14 Hour Daze

One of my sister's greatest fears is not having any money, thus subsequently forcing her back into waitressing. My sister and her husband have been Bay Street tycoons for their entire professional careers.

Give me your biggest arachnid.
Your girthiest anaconda.
Your most lethal sea urchin.

My greatest fear is moving back in with my parents.

When Fatty was 16 he was kicked out of his family home. He wasn't living up to his potential. The shaping up portion of development wasn't happening as quickly as they would have liked, so a subsequent ship-out was issued forth. When one is 16 there are not many friends one has that have self-contained bachelor dens or any sort of couch surfing or basement dwelling scenarios that can be provided for household dropouts for prolonged durations. Even though Fatty had a girlfriend at the time a calvary of horsed men never lined a boulevard with flowing regal flags welcoming the lad to at least the familial sofa.

Fatty was forced into a halfway house.
Where he learned full abandonment.
And how nothing really matters anyway.

Years later I look at his family, who through regret in parental decision making, had made great attempts in pulling closer, making up for lost time with British guilt as their petrol. They laugh together like they used to, poke fun of one another amicably and at the end of every conversation, via phone or in person, they always cap it with reciprocated professions of familial, unconditional love.

[The Comrade scratches her head]

A few months ago Fatty moved back in with his entire family. It was designed as an opportunity to get closer. Nightly there were handwritten notes on 8 1/2x11" paper addressing mother's 2 sons as her treasures, listing everything deliciously edible in the refrigerator. Sunday nights were family nights. Everything was tickyboo.

I'd never seen parents more proud of a son as when I'd first met Fatty when he was hired as a manager at the restaurant I'd worked in, then quit on the night of Blackout 2003. They were proud because he went to work in a suit. They were proud because he was management. They were proud because the restaurant was quite grand and once gorgeous in design. It wasn't a roadhouse. It wasn't a pub. It wasn't a Chuck E. Cheese. It reflected nicely back at them.

I remember meeting his parents for the first time. They'd come into the restaurant after Fatty had been working there for about a week. Fatty and I had quickly established our relationship, the kind when 2 kindred kid spirits meet. I sat with the parents and chatted easily with animation and enthusiasm over this new creature who had been hired to smooth out the operation. After I left the table...

Mom of Fatty: Is that your girlfriend?
Fatty: No, Mom. She's married.
Mom of Fatty: Hm. She seems like your girlfriend.

3 years later, over the phone, she said, "I told you so."
Typical mother.

Fatty didn't stay at the restaurant where I'd said, "Fuck you, fuck this place, I'm outta here" to the general manager. He moved to be part of the umbrella corporation's flagship events facility to be part of the management team there. He was working 14 hour days in succession. Though he was making lots of money, rarely had he felt as miserable as he had back then. His parents were so proud.

14 hours out of 24 allows 10 hours to do whatever you want to do.
Like sleep... the only thing a person could do.


I had a very busy week last week. Juggling two jobs and cramming in power writing sessions with my 2 new writing partners was taking up all of my waking hours. The once a week night of employ, the Cheer's Equivalent, felt nearly like a day off. The power writing sessions, something that was instigated by one of the other writers as she had received an email for a writing contest calling for short film submissions - deadline yesterday - was nothing short of inspirational. The new job... well, it was nothing short of the Comrade's Inferno.

Saturday looked like this:
Clocked in at 10 am for a brunch shift I had been begged to work the night prior. I don't remember the last time I worked a brunch. I like to, instead, sit with several stemmed vessels filled with freshly squeezed juice tainted prosecco accompanying my breakfast of champions.
I actually wasn't needed to work. But wasn't asked to go home either.
For this favour I made exactly $35 for my effort.
I was given a 1/2 hour break which I used to unlock my bike, ride home as quickly as possible and chug exactly 1 full Grolsch beer.
I was asked to train a new bartender on an unfamiliar bar, something we two had difficulty working as neither of us knew where anything was. And because the bar is not manned nightly, it is one that goes without full stock on most nights. Much time was wasted trying to look for shit that didn't exist, while being simultaneously slammed busy.
My day ended at midnight. 14 hours after I clocked in.

During that time I wasn't given an opportunity to sit down and eat. There was always something else to do. The food that was begrudgingly provided was the castoffs from the buffet brunch; wet scrambled eggs and eggs benedict, where flinging the ham off, were the 2 partially solid things I ate within that 14 hour period. Coupling a lack of sustenance with the physical stress of being constantly busy left my body feeling like there were 4 severed live wires flailing around in my body. It is a disgusting feeling. To this day I have no idea what I made during that shift. My brain couldn't function properly to do even simple math at the end of the night. I left my cash register along with all the tips I made that evening with the general manager. I rode my bike home with the weight of my sore legs propelling me.

Sunday, my day off, felt too short.
Sunday, all I wanted to do was sleep.
But I had a life to catch up on.
I wanted to drink beer and have Mexican food with Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend.
Which I did.
But then got tired and had to have a nap.
Which I did.
And got up feeling like my life was slipping away.
I wasn't writing for me anymore.
My eyes refused to remain open for longer than 2 pages for my darling Tom Robbins and his Jitterbug Perfume.
I was snapping at my loved one.
I had 3 days worth of inescapable shit matter lodged within.
I was miserable.

Monday evening, after my shift at the Cheer's Equivalent, Fatty and I went to blows. He was trying in vain to help me see that he wasn't the root of my dissatisfaction. I was simply too exhausted and subsequently too touchy to be able to see clearly. He was being irrationally rational and unreasonably reasonable. I couldn't understand any of the R's.

After the last power-writing session with my new partners on Tuesday, I was filled with a sense of accomplishment ladened with weariness. Under my belt I had 1 shift down, 6 to go for the week. I rode with anxiety home to Fatty whom I'd hoped had forgiven me for my outburst from the preceding evening. But I couldn't properly rectify anything because I had to dash off to work again, to a place I was beyond beginning to feel resentment towards.

All I really wanted was to have a little section in a pretty restaurant. To serve nice people, mostly travellers. To work with others. I got everything but the little section. Instead, I got more than I bargained for.

The little restaurant is huge and it is masquerading as an event space. Large, deep pocketed corporate types often book the entire restaurant out. The staff become underpaid furniture movers. Yesterday, beneath a beating sun, my fellow comrades - clad in regulation black - fought underarm salt stains and dripping brows while moving 1000's of pieces of furniture around in preparation. Oh, yes. Preparation H, please. No one knows what to expect when they enter the front doors. I was expecting to at least have a few laughs.

I didn't crack a smile once in the hour I stayed there.

Instead I quietly listened to my body as it screamed GET OUT.

It wasn't an environment fit for humans. There were plenty of human shapes working there. Plenty who worked without complaint. 14 hours was like a badge of honour to these people.

The Comrade: How can you do this?
Random 14 hour Worker: I like the money.


Fatty was asked back by our old employer to work another 14 hour shift. After sleeping for 12 hours the next day, he wondered how he ever did it before. These hours that steal our life away. These hours gifted to other people that take us away from ourselves, that can only bring out the worst in us. Why is it, in this culture, that the status quo think that there is a significant pay off for all this time rendered for acts of mindless, soulless work activity?

This Girl Scout ripped the work badge off her shoulder. Yesterday, having worked for an hour, scoping the work that was ahead of her, this girl walked out.

This morning I officially tendered my resignation. No amount of money is enough to replace my life. No amount of money can justify the toll it takes on my body and the ones I hold dearest.

My greatest fear of having to move back in with my parents will not be actualised today or any other day. I am too much of a survivor. Years prior I would have stayed staid at a place that mistreated their staff routinely, while they did the insidious business of occasionally providing cheap beers, which undoubtedly a client had paid for, at the end of a corporately profitable day's end. This practice is designed to be that little bit of incentive for their busy little unfed and underappreciated bees to come back in the next day; 10 minutes early with shined shoes and pressed collars.

Today I will don open toed sandals. I will get on my bike and ride. Fatty and I are getting pedicures today. A 45 minute pampering of feet for 14 hours worked. Finally a compensation commensurate with exploit.