"Now I'd rather jump than pay."

"They're gonna book me
anyway!"

Things I saw as I stepped off the bus on this rainy morning:

A thick crowd of people with pursed lips, waiting for the streetcar.

There was a problem on the Spadina-University leg of the north-south subway line during the morning rush hour, which forced many commuters to find alternate routes, including me. The Bathurst car is usually full on a regular day, so on a day involving a service disruption it would inevitably be packed to the gills, and there would definitely be a wait to board. I decided to crane my neck at the gate to check if a car was on its way -- hopefully I would see two or three of them heading towards the station. If not, I'd have to make alternate alternate plans.

I couldn't see any streetcars in the distance, but I did see a squat, goateed man carrying a cooler approaching the gate. He bypassed the station entrance -- where transit fare is paid -- and calmly walked onto the streetcar platform. His nonchalance was somewhat impressive, though I didn't imagine he wouldn't be caught.

Sure enough, a remarkably Barney Fife-ish transit cop walked swiftly over to the man. I shrugged and walked towards the huge crowd of people waiting for the streetcar.

"Excuse me! Excuse me!" the cop was yelling -- at the man with the cooler, I presumed. Yet even after the man with the cooler had stopped in front of the cop, the cop was still yelling. I suddenly realized that the cop was yelling for me, too. Huh?

The cop looked at me and The Cooler sternly. "Did you just enter through the gate?" The Cooler didn't say a word. He just stared, which either means that he was a) playing tough; b) not fluent in English; or c) psycho. I, however, was not any of those things, and I had an alibi, so I provided it.

"I got off the 7," I told the cop, thinking this would be enough.

"You got off the 7?" he (sort of) repeated.

I nodded, my eyes hardening a little. "I got off the 7."

"Where did you get off the 7?" the cop asked.

Is he serious? I pointed to the bus stop. "I got off over there."

The cop didn't dismiss me, turning to face The Cooler instead, who remained silent. The cop beckoned to another transit worker who seemed to emerge from nearby bushes. A spy, maybe? How elaborate a sting! The cop asked his fellow employee if he saw me and/or The Cooler arrive.

"I don't know where she came from," the worker replied, jerking his head in my direction, "but he definitely walked through the gate." It wasn't exactly a vindication for me, but it wasn't an indictment, either, so I took it. For good measure, I gave the transit cop my best "I told you so" glare (which, honestly, wasn't so great). The cop shooed me away with a withering wave of his hand. Where is the satisfaction in that? I guess the cop is just young and eager to do his job -- he wants to do his job properly and as best he can, which I appreciate -- but if he's going to stake out transit offenders, he should probably keep his eyes on the scene.

I glanced back as I walked off. The squat, goateed man was still staring! Yikes. What did he have in that cooler?

TRACK LISTING: Beastie Boys, "Transit Cop"

[NOTE: The image above is a detail from pages 18 and 19 of Feelings between Kids and Grownups (Advanced Learning Concepts, 1974).]

"Well, everybody, I am going home."

"I am going home!"

Things I saw this evening:

Our office's beloved Dylana Perera, on her last night in town. Best of luck in Belize, D! May all your wishes come true.

Later that evening, on my own way home, I stop in at Bathurst's Food for two pints of Cherry Garcia in frozen yogurt form. A man whose small dog is waiting outside is waiting patiently for me to grab the tubs so he can open the other sliding door on the deep freezer.

"Broke up with your boyfriend?" he asks, good-naturedly.

"Actually, one of these is for my husband," I tell him.

He laughs. "Uh-oh!" I grin.

"We can't share!" I exclaim, whisking the Ben & Jerry's off to the cash register. I don't tell the man that my husband will be lucky if he manages to score a quarter-cup of the stuff, or that I plan to grab a spoon and dig in as soon as I walk through our front door. It's summer time, people! Ice cream and its delicious frozen relatives are fair game.

TRACK LISTING: Bob Marley, "I Am Going Home"

"Gotta run for shelter!"

"Gotta run for shade!"

Things I saw at work today:

The "Out of Order" sign remains! Oh, and today is actually the hottest day of the year. Yesterday was just a WARM-up! hahahahahahahahahahahaha

Seriously, though: the employees are decidely less humorous today. Let's all have lemonade and Cherry Garcia when we get home tonight, okay?

TRACK LISTING: Kool & The Gang, "Too Hot"

"Who loves the sun?"

"Not everyone!"

Things I saw today at work:

Legions of people climbing and descending the stairs of the office building as the elevator remains out of order.

It may just be for the day, but I'm sure many people are wondering why the lift had to cack out on what may very well be the hottest day of the year. It is, after all, a day on which a heat alert has been issued; it's a day that might only be surpassed in terms of temperature and humidity by tomorrow's highs. If the elevator is still out of commission tomorrow, there will be hell to pay! Surely the workers will see to it.

It sort of feels like hell in the stairwell, actually, but it could be much worse. We could be stuck in those stairwells! We could be stuck in the elevator.

TRACK LISTING: The Velvet Underground, "Who Loves the Sun"

"They offered me the office, offered me the shop."

"They say I better take
anything they got!"

Things I saw in the mail today:

Alex P. Keaton finds a new day job!

TRACK LISTING: The Clash, "Career Opportunities"

[NOTE: The image above is not a photo; it is a scan of a "special offer" I received. Also, this Michael J. Fox is not THE Michael J. Fox, in case I didn't make that clear with my bad jokes and what have you.]

"Simmer down; control your temper."

"Simmer down;
for the battle will be hotter."

Things I saw while riding the streetcar to work this morning:

Fifty people at the King & University westbound stop, faces understandably twisted with frustration; they have watched, seething, as two packed streetcars have left them out in the cold. None of them is able to cram into this car, either, so they must wait for the next car, which will probably be full as well. At least half of them will arrive late, no matter where they are headed.

Inside the streetcar, a woman is reading an article on a torn-out, folded-up, page of a community newspaper: WHY FILIPINO WOMEN ARE SLOW TO ANGER. A minute later, she crumples the paper into a ball and stuffs it into her tote bag.

TRACK LISTING: Bob Marley & The Wailers, "Simmer Down"

"I want to impress you."

"Today and every day."

Things I saw on my way home from work today, as I walked to the streetcar stop:

A short man in a giant, bright pink, Energizer Bunny costume. Wow! He is just in time for Easter. I wish he was handing out chocolate.

The giant bunny waves to the people on the sidewalk as he passes them. Two women stop to have their pictures taken with his arms around them.

In the window of the restaurant across the street, there is a row of staff in pressed white uniforms with camera phones held high. Click! click! click! We've never seen a giant bunny in this neighbourhood before.

TRACK LISTING: Xiu Xiu, "Bunny Gamer"

"We'd be moving on if I had my way."

"Heavy traffic
is bringing me down."

Things I saw on the ride to work this morning:

A co-worker, chatting on her cell phone, walking by our streetcar as it stops to let on more passengers. The streetcar closes its doors; we float past her and I can see that she is laughing at something someone is saying on the other end of the line.

Later, when she catches up with our crawling car, the phone is gone. She looks really determined, but also unhurried. She is keeping pace with the streetcar and I wonder if she will make it to work before I do. I wonder if I should be surprised.

TRACK LISTING: Status Quo, "Heavy Traffic"

"There may be so many, many pains..."

"...'til of old
the golden goal
you gain."

Things I saw on the walk to work this morning:

Fire trucks screaming towards me; police cars making sharp turns onto side streets.

Twenty teenagers, maybe more, passing me on the sidewalk two-by-two, sucking on lollipops.

Two women sipping coffee and laughing like machine guns, HA! hahaHA! haha! HA!

Everything that happened at work over the past week seems impossible, like a dream, but really like a nightmare. Sometimes I can't believe I'm still around. What am I doing right? What am I not doing wrong? Am I lucky or just imperceptible?


TRACK LISTING: Donovan, "Divine Daze of Deathless Delight"

"Please don't spoil my day."

"I'm miles away."

More people than usual were asleep in the subway today. There were rows upon rows of closed eyes; so many clumps of people with nodding heads. I wondered how long they'd been on the train. What time did they wake up this morning? Maybe this is the only free moment they'll have all day. Why shouldn't they relax?

I remember my dad telling me that he'd fall asleep on the bus every now and then, but would always wake up just in time for his stop. Lavado once fell asleep on an eastbound streetcar after a night out; he didn't wake up until he reached the end of the line, in the wee hours of the morning, far away from home.

This leads me to a particular British web site, if only because of its name; I used to check its "gossip" section quite regularly. I suppose this is one of the advantages of not being able to fall asleep on public transit, or anywhere else in public, for that matter: the unintentional entertainment.

TRACK LISTING: The Beatles, "I'm Only Sleeping"

"Everyone's waiting."

"They're holding out!"

Yes! This is what I've been waiting for, what I've missed: that feeling of near-exhaustion on a Friday afternoon; a week's worth of work accomplished, instilling a sense of satisfaction; all glazed with that shiver of antici...pation; giddiness! Because Friday night is only a few hours away. Because the weekend is here!

TRACK LISTING: Loverboy, "Working for the Weekend"

"That's the danger."

"It's the one thing."

It's funny to work in an office above a floor undergoing construction. There is the constant sound of drilling echoing up from below -- strange, gnashing, clashing sounds -- and the occasional vibration beneath our shoes. (That last effect, to be sure, is an odd yet somewhat pleasurable sensation. It travels through the entire body like an ascending shiver!)

As I type, the workers are right under me, and it's kind of weird. I can hear tapping, knocking, banging, hammering, scraping and whirring. It's remarkable how, when I concentrate on the renovation instead of my job, my mind is free to do some construction of its own. Elaborate scenarios: What if they drove a nail right through the ceiling and into my foot? How much would that hurt? Could I sue? Because PF and I could use that money. Would the company sue as well? Would the injury and possible scarring/amputation/deformity be worth the money? Someone would have to call Jay and tell him the kitchen supply shopping trip is off, and they'd have to cancel my appointment with Sam at the salon, too.

TRACK LISTING: INXS, "The One Thing" (because it's playing as I post)

"I'm thinking of a dream I had."

"Maybe you're right."

I'm thinking of this song and its words, and how Simon interpreted them: "Sometimes, someone out there is worth it." I believe this, and as much as I craved and appreciate the stability of the Day Job, the best part of having one remains the luxury of coming home every night. ("On a bus back home to you.") I remember occasional fantasies about being in a band, and feel quite fortunate and grateful that I had the experience, but I am relieved to have made it through with a whole life ahead of me.

Sometimes I think it might be nice to take a business trip, perhaps once or twice a year. After all, it wasn't the leaving home that I hated
-- it was the being away from home for six months of the year (though I can't say I didn't have a lot of fun) -- and I kinda like staying in hotels every now and then.

It's funny how being in a band involves business trips of sorts; tours are often just as strategic as company excursions, if not always as organized. Really, we were like travelling salesmen, going from town to town, hoping to convince people that they needed our product in their lives. We peddled every night! We put everything on the line. At the end, if we did our job, we'd have people sold. If we were lucky, we'd have a little something to take home. (Unlike other businesses, these trips weren't primarily about financial profit, but we aimed to break even. Of course we were happy if we were able to pocket a bit of change as well!)

The product, obviously, was our merchandise -- the records and t-shirts we laid out on small tables at the back of the club -- but in a greater sense, the product was us. Our hearts were truly, literally, in it.

TRACK LISTING: The Walkmen, "Thinking of a Dream I Had"

"Now we're up in the big leagues!"

"Gettin' our turn at bat!"

Congratulations to the wonderful PF, who scored a new job today and will soon return to the land of the living (as in: no more graveyard shifts)!

TRACK LISTING: Ja'net Du Bois, "Movin' On Up (Theme from The Jeffersons)"

"Choose your escape in the heartland."

"Of product and demand."

Damn, people! You love Lululemon so much that you'll wait at least THREE HOURS in a line that wraps around our office building and spans four city blocks, just so you can have a crack at one of that company's warehouse sales? You do know that the city has issued an Extreme Cold Alert, right? Didn't anyone read the play-by-play from a couple of years ago?

I have seriously misunderestimated the allure of yoga-inspired athletic apparel.

TRACK LISTING: Operation Ivy, "The Crowd"

"Oh, I know it don't thrill you."

"I hope it don't kill you."

It's been almost three full years since I last held down a "proper" job -- you know, the kind with a salary and paid vacation and (wow!) benefits. Yet it looks like, come Monday, I will reenter the working world as something other than a temp.

I'm a little nervous! It's curious how people within reach of success suddenly want to turn back; how they wish they'd never tried at all. So many of us worry that the half-open door is actually half-closed, but in the end, I suppose it's both. These two halves are what make the whole, no?

TRACK LISTING: Elvis Costello, "Welcome to the Working Week"

"How lucky am I?"

"I'm young
and I don't even care."

Today you will work at a totally welcoming office, a friendly place you know from your past; and you will have a really good day full of promise; and lots of your favourite songs (even the "guilty" pleasures) will play on your way home; and you will come home to the one that you love and who loves you, not to mention the one who loves you even though he pretends otherwise; and you will eat chocolates before bedtime; and you will know that you are truly fortunate.

TRACK LISTING: Maggie Gyllenhaal, "How Lucky Am I?"

"Remember this sound in the dark of the town."

"Ring the alarm!"

Yesterday I remembered a long lost yet exact feeling: a yearning for an extra five minutes of sleep. It's a feeling I'd forgotten during those years in which I didn't have a regular wake-up time, in which my Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays didn't snowball into a Thursday morning that found me totally willing to donate my eyes to science, right then and there, if in exchange I could turn back the clock and stay in bed for another half-hour.

It was inevitable that my return to the day job universe would be accompanied by this feeling and its effects: the burying of the head, deep into the pillow, when I realize that one more minute will result in my being ten minutes late for work; the leaning of the body against the tiled wall above the bathtub while I wait for the shower to work its revivalist magic; the staring blankly at the clothes in the closet, completely unable to focus on a pair of pants; and the stumbling into the office, hoping that the caffeine kicks in soon. Ah, working world! You put a spell on me, because I'm yours.

TRACK LISTING: Tenor Saw, "Ring the Alarm"

"What you see you don't see."

"But some people,
they always see."

"I am the eyes and ears of this institution, my friends." I remember when I first heard Carl the Janitor utter this immortal Breakfast Club line. I was nine or ten years old, discovering that a trash can guarantees neither privacy nor anonymity. All that throwing personal items in the garbage ensures, I realized, is that your dirt will get dirtier.

For the most part, in offices -- given the commonplace situation of the paper shredder -- the secretaries and receptionists are the eyes and ears of the institution. Nine times out of ten, it is the secretary or receptionist who shreds each sensitive document. Nine times out of ten, they plainly see what makes the document so sensitive. The higher-ups are aware of this fact; thus, even temps like me are usually required to sign a confidentiality agreement, or at least verbally consent to maintain company secrets. Once the ink dries, of course, the guard is let down.

Receptionists working for larger businesses will often smirk at how most of the employees ignore them on a daily basis, except when they need something ordered or couriered, and anyway these requests are conveyed to receptionists by department secretaries. Granted, sometimes this can make a receptionist feel unappreciated, but there's something to be said about being more or less undetected. When people don't notice you sitting there, or choose not to notice, they tend to reduce the filter level. What comes out of their mouths can be quite amazing.

Now, imagine how loose tongues get around temps. Temps have such brief lifespans that regular employees don't even have to learn their names. There is a particular office, at which I've filled in as receptionist on a couple of occasions, where I am routinely addressed as "Rebecca" -- the name of the regular receptionist. To be fair, from the nose up, I look very similar to this "Rebecca"; moreover, the majority of the people who call me by the wrong name aren't even looking at me. So: whatever. I don't care. I'm just there for the day!

Because these people may never see me again, I am often enlisted as a confidante, as someone to whom they can vent about other employees. This sort of makeshift therapy offers the same relief as airing their grievances to their respective supervisors, without the (probably messy) ensuing mediation. I don't mind. I have no interest in spreading gossip within the office; outside the office, especially in the pages of a public diary, I carefully change the names of all my short-term co-workers. I know the legend of the blogger fired from her job for full online disclosure. I'm not ready to burn those kinds of bridges just yet.

I've heard about office romances; quirks of the bosses; and that so-and-so is SUCH a BITCH. People stage whisper the details of divorces and lawsuits; of physical and mental illnesses; and of the imminent termination of a colleague's career. There was one incident in which I forced myself to divert my attention, or at least appear as if I was diverting my attention, from a loud cell phone conversation taking place across from my desk. The employee overlooked me as a then-current, highly infamous criminal case was discussed. Normally, this water cooler stuff wouldn't faze me, but in this instance the accused was one of the employee's family members. I couldn't believe what I was hearing; I couldn't believe the employee didn't care that I was hearing it.

Again: whatever; I'll never tell; etc, etc. I'm not paid much to observe what I do, and therefore regard it as free psychological training. What wonders lurk in the human mind! and all that. It's fine if people continue to treat me like the fly on the wall, like a possible nuisance that they'll tolerate because I am presently harmless. I will continue to look, listen and learn.

TRACK LISTING: Massive Attack featuring Horace Andy, "Spying Glass"

"Stale popcorn! Don't you stand in your chair."

*

"Stale popcorn!
Don't you stand in your chair."

We might end up at the movies tonight.

In my gradual reacquaintance with nine-to-fiveing, nothing is more automatic than Working for the Weekend. Going Out for Drinks with Co-Workers (Straight from the Office) seems like it's also on the horizon, though it's not a regular option for temps like me.

But going to the movies? It could be a ritual; it could happen. Friday night's alright for escaping reality, no?

*HE LEADS A SAD LIFE! THE BEST ACTION FILM I'VE EVER SEEN! BUT EXCUSE THE DUBBING [no wait, scratch that]. AND EXCUSE SOMEONE WHO LEADS ONE "HECK OF AN AMAZING" LIFE BY "STICKING HIS THUMBS UP SO HIGH THAT THEY HURT."

TRACK LISTING: Bad Brains, "At the Movies"