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!

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