Coffee Shop Conversation

“Hey, how’s it goin’?”

“Can’t complain. You?”

“Meh, work’s been slow. Not a lot of people today. What can I get ya?”

“A large latte and a chocolate chip cookie... There any nuts in those?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. They’re gluten free though.”

“Cool.”

“That’s four fifty-five.”
“Debit.” He hands his card to the worker.

“Just slide the card with the stripe facing me… umm. No, the other way… Want your receipt?”

“That’s okay.”

“Here’s your cookie. Have a seat. I’ll bring your latte over when it’s ready.”

“Thanks.”

“… hmm…” uncertain of what he tastes.

“Here’s your latte.”

“Thanks… umm… ex-excuse me?”

“Yeah?”

“The cookie doesn’t have any nuts in it, right?” his voice was starting to get horse.

“Uh, no… Ah shit! I’m sorry.”

The customer coughs.

“Shit! I’m sorry. Uh, do you have a nut allergy?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” More coughs.

“Shit! I think they might have peanut butter. Are you allergic to peanuts?”

“Yea.” The customer starts wheezing.

“Omigod! You’re swelling up! Do you, you have an epipen?”

“No.”

“What? Whydon’tyouhaveanepipen!”

“It exthpired... I’m waithing for my… prescrithion do be filled.”

“Shit! Why don’t you have an epipen?”

“Can… you…” gasping  for air. “Call… 9.1.1?”

“Uh, right! Yes! Sorry! Omigod yes!”

“Hu-hello? Look a customer just ate something with peanut butter and can’t breathe! He’s swelling up real bad… thanks… can I do anything? Uh… no... Dammit! Uh, sorry!”

“Hey! An ambulance is on its way.” The worker looks down. “Y-you okay?”

Bruce: A Super Name

Growing up with a name like Bruce in the 80s and 90s you can’t help but hate your name. At least, Bruce Somerton couldn't. He grew up reading comics. Not just any comics, Bruce read, Superman. He hated Batman. Everyone would joke around calling him a billionaire. His family always bought him Batman paraphernalia.

“Why don’t you ever wear your Batman shirts, honey?” his mom would ask. “Don’t you like him? You have a bunch of his comics.”

Bruce’s parents bought him those comics. Bruce bought himself Superman comics. Now that was a character he could relate to.

Bruce’s father was in the military so that meant the family would move every few years to where ever Mr. Somerton was posted. Bruce always had trouble making new friends. Superman must know what that was like; he is an alien after all.

As the years went by Bruce kept trying to make himself less like Bruce Wayne and more like Clark Kent. In university, Bruce decided to enroll in a journalism program. He thought that maybe he would have to explain that he went into journalism because he wanted to document the truth and that it had nothing to do with his affinity for the son of Krypton. Instead all he would hear was: “Journalism? Wasn’t Bruce Wayne a businessman?” Not funny.

Throughout most of his life Bruce rarely felt like anyone understood him. People kept imposing Batman on him. He didn't really want to keep these people as friends. This made university fairly difficult as he didn't have anyone to really call a close friend,

In the last year of his journalism program Bruce met his wife. They both attended a Halloween party of a mutual friend. Bruce went dressed as Batman’s nemesis, the Joker. He had dressed up as other Batman villains in previous years thinking people might get the hint that he hates Batman.

“The Joker, eh? Sweet costume. What’s your name?” Asked someone dressed in what he thought was a toga.

“Umm… Thanks. I’m Bruce.” He answered, not sure what to say.

“Really? You must hate Batman! I mean, why else would someone named Bruce dress as the Joker?”
“Yeah, what are you dressed as? A Roman?”
“Close. I’m Diana, the Roman Goddess of the hunt.”
“Cool. Uh, can I ask your name?”
“Ha! I already told you; I’m Diana. I thought maybe people wouldn't ask me where my invisible jet is if I dressed like this.”
“Wonder Woman?” He thought. He didn't want to mention it. Bruce knew that Diana understood him and didn’t want to offend her.

Bruce and Diana got along great. They married soon after they finished university. Bruce could tell you that story but he doesn't really remember it. He would rather tell you about that night at the Halloween party. How liberating it was to meet someone who knew what life was like with a name like Bruce, a name that everyone knows about because of one fictional character. 

James

Wiry silver curls shorn close to the scalp. That’s how James likes to keep his hair. The older he gets the less vain things, like hairstyles, matter to him. Family is almost all that matters to him now. How did that happen?  He says now that much of it has to do with mistakes he’s made and the mistakes his father made.

His father, like many veterans of the Second World War and sons of the tilled prairies had a demoralising set of vices. During his time there were no great social services to help a man adjust to his post-war blues and rages. James’ father was a red hot furnace feeding on the fuel of desperate drinking. His loud fists drove his wife away. His loud fists drove James away, vowing never to be like his father.

James, unlike his father, would love his children and care for them.

Like many baby boomers James had a wife, children and all the other trappings of the North American image of “success.” But like his father, he had lost his children. No, not to death; his children are still living. It’s not the same, not since the divorce. He did not abuse his family like his father did and he did not drink like a drowning man but James still did hurt his family.

Through selfish spending and personal activities he neglected the emotional needs of his wife and children.

James tries hard to reconnect with his kids despite the chasm of painful memories that keep his children from fully trusting him again. Often when he sees one of his children needing some financial assistance, be it for school or some adventure, James will send them the money he has made from work. His smile says he does this out of love and joy but his saline eyes reveal that he hopes this has some penitential worth.

James loves his children. He regrets the decisions he made that sent them far from him. Maybe his children will learn to forgive him. If not, he hopes they will not make the same mistakes that he did.

James hopes that his children would love and care for their children but he is old enough to realise that this may not happen.

Fisher King Laundry

I came upon the storefront with my suitcase full of laundry. It took me a moment to make sure that this was in fact a laundry facility. The building’s panelling was yellowing from neglect and weather - no longer the pure white it once was. The building was divided in two. One half had the sign removed with only the faint burn of halogen bulbs on the aluminum edges of whatever sign was there before. The windows of that half were blocked by old yellowing newspapers to keep curious eyes out. It’s not the only building in the former city to look like a chipboard coffin.

The other half of the building was my destination. Not much of a sign to speak of, typical low cost signage advertising Pepsi. As I entered the laundromat a stench struck me still. Cigarettes mixed with bleach and detergent. I was surprised to see the pristine white, burnished chrome and digital lights of the various laundry machines.

I looked around the shop to figure out prices and to try to spy out the best washing machine. The floor was concrete, rough and cracked. No attempt to make it friendly. The walls were mostly white plywood. The paint, like the building’s siding was yellowing from neglect. Taped haphazardly were curled 8.5x11 paper signs in Times New Roman, all alerting the clientele of how busy the shop was, “We are too busy to unload your laundry to make your machine available for other customers. We charge $6 if you leave your washing machine.” Looking across the legion of machines I could only see a handful of customers.

Out of a corner poked a head, ragged and grey. She made eye contact with me and shook her head.

“Don’t put that in them machines. Won’t fit.” Pleasantries weren’t on her mind.

“How much is it for a wash?”

“Six… or $2.50. But you won’t fit all that in one machine so you might as well use the big one. Six. Put your jacket in there, too.” She said through a yellowing grin.

After I loaded up the machine I looked for chairs. Three mismatched chairs lined a wall next to an old tube television with CTV playing through snow. All of the other customers stared at their slick and shiny smartphones waiting for their dirty laundry to be clean.

A few of the large six dollar machines had been filled and started. After enough water had been poured into their containers the machines threw the water back and forth. Back and forth. Suddenly all of the washing machines began their sonic flight. Spinning so quickly and so loudly I almost hoped it was the sound of a plane taking off. I almost hoped that it might take me out of this former city. 

My Best Worst Job

I used to work for a soulless financial services company. It was one of those places that will give you an advance on your pay and charge you high interest. Constantly I had to respond to criticisms from friends and strangers. A friend even offered to give me money to keep my low-end retail job instead of working at the payday loan store. Yet for all of its negative aspects it was one of my favourite jobs.

It was one of the few jobs that I didn't mind working on a Saturday night. Saturdays were quiet with a few scattered customers. I'd only have to work with one other person for a couple of hours and it was never my boss.

My day began with a brisk walk to arrive on time. Sometimes I'd call ahead to see if the other person wanted me to pick up lunch for them. After getting settled we'd chat about our day. During the summer my colleague would describe the pristine bay that the store overlooks. Calm and still asleep.

"Wish I could've been asleep this morning.” Ruth would say. “But at least I don't have to close. Sorry.

"Oh, I think I'll manage." I would reply with a little smirk of delight. I was anticipating the great evening having time to myself.

From supper until close there were only ever one or two customers. After all, who would want to go to a payday loan shop on a Saturday night?

While other people were downtown enjoying a romantic meal or drinking to their friendship I was alone in my workplace with our little radio. Saturday evenings on CBC Radio 2 are always good for company.

I’d be working away on spreadsheets and other mindless duties but the sounds from that radio kept me from ever feeling alone. Somehow it always felt like the radio host was in the store with me, keeping me company. They’d even bring in the musicians whose songs were playing over the air.

As the night went on eventually the jazz show Tonic would start. Even though I was tired from the work day my spirits were never low. How can you feel down with the playful Oscar Peterson dancing on his piano keys? Listening to the smooth trumpet sounds of Miles Davis was my work song.

I was getting paid to listen to Ella, Louis and other amazing musicians. How could I hate that job?

I ended up leaving the job because the business took a turn that crossed my ethical boundary. Sure, I love what I do know. I still get to listen to CBC Radio 2 while writing papers and finishing assignments. But every now and then I remember those Saturday nights with a nostalgic grin and twinkle in my eye.

Adventure

"Seek Adventure."

My dad always says this. He's been saying it for at least two decades. He doesn't always say those words but the message is always the same. He's tried so hard to make sure that my siblings and I look for adventure and take opportunities while we are young and healthy.

Most of the time he tells us this message through stories; stories from his own life. Since he figured out how to use an email address and digital camera he has taken photos and emails them to us attached to very lengthy messages of his experiences.

One time he was skiing in Waterton Lakes National Park. The ebony sky seemed to blend with the terrain and he couldn't bifurcate the shadows of the forest from the heavens. He was mostly alone. He had heard about the cougars, lynx and other predators who call the park "home."

At one point my dad stopped. Thirsty, he reached for his water bottle. After taking his refreshment he stood still. Something felt different. Heavier. He couldn't hear anything above his breathing. He looked around and saw nothing. But nothing saw him.

The sky had blended with the terrain and my dad saw a pair of glinting lights. Trying not to stare directly at the lights my dad tried to figure out what to do. They had to be the eyes of some animal. Was it a predator? Were there more? He was a fair distance away from his end point. So he continued to ski at a slow pace. The lights followed him.

My dad stopped again. Looking at the lights indirectly he swears he could begin to see the outline of a beast. A strong cougar out at night, watching. He looked ahead. His goal was not too far. He looked back. There were tracks in the snow near his skis.

The tracks went behind him, across the path and into the other side of the wood. The air had changed. It was lighter. The animal was curious and wanted to learn more about my father but headed back home when it had lost interest. My dad continued along his way.

"That's why I'm so sore. Yeesh!" Pride over his accomplishment mixed with agony over the pain he was in. This is how my father has ended so many of his stories, trying to impress upon me and my siblings that adventure is for the young. He's getting older and older. So am I.

I am younger and healthier than him. I should probably listen to his advice.

An Acme of Matters

Before I delve any further into the concept of "what matters most to me" I want to clear something up: I hate superlatives. The best, the most, the number one. I can often be heard saying "that is one of my favourite movies" or "this is one of the best Leonard Cohen songs." I may flirt with exclusivity but I never go so far as to ask exclusive superlatives out for dinner and a movie.

There. It's been said. Thank you.

I will, however, explain one of the things that matters most to me. Sure there are other things that are notably important but I don't want to bore you will a list of matters that matter to me. One of the things that matters the most to me is, wait for it – pausing. 

I've recently reactivated my Netflix account after an eight month hiatus. The first thing I did when I started that episode of Portlandia? I pressed the space bar to see if it pauses the video. It did.

Paragraphs and punctuation are beautiful when reading. They allow you to stop. Wait. Think.

I love lunch breaks because you get to pause from work and converse with colleagues. I love to sit and wait, think, relax and enjoy. There is so much that can be accomplished in the paused moment. We can reflect, meditate, contemplate and perceive. Ever sit in a car with the window down and feel the wind buffeting against your face? Ever take notice of it? You sure can when you pause.

The next time you have a glass of Merlot sip it and stop a moment. Let the liquid explore your palate. As it lingers it begins to speak with your taste buds. Suddenly you become aware of all the intricate notes and why it tastes so good with that savoury chicken thigh. If you knock back the wine you don't notice those things.

...

Pausing is so wonderful that I fight for it. Mostly against myself. In our world there seems to be a prevalent attitude that we must always be doing something. Apart from school and work we must be volunteering and engaged in community events like sports teams or musical groups. If we aren't always busy doing things then we may be criticized as being lazy.

Without pausing would I be able to answer the question regarding what matters to me? Perhaps but it would be at best empty. Why? Because I love to pause. I've found that pausing and waiting helps me stay, for lack of a better word, me.