead? It's half an hour away with no traffic but there is a lot of it and it takes forever to get there. On the way I pass the asylum where my parents met as psychiatrists. I remember a story they told me about a lunatic who stole the asylum truck. He drove the truck into a tree at the bottom of the driveway. I wonder what tree it might have been. A child opens the door and hands me a stack of small bills and coins. I count the money and she is three dollars short. I try to convey this to the child but she is only interested in the tower of pizzas I'm holding. The child takes the pizzas and closes the door. It's a cheap ploy by the parents and surprising, as it's a well-off suburb. I could ring the bell and settle this but instead I urinate the words “Fuck Ass” to the best of my ability on the manicured front lawn. It's late summer, shortly after dusk.
Most people in the restaurant’s kitchen don’t speak English very well in normal conversation. But it’s perfectly legible when it revolves around kitchen lingo: “table two order up”, “three order calamari, one Caesar salad”, “pour me a ginger ale, lady”. The front-end girls are all smoking hot, young, and for the most part, ridiculously flirty.
I often sit with Danny, the head cook, on breaks or during slow periods and have a pint of German beer. He had started, like me, as a dishwasher and delivery driver, but seventeen years ago. He worked his way up the ranks: driver, prep cook, pizza cook, head cook. To some degree, this frightens me. He’s told me of his life back in China as an Engineer and Architect. He had built and designed some of the most impressive buildings in Shanghai. I asked him why he left. He said for a better life. He works a second job on his day off. This frightens me, too.
678 Summit Place
Wow, this is a splendid place. Perched on the side of a hill in a part of downtown that I didn't know existed. There is some heavy construction going on. It would be interesting to come by one day and see what the finished product looks like. I find Gary, the guy who ordered the pizza. He's hammered. He wants to shake my hand. He tells me I don't shake my hand like a man. His hand feels limp, and lifeless. I wonder, according to Gary's standard for manly shakes, what one has to do to shake like a man? He refuses to let go. He might be using my hand for balance, or for some delusional reason, thinks he can score with the pizza delivery boy. He holds the box of pizza like a purse. The toppings surely stick to the top of the box. A man who looks like he could be a Dry-Waller walks by and says “goody, pizza!” and claps his hands as if in prayer. His claps create a cloud of grey dust and he walks right through it. Gary gives me a twenty-dollar tip. I'm positive his slurred eyes are trying to make out my ass as I walk away. I start to lurch like a cripple as an evasive maneuver. The next time Gary orders pizza I let Josef, the tall black guy, deliver it.
1246 Bay Street
I knew this one was trouble as soon as I found it. Right on the corner of two busy streets. A battered rancher with broken lawn chairs and empty beer cans in a yard protected by a molding fence. A couple of university kids answer. I give them the pizza. They look nervous but seem relieved I'm the same age. They say “Listen Dude, we don't have any money, we'll get you next time”, like for some reason that would be okay with me, like it was my pizza shop, like it wouldn't come out of my pocket. That sort of reasoning won't get you a university degree. There is not much I can do but slash the back tires of what is likely someone's parent’s vehicle.
582 Forest Rover Place
Houses in the rich neighborhoods can go one of two ways: really good tip or no tip. At this one I get no tip but an offer to come inside and watch the returns of the 2004 United States election. As someone interested in politics and only having a few weeks left on the job before I leave, I accept. I sit on the couch and eat humous and pita with a retired couple. They like my knowledge of the election and tell me they are glad the youth today are aware of these things. I like that they are supporting the Democrats, especially since they are in a rich neighborhood and didn't tip me. I still can't help myself on the way out and stomp out a spectacular looking floral display.
Sarah and I spend most days sleeping in and watching television because we were out all night guzzling the money that should probably feed us and pay our rent. We watch Days of our Lives with real passion. Sometimes we record it if we actually have to leave the house and do things like laundry. We’re really into Magnum P.I., too. It’s on every afternoon at two on channel six. Usually, at three, we watch a show that documents horrific murders in American towns no one wishes to hear of. Then we go to work and before our shifts begin we both have a cigarette out back with a small glass of wine in a teacup.
We think we are pretty smart by keeping the same schedules. If one of us gets off early, the other sits around and has a drink or five with Ned, the manager, or the other staff. At all times we are extremely negative about how ordinary people live their lives and rant and rave about how this depresses us and swear that we will never be like that.
No. 12-8763 Bolton Apartments, Bridge St.
I go to an apartment in the seedy part of town. It's one of those apartments that have a walkway to the front door, like a motel. These are always bad news. The curtains are drawn. A faded Canadian flag lists from a side window. A Folgers coffee tin bulges with rain-soaked cigarette butts near the door. A fat woman answers. Right away she starts into me about how she ordered Pepsi. I tell her we only have Coke. She says Sid knows this and always brings her a Pepsi. I tell her I'm not Sid. This doesn't change anything. I offer to go get a Pepsi. She's okay with this. I go to a corner store and ask the owner if I can trade a Coke for a Pepsi. After some negotiations, he agrees. For some reason, I have to pay the deposit. On the way back I park on the side street next to the parking lot of the building. I lick every piece of pizza in the box and sprinkle my belly button lint over top. It looks like oregano. I then light a smoke and ash in the side of tomato sauce. This provides the allusion of freshly ground pepper. To top it off, I rub the can of Pepsi in to my right armpit for thirty seconds. I give the fat lady the Pepsi, pizza, and side sauce. She acts like nothing has happened between us. She gives me a dollar tip and then a fiver to give to Sid. I say thanks, leave, put the cash in my pocket, and tell Sid about the Psycho when I get back. I keep the fiver.
A few months later Sarah and I get married; a couple of years after that we get divorced. Throughout, we tell ourselves that our lives will change and that that we’ll get real jobs, host dinner parties, buy expensive cheese, be ordinary people. I’m convinced that we will pay off our student loans and credit card debts and that we’ll take another fabulous trip, this time to Russia, or Hungary. Instead, we pay off nothing and take trips camping to nearby lakes, visit her family in Vancouver, or house-sit for my parents when they take airplanes to interesting places.
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These days I become nervous when I see garden Gnomes. I avoid Nurseries and stare straight ahead when I drive by them in people’s front yards. It doesn’t matter if the gnomes are alone or are in family clusters. They stare accusingly at me like some sort of karma police, reminding me what I did, of who I was.
I pull up and park. Got steaming hot pizza here. It's a remodeled older house on a busy street. There are a couple of decent foreign imports in the driveway. I imagine a young couple with a child ordering out after some evening renovations. The lawn is elevated by nice stonework. The eccentrically large door opens after numerous locks are unhinged. I'm greeted by a giant painting of a hairy vagina. Two dykes appear. Both have short hair, glasses, and wear overstretched denim. They hated me before I arrived. They both say “about time.” I glance at the bill. It’s taken me twenty minutes to get here. I am, of course, in error when I correct their credit card receipt. They’ve tipped me a hundred dollars. My honesty is inevitably rewarded with a one-dollar tip. No one says thank you or good night. I kick over a flowerpot on the way back to my car.
23 Shady Willows Lane
If you're going to complain about your food being cold when it arrives don't order souvlaki from thirty kilometres away. It’s simple mathematics, right? It takes me an hour to find this place. It's in farm country, down a private road, down an even more private driveway. There are three houses with no address. The last one I knock on is the right one. I'm berated with a story about another restaurant that is inexplicably closed on a Monday night, their usual Greek place. And then I'm berated about the food “feeling” cold through the brown paper bag. I honestly don't care. I listen, smile, take the cash and as I leave I run over a garden gnome, it’s crushed torso with its etched grin left gazing at the evening sky.
I’ve just graduated from University with a degree in Anthropology and got a job as a Dishwasher/ Delivery driver at a Greek restaurant. My girlfriend works there, too. In September she will defend her masters thesis. Then we will go to Greece and get married at the restaurant owner’s villa. Beyond that, plans are vague.
Most evenings after work we drink our tips away with the restaurant manager at the pub next door. He tells fantastic stories, like sleeping with a Conservative MP in Ontario and doing cocaine with her off marble tables. He drinks gin and sodas quickly out of short glasses. His stories have you leaning forward on the table with your elbows, your hands supporting your face. I believe every word he says.
#1-1434 Mt. Pleasant Ave.
This place is just around the corner from the restaurant, a basement suite. I walk up and knock. There is some commotion and it takes a second before the door opens. I assume I was too quick. A short man opens. He stands there like a wounded sparrow. Through the crack of the door I see another man putting on his socks. They will be sharing one small pizza, cheese only. The man asks me if I've seen Dangerous Liaisons before. I say I have. He invites me into to watch it. I tell him I'm working but thanks for the offer. He tips me forty-five percent. I remember this house for the cash bonus.
9765 Birch Park Terrace
You've got to be kidding me. Who orders ten pizzas to Broadmead? It's half an hour away with no traffic but there is a lot of it and it takes forever to get there. On the way I pass the asylum where my parents met as psychiatrists. I remember a story they told me about a lunatic who stole the asylum truck. He drove the truck into a tree at the bottom of the driveway. I wonder what tree it might have been. A child opens the door and hands me a stack of small bills and coins. I count the money and she is three dollars short. I try to convey this to the child but she is only interested in the tower of pizzas I'm holding. The child takes the pizzas and closes the door. It's a cheap ploy by the parents and surprising, as it's a well-off suburb. I could ring the bell and settle this but instead I urinate the words “Fuck Ass” to the best of my ability on the manicured front lawn. It's late summer, shortly after dusk.
Most people in the restaurant’s kitchen don’t speak English very well in normal conversation. But it’s perfectly legible when it revolves around kitchen lingo: “table two order up”, “three order calamari, one Caesar salad”, “pour me a ginger ale, lady”. The front-end girls are all smoking hot, young, and for the most part, ridiculously flirty.
I often sit with Danny, the head cook, on breaks or during slow periods and have a pint of German beer. He had started, like me, as a dishwasher and delivery driver, but seventeen years ago. He worked his way up the ranks: driver, prep cook, pizza cook, head cook. To some degree, this frightens me. He’s told me of his life back in China as an Engineer and Architect. He had built and designed some of the most impressive buildings in Shanghai. I asked him why he left. He said for a better life. He works a second job on his day off. This frightens me, too.
678 Summit Place
Wow, this is a splendid place. Perched on the side of a hill in a part of downtown that I didn't know existed. There is some heavy construction going on. It would be interesting to come by one day and see what the finished product looks like. I find Gary, the guy who ordered the pizza. He's hammered. He wants to shake my hand. He tells me I don't shake my hand like a man. His hand feels limp, and lifeless. I wonder, according to Gary's standard for manly shakes, what one has to do to shake like a man? He refuses to let go. He might be using my hand for balance, or for some delusional reason, thinks he can score with the pizza delivery boy. He holds the box of pizza like a purse. The toppings surely stick to the top of the box. A man who looks like he could be a Dry-Waller walks by and says “goody, pizza!” and claps his hands as if in prayer. His claps create a cloud of grey dust and he walks right through it. Gary gives me a twenty-dollar tip. I'm positive his slurred eyes are trying to make out my ass as I walk away. I start to lurch like a cripple as an evasive maneuver. The next time Gary orders pizza I let Josef, the tall black guy, deliver it.
1246 Bay Street
I knew this one was trouble as soon as I found it. Right on the corner of two busy streets. A battered rancher with broken lawn chairs and empty beer cans in a yard protected by a molding fence. A couple of university kids answer. I give them the pizza. They look nervous but seem relieved I'm the same age. They say “Listen Dude, we don't have any money, we'll get you next time”, like for some reason that would be okay with me, like it was my pizza shop, like it wouldn't come out of my pocket. That sort of reasoning won't get you a university degree. There is not much I can do but slash the back tires of what is likely someone's parent’s vehicle.
582 Forest Rover Place
Houses in the rich neighborhoods can go one of two ways: really good tip or no tip. At this one I get no tip but an offer to come inside and watch the returns of the 2004 United States election. As someone interested in politics and only having a few weeks left on the job before I leave, I accept. I sit on the couch and eat humous and pita with a retired couple. They like my knowledge of the election and tell me they are glad the youth today are aware of these things. I like that they are supporting the Democrats, especially since they are in a rich neighborhood and didn't tip me. I still can't help myself on the way out and stomp out a spectacular looking floral display.
Sarah and I spend most days sleeping in and watching television because we were out all night guzzling the money that should probably feed us and pay our rent. We watch Days of our Lives with real passion. Sometimes we record it if we actually have to leave the house and do things like laundry. We’re really into Magnum P.I., too. It’s on every afternoon at two on channel six. Usually, at three, we watch a show that documents horrific murders in American towns no one wishes to hear of. Then we go to work and before our shifts begin we both have a cigarette out back with a small glass of wine in a teacup.
We think we are pretty smart by keeping the same schedules. If one of us gets off early, the other sits around and has a drink or five with Ned, the manager, or the other staff. At all times we are extremely negative about how ordinary people live their lives and rant and rave about how this depresses us and swear that we will never be like that.
No. 12-8763 Bolton Apartments, Bridge St.
I go to an apartment in the seedy part of town. It's one of those apartments that have a walkway to the front door, like a motel. These are always bad news. The curtains are drawn. A faded Canadian flag lists from a side window. A Folgers coffee tin bulges with rain-soaked cigarette butts near the door. A fat woman answers. Right away she starts into me about how she ordered Pepsi. I tell her we only have Coke. She says Sid knows this and always brings her a Pepsi. I tell her I'm not Sid. This doesn't change anything. I offer to go get a Pepsi. She's okay with this. I go to a corner store and ask the owner if I can trade a Coke for a Pepsi. After some negotiations, he agrees. For some reason, I have to pay the deposit. On the way back I park on the side street next to the parking lot of the building. I lick every piece of pizza in the box and sprinkle my belly button lint over top. It looks like oregano. I then light a smoke and ash in the side of tomato sauce. This provides the allusion of freshly ground pepper. To top it off, I rub the can of Pepsi in to my right armpit for thirty seconds. I give the fat lady the Pepsi, pizza, and side sauce. She acts like nothing has happened between us. She gives me a dollar tip and then a fiver to give to Sid. I say thanks, leave, put the cash in my pocket, and tell Sid about the Psycho when I get back. I keep the fiver.
A few months later Sarah and I get married; a couple of years after that we get divorced. Throughout, we tell ourselves that our lives will change and that that we’ll get real jobs, host dinner parties, buy expensive cheese, be ordinary people. I’m convinced that we will pay off our student loans and credit card debts and that we’ll take another fabulous trip, this time to Russia, or Hungary. Instead, we pay off nothing and take trips camping to nearby lakes, visit her family in Vancouver, or house-sit for my parents when they take airplanes to interesting places.
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These days I become nervous when I see garden Gnomes. I avoid Nurseries and stare straight ahead when I drive by them in people’s front yards. It doesn’t matter if the gnomes are alone or are in family clusters. They stare accusingly at me like some sort of karma police, reminding me what I did, of who I was.
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