Idiots In My Life

Idiots In My Life (PM LII)

Reggie, grossly unsatisfactory (p)seudonym,

included in a gust of wind,

is someone I have nominated

for asshole of the month

for the rest of my life.

He just walked by,

a cup of Tim Horton's coffee

in one hand and

a stack, six or seven sheets,

of paper in the other.

I couldn't make out exactly

what the papers were

but if i was more of a betting man

I would wager

they were all useless, fake

or redundant.

He put on an air of haughty

importance,

but I knew he was even

lower in being.

than the runt in a pig's litter,

the ninth baby of a sow

with eight nipples.

His vocabulary was childish,

as though he had no

education at all,

but he tried to hide it,

behind an ancestral Greek

accent that should have been

severed the day he was

born in Canada.

When he came back my way

he finally decided to

acknowledge my presence if

not my very existence.

I greeted him coldly but with

the minimum of respect

necessary when dealing with

anyone in management.

He asked me how I was doing

and even though I knew he

didn't care, I told him I

was fine.

He walked on, shuffling his

papers and taking small sips

from his coffee cup.

I had asked for extended leave

when my mother died,

he denied it and it took

me three days of fighting

until I got it.

I got the time off,

but his belligerency

indifference and denials

that made me have to stand

up and fight for my rights

were somehow a victory

for him,

and to this day I believe he

revels in it a little every time

he sees me.

I think it would be easy to poison

almost anyone,

you could do it with indifference

and not have to witness

the outcome.

In Reggie's case, I believe

I could get my hands dirty,

and they would wash off

quickly

and guiltless.

MCC

Blue Friday

Blue Friday (PM IL)

The air has cooled down immensely

and I am awaiting the impending

storm.

It is Friday and office workers

I generally never see are sneaking out

to their cars and leaving way too

early.

Employees are dropping their

stuff off in a race to get their

weekends started early,

compromising their driving ability

as well as their work ethic

I'm certain.

The sun tries to poke its' head

through the clouds but I'm

sure its going to pour,

hopefully before I get the hell

out of here.

I have read the daily newspaper

three times

and absorbed nothing,

the free papers seem to carry

the most worthless news stories,

most of which are over three

days old.

The parking lot is nearing full

capacity meaning everyone is

back and free of another

work week. I see some still

struggling their way in but they

are also done for the day,

at least mentally.

As I while away the last few hours

on a Friday afternoon I

realize the futility of rage

and hatred, if only in my mind,

I should be able to transfer it to

my hourly dealings with

all time-consumers.

Yet I feel the pull of denial and

of boredom,

feeding on every last neuron that

I possess,

bringing forth from my soul such a

frothy lament that I can't quash it,

nor can I sum up the immense

strength it would take to

completely cover up.

The second hand is moving

slower but it is still moving,

time has that awful way of

always being in control,

manifesting itself especially

when we delude ourselves

to believe that we are in

the driver's seat.

I felt the tug of time lose its

grip on my soul one time

in my life and I thought I

was going to die.

I was scared but very

reasonable and accepting to the

inevitable,

berating myself easily for not

doing enough than for doing

too much.

The feeling passed while I was in

consciousness,

and I regretted the passing

as though I had made it that

far, how could I be fucked with

even worse and have it taken

away?

Of course the light remained

on for the rest of the night and

I was able to greet another

sunrise, although even in the

dead of winter, it did appear.

MCC

Foie Gras

Foie Gras (PM XLVII)

I caught a quick glimpse today

of an e-mail addressed to a

supervisor that I'm pretty sure

I was not supposed to see.

Apparently somebody had phoned

in because they saw an employee

chasing a Canada goose

in the Hillier Avenue

parking lot.

They wanted to know if the employees

had nothing better to do than

chase assorted wildlife during

the work day.

I was the goose chaser!

Actually I wasn't chasing the

fucking thing.

I had got off the bus and

walking to the plant I encountered

the goose when I walked around

a truck.

Usually they run away but

this one was brave and

was not giving me the right

of way.

I did not chase him, I lunged

in his direction hoping to change

his direction and for me to avoid

getting billed. I have been snapped

at by a goose before and

it hurts.

Anyways the goose and I

reconciled, he went his way and

I went mine.

I can't imagine who the witness

was that decided it was important

enough to send an e-mail.

I didn't notice anyone and I

don't usually check parked

cars for occupants when I

am coming into work. When I'm

leaving, its a different story.

The e-mail got covered before I could

covertly finish reading it so I

am not sure what the final

action to be taken was going to be.

I tried successfully not to worry about

it for the rest of the day,

as I was sure the union would be

able to back me up.

Goose-Gate was a dead duck.

MCC

No Pleasing Some People

No Pleasing Some People (PM XLVI)

"Hey Bud," he called,

Fuck, if there's anything I hate

being called more than Bud,

I have yet to hear it.

I would sooner be called

anything else,

Diana, big nose, small dick,

fatty or smelly,

but not Bud.

It was 10:30 am and he told me

he had a load of flyers that had

to start being delivered the following

Tuesday.

Not knowing if this was possible I

went back to the office

to ask someone.

I was told there was a chance they

might not be started on Tuesday

and thats the way it was.

Noticing that there would be no

further effort to appease this fellow

I simply went back and told him

that they probably would go through

BUT there was a chance they could go

out a day later.

He looked pissed.

He pulled a fifty dollar bill out of his

pocket and offered it to me.

Long weekend, I was tempted,

but I had no control.

"Look Bud," I said, "I can only

move it so far down the line

then I would have to start paying

people and to be honest, fifty

bucks wouldn't go very far."

"They are going to go out on time

don't worry."

He put the bill back in his pocket,

"Have a nice fucking weekend Bud," he

spat before getting back into his

car.

I watched as he drove away,

seething from the "Bud" comment

I waited until after the cut-off

time to process his order.

God, I hate being called "Bud!"

MCC

Heat Wave

Heat Wave (PM XLV)

He's coming straight at me,

slouching across the parking lot

on his final visit for the day,

right on a long weekend.

Sweat is pouring off his face

and collects in wide wrinkles

on the side of his neck,

weather beaten and weak he stops

at his car and somehow manages

to coax his body into opening the

door.

He slides in unceremoniously, his bulk

makes the shocks groan and squeak in

thier little metallic voice about how they

wish this guy could just lose a few

pounds and give them a break.

Getting into the car has winded him

but he manages to get it started

right away,

the air conditioning is blowing in his

face but it must still be just

hot air.

He looks beaten,

ten rounds with Mike Tyson,

and no championship belt

in sight.

Audible sighs come from inside the

car and I can feel he pain of a

man well trodden down and left

to die on an alien planet floor.

Sweat and tears can always be

interchanged, abused or confused

but I believe I saw tears escaping

from the many wrinkled folds of this

man's eyelids.

He sat for another moment,

becoming more vacant and weird

until I could see the sweat

retreating from the side of his face.

The air conditioner was beginning

to work,

he shifted into gear and got the hell

out of there,

before common sense told him to

go to the bathroom first.

MCC

Scarborough Rapid Transit

Scarborough Rapid Transit (PM XLI)

The elevated train or RT as

it is called down here is

my true eight hour companion

here.

People come and go and

work changes every minute, but

every five minutes or so I can

look up and see the four cars

pass in the distance.

I am too far away to see

a face,

even if I put my glasses on,

but I can see shadows and

I know it has many

people or not.

The trains going east are heading

towards the Town Centre,

shopping malls, government

buildings, passport office,

the GO station is there for

people to continue on an

eastbound direction,

Ajax, Pickering, Whitby, Ottawa.

I like to think the mood on

the eastbound train is lighter

and happier than the west,

people going shopping or on

an adventure, both productive

ways of filling out a day.

The train heading west is something

different, almost

sinister,

and reminds me of the train

Montag rode home in Fahrenheit 451,

the line ends at the subway

station hub,

downtown,

mostly heading to work.

I can imagine the faces of the

people destined for a day of drudgery

cooped up in some small office,

much like myself.

Therefore the train west

always seems to be headed

into a storm cloud while

I keep my optimism

entrenched with the eastbound

hoping the people on that train

have much better luck.

I only ride the train east,

ironically on my way to work,

for the route home I prefer

the shorter walk to the bus,

even though it is slower, smellier

and more uncomfortable than the

train.

Torture seems less intense when it

occurs at the end of the day

instead of ruining the beginning.

MCC

More Effexor Withdrawal

More Effexor Withdrawal (PM XL)

Day four of effexor withdrawal

is hard,

but it has the feeling of moving

forward instead of behind.

Overall health such as nausea,

aches and pains are on the ebb,

although there is a strong

increase in the

'crying for no reason' or crying

initiated by a real bizarre

reference such as a song on a

television show.

Frequent urination is certainly

an inconvenient side-effect,

especially when you are expected to

remain in one place unless

you are physically relieved.

I have had to make a number

of unannounced runs to

the loo but luckily they have either

gone unnoticed or it has been so slow

I was not missed.

My body responds better physically,

instead of slumping against a wall

or lie on a couch,

helpless.

I am able to overcome the

black and move past my mind

to complete tasks,

whereas two nights ago I

could not force myself to get

up and do the dishes

after supper,

last night I could do the dishes

and take the garbage

out without the world falling apart.

My sleep remains terrible and

inefficient, I sleep for maybe

an hour and a half, two hours

and then I have to get up

to urinate.

Then, stupidly, instead of trying to

go back to bed right away,

I'll go downstairs for a smoke,

thereby waking myself up even

more and stealing much

needed rest from myself.

Although the reality is that

Zopiclone has ceased to

work as an effective

sleep-aid, I can't imagine

being without it.

Out of all the drugs I take,

to me it is the most

important and the last one

I would give up.

It calms my brain even though

it doesn't always let my body

relax completely.

It works the best when I take it

with a small amount of food,

a sandwich, ice cream or

a banana,

eat too much and the effect get lost

in the food.

Eat too little and you have to

pick through your own vomit to

try and take it again.

I joined a Zopiclone support

group a while ago on Facebook,

but usually everyone is too

stoned to respond properly to

anything I post there.

Lorazepam is smooth, I'll give

it that,

but it will never take place

of the Blue Wonder,

Oh that magnificent mixture of

wonderful chemicals and a little

touch of magic and hope,

all wrapped up into a

tiny little pill,

7.5 mgs of rhovane

bound with some jell-o-like

substance I imagine,

making so many people happy,

the world over.

MCC

Deluge

Deluge (PM IXL)

The sky was clear when I

boarded the bus yesterday. Two

miles to the south on Kennedy

I disembarked from the Ark

into the beginning of the flood.

Due to my umbrella the very top

of my head remained remarkably

dry, the rest of my body completely

drenched right to the scrotum.

My shoes were sopped completely

inundated I hoped for the best

and foolishly left them outside for

the night hoping the fresh cool air

would dry them.

My scientific knowledge let me down

and I began the day with

unwearable shoes, they were

still dripping,

the only shoes I could find at

such short notice,

morning without looking very

hard,

were my son's Pink Floyd

commemorative collector's edition

All-Star running sneakers,

they are nothing special

really,

black with white trim

and The Dark Side Of the Moon

prism and rainbow painted on the

back heel.

I believe they cost almost a

hundred bucks and to be honest,

they were not very comfortable.

However,

wearing these shoes has

allowed me to steal back a small

amount of my youth,

memories of hours of acid-laced euphoria

lying on my bed with the

speakers almost as high as they

could take.

The incessant heartbeat that permeates

the album making it come alive

and flow through you instead of

just into you.

Cacophonous laughter, raving lunatics

and the admission that

I've always been mad,

the lunatic is in my head,

and the sun is indeed

eclipsed by the moon.

MCC

Neenie

Neenie (PM ccxxxviii)

"We thought you enjoyed fruitcake, Aunt Edna."

"Do you enjoy throwing up every five minutes, Claude?"

"Clark"

Hardly a piece of cinematic history but that one scene from National Lampoon's Vacation has resounded in every house I have lived in since the movie first hit VHS, or was it beta or laserdisc, I don't remember. The point is I think we all had an Aunt Edna growing up and a fairly stupid story about her. Our Aunt Edna was named Bess or Neenie and even though she was quite intelligent contrary to the Imogene Coca character she was quite set in her ways and we were usually about ten years too young to appreciate the things she was trying to teach us. It took me years to finally appreciate Robert Service where a five year old could just not grasp the life and death severity that existed living in Canada's north. Frankly anyone who has not tried to start a fire in a minus forty degree snowstorm with wolves howling in the distance has not truly felt the compulsion Farley Mowat probably did.

What our wonderful Aunt Bess did was introduce us to a world of literature outside the mainstream of the Canadian Scholastic Council of Jerks and prepared us to make our own decisions when we reached the time when we were forced to. Nevil Shute's The Far Country remains one of my favorite childhood books, I was introduced to it by Mrs Van der Sluys, a hundred and twenty year old English teacher Peter and I both had in Argentina. Even though we all had to read it I felt as though she had chosen the book for me personally and it had, in fact, been written for me. I know my Aunt Bess would certainly have approved of the book as I am also certain she read it.

I sat one night drinking scotch with my Aunt and we were discussing I, Claudius and she became so involved and moved by the talk that she started hurling knitting needles like javelins hoping to hit a barbarian or miscreant Gaul. She was a little embarrassed about her little show but from the glint in her eye as she hurled her spear at the big hairy barbarian I finally realized she was one of the coolest people I knew.

MCC

Blue is Back

Blue is Back (PM xxxvi)

Blue is Back!

God, I love that cat!

If I'm working really

hard, it's because the guys

upstairs

are working even harder.

I would bash in the face

anyone who tried to convince

me of that.

A short time as a "rat dodger" I

have come to notice a few

things.

When a "boss" drops the stuff off

himself he invariably tries to pass

himself or herself off as a hard

done by soul who has to work so

hard to keep food on the table.

As the exhaust from their Lexus,

BMW or Mercedes wafts into my

surroundings and I point to the

"Turn Off Your Engine" sign,

I have come to notice the presence

of golf clubs in the trunk under

all the mail.

I then also notice that these people

are not dressed in the traditional

three-piece suit

these having been replaced by

orange pants and

L'Acoste alligator embroidered

golf shirts.

The look of forlornness and

desperation is probably due to

worrying about the one o'clock

tee-off time and not whether the

mail will reach its' intended

customer in time for the back to

school sale.

A loose comment regarding the

beauty of the weather in relation to

the grand game of golf earned me

a sigh and a confession that there

had not been too much time for any

kind of fun this summer.

This person did not clean his

equipment well and his clubs were

well covered with fresh dirt.

Considering whether or not to ask

him if he needed a new caddie

I let him remain in his remorse,

and his good nature for not

rubbing his good fortune

in my face.

MCC

Larval Tea

Larval Tea (PMxxxv)

The old guy had come in and left his

lunch on the table beside me.

I couldn't help but take interest,

It was a No Frills bag

which contained a small

container holding possibly

a sandwich, or a sample from

last night's main meal,

a pork chop, kraft dinner,

a piece of mutton,

who knows?

That was not the interesting part,

as I could have easily peeked

inside and terminated

my inner curiosity.

What got me to wondering

was the drink he had

brought. It was a large Kraft

peanut butter jar,

well-used after the initial

contents of its' inception.

Now it was full of a brackish

water, yellow, almost urine-like

tea perhaps, but to me it seemed

too weak and dirty for even the

most exotic.

Inside there floated two very

small brown leaves, I had

no idea what they were or from

what plant they had

originated.

There was also a bud, which to me,

looked like a larva of some kind

of insect,

much like they had pulled out of the

mouth of that girl in Silence of the

Lambs, the one they had pulled

out of the river.

The concoction revolted me but I

couldn't help wondering what was

inside it.

Later on I passed by the

cafeteria and saw the man

sipping from the jar with what I

have to describe as a satisfied look

on his face,

followed by much tongue slapping

and finally a low belch.

I didn't have the nerve to ask

him what it was,

fearing that it might be

something really sick and not

really wanting to put him in

such a position where he felt he

had to tell me what was in his

lunch.

I remain mystified.

MCC

Progress Avenue

Progress Avenue (PM xxxiv)

From my vantage point at my

desk I can look straight out

and see the road. From left to right

in both directions.

I'm guessing I have a

view of maybe one quarter

of a kilometer.

Most people walking by come in

to my line of vision for about

a minute,

but if I make a point of it,

it might take a normal person

to pass out of

my view.

Some stop to wait at the bus

stop right in front of me while

others pass in and out of the

knitting factory across the

road.

One day an old Chinese man

with a small cart came into

my view,

shuffling along very slowly.

He would stop for a second,

maybe pick something up like a

discarded bottle or a piece

of garbage, he would examine

each piece minutely but he

himself would discard

nothing. Everything he picked

up went into his cart.

I can see the elevated train

passing in the distance going

between Kennedy Station and the

Town Center.

Twelve trains passed while this

one man was in my view.

It took him an hour and a half

to pass in and out of my life,

and I could only watch in awe

as this old man spent an hour

and a half being more productive

than myself,

getting paid by bottle deposits

and suffering in the heat,

while I sat behind my fan

at my big desk complaining

of being bored and unloved

and getting paid for it,

Which one of us in the eyes of

God was coming closer to

realizing His grand scheme of things,

I can't help but worry that it

isn't me!

MCC

Staring Blankly

Staring Blankly (PM xxxiii)

I'm trying very hard to concentrate

but I keep drawing a blank,

I can feel I have a fever,

a hundred and two maybe,

I don't have a thermometer.

I can't take another tylenol

because I'll puke,

they are getting expensive and

I've even puked in the sink

and pulled the bigger chunks'

out and tried to get them

back in my stomach,

anything to get rid of that

elusive pain that hides

somewhere between my

heart and my brain.

It never leaves me, though

I am fairly lucky that I

can usually dull it,

with medication,

lying on the couch staring

blindly at a stupid television

for hours on end is

usually my best antidote.

It doesn't matter what's on

as long as I'm being bombarded.

Controlling the levels of bombardment

are easy,

depending on the channel and

volume controls,

an out of reach remote is always

a taste of what hell would be

like,

a never-ending regis and kelly

daring you to put a gun to your

own head and end it all.

Rays of hope can sometimes shine

through on a news channel,

snippets of Pinawa,

Argentina and even Saint John

have the effect of uncovering

my bleeding soul. I can still

remember there were some good times,

good people,

and maybe that some of it

was worthwhile and I wasn't

quite smart enough to

completely fuck it up!

The sun just came out,

piercing its way through

cloud and around concrete

and steel to shed some of

its light on my lonely

existence.

It becomes brighter and I can

see through to the other end of

the dock without my glasses

on as I do always manage to

reaffirm that maybe my

existence is doing some good.

MCC

Keeping it Down

Keeping it Down (PMxxxii) (For Rick Schaepart!!)

Premium Plus crackers are about

the only thing I can keep down

these last two days.

I tried eating rice yesterday

but it didn't even try and

go through the system even my old friend

Pepsi-Cola,

has been rejected by my

abused body and especially

rotting teeth.

I can drink flavored soda

water but only if there's no sugar, or fake sugar

in it,

Otherwise it erupts.

Tonight I'll try the rice gain,

hoping i've been through

the worst. It takes about

two weeks before i'll start to

feel well again, and in two

months of lazing about in a

chronic funk,

I'll probably be ready to go back

on the drug again.

I've been warned this switching

is really bad for my physical

heart.'But my mental heart relies on

it to get through the days.

The Doctor says she is going to

switch me off it to try some thing

else, but we never seem to get around to it.

He knows nothing about my

personal feelings.

I just kee refilling the

presription even when I don't take them

i have about two months in reserve,

just in case.

Maybe I'll take them with me to

Argentina when I go in a couple of weeks.

they are out of range expensive there,

and I have a few people,

who could use them

MCC