Unforgiven

"It is one of the beautiful compensations of life that no man can sincerely try to help another without helping himself."


--Ralph Waldo Emerson

American philosopher/poet


Sorry, Ralph. This time, I disagree.

I received an e-mail message yesterday from Nick. You remember him, Ms J. He's an acquaintance of mine whose inattention and thoughtlessness caused my dismissal last November. He was playing with his cell phone as our train approached a red light. He missed the platform and over-ran the signal.

Nick had been suffering emotionally over the loss of his marriage, but despite my offer to help, continually moved toward self destruction. He drank. Used drugs. Chased whores. Nick just generally behaved in a reckless and irresponsible manner. I was warned not to get too close to him.

"He'll drag you down with him," I was told. But I didn't listen. And eventually, he got me fired from my job.

I haven't spoken to him since, although he lives just up the street. I was really struggling to forgive him. The past few weeks, have seen my heart soften a little. Not much, mind you, but a little. I knew I must soon forgive him, Ms J, if not for Nick, then for myself. After all, I am back to work. Nick is not. Then I received an e-mail. Brief. And to the point.

"Are you ever going to speak to me?"

Now, if he'd just left it at that, I might have replied. I might have replied immediately and begun the process of rebuilding a relationship with him. But he followed with:

"Your maturity level is off the scale."

Clearly, Nick is still unrepentant. And angry. And abusive. If he'd approached me with an air of humility instead of insulting me, I'm sure I would have tried to restore our relationship.

But he didn't. So I won't.

***

Another Restless Night

Good Morning, Ms Journal. How was your night? Really? Mine was ... long. I have nights like that sometimes. More often lately than in the recent past. I just can't seem to adjust to the spareboard. It's difficult to work a day shift then a night shift. Maybe go to work twice in a day and then have a day off. I'm not eating properly or sleeping regularly. If there was enough work, or few enough guys on the spareboard, it wouldn't be too bad. I could book rest (6 to 24 hours) and know that the crew office would be calling me when my rest period was up. But lately, it hasn't been that predictable. I worked until 8:00 last night and booked 12 hours rest hoping to get out again this morning. I've just checked the spareboard and there are about eight men available for work ahead of me. More will become available as their "rest" expires. I may not work until after dinner this evening. Or I might go to work this afternoon. Or maybe not til early tomorrow morning.

What kind of a Life is that, I ask you? Honestly. I'm too old for this shit.

Only sixty-five months to go.

And the strike continues ... For now.

---

On a happier note, I have some good news to report.

Remember that rent money I've been saving? I have decided what to spend it on. After considering a host of options - applying it to my mortgage, paying down my furnace loan, giving it away to striking picketers at work, donating it to charity - I've come upon what I think is the best way to invest that money. I'm going to invest in the future, Ms J, in a young girl's future.

My daughter, Meagan, has been doing well in her first year at high school. She has lots of friends and seems to be enjoying a degree of popularity among both boys and girls. However, she's been spending some time with her troubled brother and his drug-addled friends and I fear she'll follow him down that slimy slope into truancy and drugs. Dan was just about her age (fourteen) when he began to slide. I cannot allow that to happen to my girl. I fear I've lost one child and don't want to lose the other.

Meagan has more self esteem than her brother. She values herself, I pray, more than Dan values himself. I must encourage those feelings in her. I must find ways to show her how important she is to me. So I thought maybe a little road trip might be fun. I’m planning a little holiday for Meagan and myself. March break is coming up soon and I have two weeks vacation that month.

On March 12, we’ll travel by train to Ottawa. VIA is operating normally; conductors there are not on strike. Actually, there are no conductors on VIA trains anymore, Ms J. But that’s another story. We leave on March 12 and return March 14. We’ll be staying at a fancy hotel in Ottawa, not far from the Parliament buildings. Meagan was thrilled when I told her of my plan.



“I’m smilin’ here, Dad,” she said on the phone. “That sounds so nice! Thanks!”

I have a pass that allows free travel on VIA trains. Economy class. I paid two hundred bucks extra to travel first class both ways.

“We’re going first class?!” said Meagan.

“Yup,” I told her. “First class all the way. Fancy hotel, too. We’re gonna do it up right, Scout.”

She was thrilled and, I think, impressed.

“Can we get room service? Can we get ice cream at, like, 3:00 in the morning?”

“If we want to, I guess. If we’re still awake at 3:00 in the morning.”

“Sweet!”

I don’t know what we’ll do there or what we’ll see. But it’s the nation’s capital, for goodness sake. I’m sure we’ll find lots of adventures. Maybe we’ll call on the prime minister. See if he’d like to go for a skate on the Rideau Canal.

I know it's only a couple of days, but it's a chance for us to be together and keep channels of communication open in a fun and relaxing atmosphere.

She loves herself, Ms J. And I love her. So much. It's important, I think, that she knows that.

I don't want to lose that girl.

Dear God, I don't want to lose that girl.

***

Lately ...

Hey. How you doin'?

I'm alright, I guess. Yeah, yeah. I know. I haven't been writing much here lately. I've been writing every day, Ms J, but I've been keeping my thoughts more private. I've been writing in my private journal. My paper journal. I have one, you know. I don't share everything with you. Some thoughts are best kept private I think. Jealous? Too bad. You can read all about it after I'm dead.

So what's been going on in this topsy-turvy place of reality called My Life? My Crazy Life. Mi Vida Loca. Ma Vie Folle. Mein verrücktes Leben.

Work: I'm still not content at work these days. The strike continues. Every time I go to work, I have to cross a picket line. The guys are cool about it. They know we have to go to work. Our contract is still valid for two more years. But I know those guys. Most of them, anyway. And they know me. We've worked together for years in some cases. I dunno, Ms J. It just feels ... I dunno. Wrong, I guess, to be going to work and earning a pay cheque when these guys are standing outside in the cold, earning nothing. I bring them coffee and doughnuts, but for whom? For the strikers? Or to assuage my guilt? I hope the strike ends soon. The Canadian Wheat Board and the Canadian Manufacturer's Association are both whining to Ottawa about their shipping problems. The chemical industry too. It's been twelve days now. The impact of a nationwide rail strike is beginning to ripple across the economy. Federal politicians are said to be considering back-to-work legislation. And that's both good and bad. The union is fighting internally, with allegations of improprieties against both sides. And the company wants to shove their demands down our throats. I don't know who to trust. So I've decided to mistrust everyone. Union and management both. Money and the lust of it seem to be the main issue for everyone except the poor bastards who are on strike. All they want is to be treated humanely on the job. But perhaps that's too much to ask.

Friends: Well, it seems the old adage is true. You win some and you lose some. Frankie was a friend until I reneged on a promise last fall. I needed some time to gather my thoughts after I'd been fired from my job and she refused to accept my reasons. I feel she was selfish and intractable. She probably feels the same about me. I miss her, but not enough, evidently, to overcome my fear of rejection and call her.

And my GO Girls. The women with whom I sat on the afternoon train ride, back when things were still normal at work. One of them is my room mate's ex-wife. They were married when I first met them, but after hearing Alan's side of the story, I aligned myself with him and rejected her. "Old boyfriend. Not getting enough sex." Puh-lease. He loved her and gave himself to her completely. And she threw him away like a snotty tissue. She waited, though, until he'd completed two year's worth of renovations to her summer home.

My Lodger: Alan's been here since October. I finally found the courage to suggest it might be time for him to get his own place.

"I been thinkin', eh Alan?"

"Yeah? 'Bout what?"

"Well, I been thinkin' about ... I been thinkin' maybe it's time for you to ... er, spread your wings and, um ..."

"My wings?"

"Yeah. Spread your wings. You know. I been thinkin' is all."

He turned from the kitchen sink and looked over his shoulder at me.

"Yeah. I been thinkin' about that too. I think it's time I started lookin' for a place of my own. It's been good here, and I want it to end on a positive note. I appreciate what you've done for me. Really. But yeah. It's time, I think."

I told him he was welcome to stay til spring. I can't put him out in the middle of winter. He's looking for a new place. The guy's been absolutely no bother, Ms Journal. I can't say anything bad about him. I just miss my privacy, that's all. I miss my solitude. Hopefully, I'll have my home to myself again by April.

I've been saving his rent money these past three months. I have $1800 cash in a safe deposit box at the bank. I felt like a drug dealer when I placed the bulging envelope in the vault. I don't want to put that money in my bank account. I have a plan for that money.

I've blabbed on long enough, I think. Pop 'round later and I'll tell you what I plan to do with that fat wad at the bank. (I mean the money, Ms J, not the manager.)

Ta!

***

Ma Famille Amusante -- My Funny Family

Deep sigh ...

What shall I tell you about today, Ms J? It's cold outside here in Mimico this morning. Wicked cold. Minus 17C. Windy, too. Dad told me he put his teeth on the night table last night and they chattered!

I went to visit Mum and Dad on Sunday. I arrived about 11:00 and came home after supper. Boy, they sure have lots of snow up there. I reckon there must be three feet of it in their back yard. It's light, fluffy snow, Ms J, the kind skiers prefer. The wind whips it and sculpts it into shapes and designs to please your fancy. Very pretty, Mum says. And Dad told me they enjoy watching it and sipping coffee at the breakfast table. "It sure is nice not to have to go out in it," he says. I couldn't help but feel a little jealous of them. The two-hour drive home was a stressful one, as I had to battle drifting snow and the occasional white-out.

Saturday night found me at my brother's house in Georgetown. Pat and Linda invited sisters Jill and June and me to come for an informal dinner of hors d'oeuvres and finger foods. Afterwards, we played a board game called "Cranium". It was a fun game, but we added our own brand of silliness to make it hilarious. I can't offer you specific examples, but it seems whenever we Pringles gather, there's more laughter than most of us can handle. My brother and I suffer sore stomachs and tired faces from laughing. The girls inevitably pee their pants. Why do women do that, I wonder?

Here's June and Jill and niece, Sherri. What, do you suppose, are these ladies looking at?



They're staring at Pat and me. The twins can't believe their brothers are such "babe magnets". Sherri is astonished by her father's transformation.

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We ate til we were uncomfortable. We laughed til we cried. And we stayed til the wee small hours of Sunday morning. We agreed to meet again next month for more fun and family frivolity.

Hey! I managed a happy post! Nothing here at all about work. And no cursing.

Wonders never cease ...



***