Tagged

I've been tagged by Chris. Apparently I have to write a story which begins with the sentence which appears in sentence number five of my 23rd blog entry. It reads:

"I have been living under the shroud of credit card debt for such a long time and I've been looking forward to paying all my cards off and getting that weight off of my shoulders."

So I guess I'd better get at it. Thanks Chris, by the way. This is my first meme. I'd read about them but hadn't partaken. I guess I'm supposed to tag five people. Not easy since I don't know many bloggers, but I'll tag the people I read and they can partake if they'd like. Consider yourselves tagged: pageblank, Sean, Nicole, indiaiynke and EMG. If any of you don't have 23 entries, just improvise. Isn't it seven years bad luck for not participating?


I have been living under the shroud of credit card debt for such a long time and I've been looking forward to paying all my cards off and getting that weight off of my shoulders. My cheque arrived this morning, and I pinched my finger in the mailbox lid as I reached in for it. I'm going to lose the nail. Nothing's come easily since the accident.

I had gone to university mainly out of parental pressure and boredom. I was too lazy to come up with anything better. I slogged along through Intro to Psych, and Linguistics with teachers who I respected about as much as we respected the gum covered lecture hall seats. I had always wondered why there were footprints on the ceiling and how they got there. Some great prank set in motion by someone way more creative than me. Someone who saw school as a chance for something better.

"What if I don't want to become a member of the Teacher's Union?" I asked during a small group tutorial.

"Well, you write to the Union and ask to be removed. You still have to pay union dues on each paycheque and if there are ever any problems in which you require union support, you will not be entitled to them."

"So what am I paying for?"

"Well you would be supporting other teachers and you would still receive the monthly newsletter outlining professional development opportunities."

With that I decided that I'd rather get paid more driving the buses to the school than the teachers teaching the students that I drive. I suppose it's the sign of a broken system, but I've never cared about anything enough to become a martyr. Give me my class "C" license, pay for my training courses, and hit me with the $24.99 an hour plus benefits.

Still, no matter how much you have there's never enough. I remember living comfortably on minimum wage, and with four times that, I'm still maxxed out to money lenders. I'm not buying more, I'm not living beyond my means, I don't have anyone to support, but there's always something that comes along that snaps up any extra I can scrape together. I wonder if it's even worth it when I don't see the benefit.

I'm doing nothing these days. My free ride through workmen's compensation. I feel fine, but they won't let me back for 18 months.

"What do you remember from that day?"

"I'd just started my shift. I'd stopped at one of those cinnamon bun places that you can always smell when you go into the subway. Did you know that the sense of smell is cited as the one sense most people feel they could live without, but did you know that they vent the ovens into the terminal so that the smell become the marketing campaign?"

"I didn't know that, go on."

"So I waited around with all the customers for the train to arrive. I was reading ads, mainly. As the train pulled in I waved to Sidney, and approached the door."

"Anything new today?" I asked.

"Not really, a bit busy with the rain. Lots of people swinging umbrellas. Epstein said that there've been 4 disruption reports already. Some lady tripped and smashed her nose on a seat. Ambulance came and she's pressing charges against an 8 year old she says stuck his foot out on purpose."

"So the usual, then?"

"Pretty much, I guess. All I know is that I'm going to the game tonight and I can't wait to get home."

"Well have a good one then."

"Do you miss him?" she asked as she tapped at her notebook and glanced at the clock.

I suppose I was boring her. "Sure, but I don't miss seeing him at work everyday. Driving the subway isn't glamourous. Most people don't think ever think about someone driving the trains. They'll probably be automated in the next fifty years, but I think of it a lot like NASA. They use the same computers that they did in the 1960s because it's too expensive to update them. Railway tracks in Canada are the same way. We could take a high-speed train from Toronto to Montreal in 45 minutes, but it can't happen because it would require too much capital to lay new tracks. Updating the subway system is just about the last thing anyone at City Hall's going to do."

I recrossed my legs and continued, "The hardest part of the job is the boredom. Everyday is exactly the same. Same trains, same route over and over again. Sometimes there'll be a breakdown to throw a splash of excitement, but it just ends up ticking everyone off and everyone gets to work late or, worse, home late."

"Sounds like delivering mail. Always the same, no matter how hard you work, and no matter how much you carry or how much anyone gets in a day, there's always the same tomorrow. You can't take a day off because everything just piles up."

"I suppose you're right, but it shouldn't matter."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I should be happy that people are going about their lives. I should be happy that I've got a job. I should be happy that I have a house. I should be happy that I have weekends."

"You're not?"

"You take the subway don't you?"

"Yes."

"Well how many times do you think that I've driven your train? Dropped you off where you needed to go? Probably a hundred times. Did you ever speak to me? No. Did you ever even know I existed? No. You turned up your iPod and tuned out my voice over the public address just like everyone else on the train. I've been as invisible to you as the vagrant asking for change outside the liquor store. You don't remember him unless he scares you. You ignore him, unless you feel offended by his filthy hands."

"I'm talking with you now."

"That's because I'm a murderer and they make me come here."

"You don't think you should be here?"

"I don't know. No. Maybe. I washed the blood off my face, and they threw my uniform out at the hospital. Someone had to clean the front of the train, you know. You should have him in here. He's got it worse than I do."

I walked home with my hands in my pockets. It was a nice night, and I wasn't rushing home to anything important. There were some dishes from last night's lasagna, but they could sit. I could let them sit for a week. There was nothing on television tonight. Nothing new at least.

As I approached the house, I picked up the flyers that had been scattered on the step. I remembered my pinched finger as I opened the mailbox. Pizza places, real estate agents, and a coupon for $2 off a cab ride. Recycling box.

I'd heard the pigeons cooing above me. I'd spent Saturdays scraping their mess of the porch. I suppose it was just a matter of time before I'd get shat on.

Ploop. Bullseye. Not centre of my head, but off to the side enough that it dripped onto my ear and down the side of my face.

As I showered, I laughed. It was ridiculous to think that anything else could have happened. I kill some suicidal teenager and a bird poops on my head. All I knew was that I had to find something good on tv, and manage to dig something in my fridge that wasn't leftovers. Maybe I could slice my hand on a tuna fish lid reaching into the recycling box for one of those pizza flyers. I'd have to remember not to do that.

I toweled of and brushed my teeth, more out of habit than anything. Nothing to read on the toilet. Lights hummed. Fan spun.

I opened the door and there he was. Sitting on the floor waiting for me. Clement. His tail flat on the floor, slightly curved at the end. My cat was waiting for me. He was thinking of me when I was in the shower, and he missed me when I was gone this afternoon. His eyes closing slightly as I leaned over to rub behind his ear.

His head pushing back as I touched it.