On My Answering Machine

One new message.

"Hi Dale. It's Jane. Just letting you know there will be fifty dollars in your account by the end of the day."

I know, Ms J. It isn't much, is it? A drop in the bucket, really. But at least she's trying. She's tried my hospitality. She's tried my generosity. Lord knows she's tried my patience. But she's now trying to repay the loan. I can't help but feel encouraged. Maybe I won't involve the courts just yet.

$4950 left to go.

***

She

Her voice came to me softly in the darkness last night.

"So does this mean I'm your girlfriend now?" she whispered as I held her and inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair.

My finger tips explored the smooth curves of her back.

"Yeah," I said. "I guess it does. Are you OK with that?"

The question was answered quite clearly when her smile met mine.

Exciting times, Ms J.

***

... a failure to communicate

Remember the movie "Cool Hand Luke"? It's among my favourites, Ms J. It stars a young and handsome Paul Newman as a prisoner in a southern jail in the 1960's. The warden is played convincingly by the actor Struther Martin who's wry observation concerning the incorrigible "Luke" has become a well used expression over the years.

"What we have here, is a failure to communicate."

I cannot contact either of my kids. And it frustrates me. Daniel cannot afford to buy time for his phone and I haven't heard from Meagan lately either. I have made dozens of attempts to call her over the past four days. Each time, the phone rings but no one answers. It's easy to imagine that Kelly has neglected her phone bill again, but I'd sooner say there's something wrong with the phone. Maybe it's nobody's fault, and simply a matter of repair. But why has it persisted for four days?

I'm going to drive to Georgetown after breakfast this morning, and see what I can do to help. No, Ms J, I have no plans to talk to Kelly. If I lived out the remainder of my days without ever speaking to her again, I'd be OK. I think I'll leave Meagan's new cell phone there, on the little table on her porch. I hope Meagan finds it. The porch is often strewn with garbage. Actually, it might be safer to give it to her at school. Trouble is, how would I find her? It's a big school.

And Dan? I'll buy him one of those plastic phone cards and leave it under his door. He'll find it when he comes home from work. What good is the phone I bought him if he can't afford to use it? Personally, I think he uses it recklessly, but that's none of my business, is it? I'd like the boy to have a phone, not so much for himself, as for me. I like being able to contact my kids, Ms J.

How can that be a bad thing?

***

Donna Pace

Donna Lesa Pace.

That was her name. That's the name of my second wife, the only woman I've ever loved, Ms J, and the one who broke my heart. Donna Pace. Her name was pronounced "PA-shay." Her paternal grandfather had immigrated to Nova Scotia from his native Italy although Donna's fair skin and blue eyes belied her Mediterranean heritage. Her radiant smile could light up a room and her joie de vivre was contagious. I met her in November of 1994 and moved in with her before Christmas. I found two new loves that winter: Donna and crystal meth.



Every weekend, I was high on speed. And every weekend, I was daddy to these two innocents. Guilt, Ms J? Oh yeah. I have lots of that. LOTS.

We had money then, Donna and I. We sold the stuff as well. Trust me on this one: There is a great deal of profit in drug dealing. It was easy money. We didn't need to work much at our real jobs. And we lived the Life of Reilly. Fancy car. Vacations. It sounds like a good Life, doesn't it? I suppose it was in many ways. Certainly, Donna enjoyed it. She suffered no guilt, no worries. Her family and friends knew what she was doing, and although they didn't support it per se, they didn't appear to disapprove. Not openly, anyway.

But I had to live in the shadows. I was living two Lives. In one, I was father, brother, son, employee. In the other, I was a drugged out space cadet. Often the line that separated the two became thin, translucent. It was a difficult time for me and without really acknowledging that, I made Life difficult for Donna.

I was jealous of her. I begrudged her her happiness, her carefree Lifestyle, her lack of responsibilities. A part of me wanted to join my wife in devout Hedonism, but it conflicted with my need to be a good daddy and son. I knew I was not living up to my potential, but gosh, how addicted I was to speed! I won't tell you I didn't enjoy it, Ms Journal, because I did. It felt FABULOUS, at least temporarily. In the end though, we were both miserable. And when God or good fortune put us asunder, I think Life improved for both of us.

I'm much happier now, in spite of my current challenges at work. I'll bet Donna's happier too, although not without struggles of her own, I'm sure. It must be lonely sometimes, living as she does in a small town in Holland, far from her own family and culture. I wonder how often she comes "home" to visit loved ones in her native Nova Scotia.

I don't really miss her as I once did. But I do think of her still, from time to time. I don't reckon I'll ever see her again and if I were completely honest, Ms J, I'd admit that I used her name in this post in the hope that she might one day search her name on the internet and discover my blog. It remains somewhat important to me that she know I'm OK, and that my Life has proceeded in a positive direction since we called a halt to our relationship and hugged good-bye for the last time in the office of a Toronto paralegal.

I wish you peace, Donna Lesa. Good luck. Good health.

Me? It's been a long time, I know. Seven years, the first one nearly unbearably painful. My heart has healed I think and I'm ready, finally, to move on.

There's a new someone in my Life. A new radiant smile. She's not yet ready to make a formal announcement, and we've only just begun to date, but I do quite like her, Ms Journal. And I know she likes me too. More details in due time.

Good-bye, Donna. And farewell.

***

Jimmy

I have new neighbours. Old Mr. Waters moved out a few weeks ago and sold his house to his granddaughter. I miss ol' man Waters. A lot. He was 92. Still is, I reckon. The guy was amazing. Quiet as a mouse most times. He shovelled snow. Mowed his own lawns. Raked leaves. He had no car and so he walked everywhere, or took the streetcar or city bus. But I guess he was feeling a bit frayed around the edges and keeping the house was becoming quite a chore. So as I say, he sold the place. To his granddaughter.

She's a likable gal. Young. Late twenties, I'd guess. Pretty. At least she was before she covered herself in tattoos and filled her ears with metal rings. She has holes, Ms J, in her ear lobes, big enough to put your thumbs in. She wears a pair of wooden plugs in them. Her boyfriend looks even freakier. The holes in his ear lobes are so big, and the plugs in them so heavy, his ears actually flap, like a dog's, when he walks. Yeah, they're a pair alright, he and she. I've met them both. They're really quite normal to talk to. It's just their appearance. Lord!

But oh well. I call myself a Christian don't I? I suppose I ought to try harder to accept them as they are. And I could, Ms J, accept them, I mean, if it wasn't for Jimmy.

Jimmy is a dog. A BIG dog. My neighbours have two big dogs in their little house. It's what we call a semi-detached house. You know, the kind of double house that holds two families under one roof. There's a cinder block wall between us, but it's not terribly sound proof. I used to hear old Mr. Waters talking to his son over there sometimes. They argued bytimes, but not often. Mostly, there was silence. And I heard the silence. I heard it, Ms Journal, and I found joy in it. I did my best to keep my own noise to a minimum.

But now Jimmy has moved in. Jimmy loves the sound of his own voice. Jimmy barks at everything, and at nothing. He barks at squirrels. He barks at birds. He barks at people and at the wind that dares rustle the leaves. Jimmy is slowly driving me insane. When I walk into my back garden, he lunges at me and I'm grateful for the fence between us. He growls and snarls and barks. Loudly and continuously. A man ought to be able to stroll through his own back yard without being accosted by a hairy mongrel dog. I hate Jimmy. He makes me want to return to the house and fetch my gun. I could easily shoot a hole through his head and feel no remorse. I'd never do it, of course. I'd be arrested for dangerous use of a firearm. But it does make for a satisfying fantasy, though.

At least once every night, Jimmy finds some reason to bellow and it disturbs my precious slumber. I've spoken with my perforated neighbours about it, but in all honesty, Ms J, what can they do? They could muzzle him, I suppose, but I don't imagine they'd want to do that. They'd probably consider it cruel.

I consider it cruel to be wakened two or three times in an already short night. I consider it cruel to be afraid to walk in my own bloody garden.

Sigh ...

Maybe they'll move out and take their damn dogs with them. Maybe Jimmy will settle down a bit when he gets more familiar and more confident with his territory. Maybe he'll suffer a sudden brain embolism ...

Now don't misunderstand me, Ms J. I don't dislike dogs, really I don't. I just don't suffer noisy ones very gladly. I like babies too, but when they cry for hours, I've gotta step outside for a spell. I'm a big believer in serenity. And if a man can't have serenity in his own home, well ...

Well he ought not to be married, I suppose.

And that's all I've got to say about that.

***

2148

There was a big union meeting this morning, Ms J. An “important” meeting. That’s what some fellows called it. At the meeting, we were to decide how best to respond to the bullying and harassment we suffer at work. We want to register our displeasure with the way we've been treated lately. We voted recently to throw out a key portion of our union agreement, although for the record, Ms J, I am among the few who voted for the status quo. We’ve suffered enough changes lately at work. Why vote for more? Why change the way it’s been done since 1967? It’s always worked fine. Everyone was happy. Everyone. Company. Customer. Commuters.

But that was before the American invasion. That was before ongoing tensions between union and management factions eventually poisoned the relationship between company and customer. It’s a mess now, Ms J. A great, big mess. And when the current contract between my employer and the government-run commuter train service expires next June, we’ll no longer operate the trains we’ve run for forty years. Who will, you ask? Good question. It seems to be a closely guarded secret. And how will the transition be accomplished? Another good question. Still no answer.

Guidance was sought from someone higher up in our union and so a union leader was invited to speak to us. Mr. X. I dealt with Mr. X and his bloated ego when I was dismissed last year. I don’t like the man. I have no respect for him. And I don't trust him. It was he who sat idly by and did nothing while the company abolished thirty four jobs last winter. Thanks. Merry Christmas.

When it was his turn to speak, we endured fifteen minutes of rubbish about how he had spoken with the company CEO and how evil the company is and how the union hadn’t been successful in many of the grievances he’d championed since the invasion. "There's not much we can do. The company's power is absolute. When they want something, they usually get it." Blah, blah, blah. He did everything he could to tell us how strong and powerful and intractable the company is, and by implication, how weak and powerless we are as employees. It was not what we'd hoped to hear. Just once, we'd like to hear some good news, something encouraging and not more doom and gloom.

“I really don’t know what you hope to accomplish,” he said. "The company will simply fire any man who doesn’t do as he’s told.”

I bore it as long as I could, Ms J. I really tried to listen and to be objective and open. But when I could stand it no longer, I spoke. Yelled, actually.

“You sound to me like a company man, Mr. X. You’ve come in here and told us what we can’t do and what we can’t do and what we can’t do. Why don’t you tell us what we CAN do.”

He didn’t much care for my “company man” comment.

“I can tell you to go fuck yourself,” he said. “I’m not a company man.”

I stood up and approached the table he stood behind. Every eye in the room, I’m sure, was on me. I sliced the air with my finger and pointed at him.

“I think you are, sir. I think you’re nothing more than a giant ego and a company man. You make me fucking sick.”

And with that, I turned and stormed out. I don’t reckon I’ll attend another union meeting, Ms J. We don’t have a union. All we have is an ineffective group of so-called leaders who meet with company officials but do nothing to help us. Nothing, Ms Journal. They take our union dues each month, though. $127.

I’ll put in my time on the railway. I’ll take their money. I’ll run their stupid trains and apply their stupid rules. Yes, sir. No, sir. As you wish, sir. Or ma’am. In a worst case scenario, I’ll remain there until retirement. Six more years.

July 31st 2013. That’s the last day I’ll have to deal with any more selfish, greedy or cruel people. That’s the last day I’ll be subject to their mindless fuckery.

Just 2148 more days, Ms J. 2148 days to freedom.

Tic. Tic. Tic.

***

Insurance Companies -- Ensuring Profits

A man from the insurance company came round today. It’s standard procedure now for insurance companies to inspect your home before they can finalize a new home policy. The guy wandered around the house, upstairs, downstairs. He measured the deck. Asked about the fireplace. Looked for smoke detectors and carbon monoxide detectors. He took photos in every room and more outside.

Frankly, Ms J, I think it’s highly intrusive. I don’t like insurance companies or their stupid regulations designed to protect their investments. It wouldn’t surprise me to get notification of a premium increase after this clown submits his findings.

Don't get me started.

Jugheads.

***

Proud of My Boy

I visited Dan today at his new apartment. His birthday is on Wednesday and I had a card for him. He showed me where to park then led me into his building and down a long, narrow hallway. We stopped in front of Apartment #7.

"Here it is, Dad. Lucky 7."

He unlocked the door and I followed him and Sarah inside. The first thing I noticed was the sickly odour of stale cigarette smoke.

"Sorry about the stink," he said. "The guy who lived here before was an old guy with no legs. He never went out. He just sat here and smoked his brains out. Me and Sarah spent a whole week cleaning the place and painting it."

They'd done a fabulous job, Ms J. They'd painted the entire place by themselves and it looked pretty good. Yellow kitchen. Pale green living room. Light blue bedroom. White bathroom. Two decrepit plastic lawn chairs sat alone in the tiny living room. A small portable television was near the wall. A plastic shelving unit held a larger TV, a VCR and some video movies. I pointed to the television on the floor.

"What's the deal with that little TV, Dan? Why don't you put it in the bedroom?"

"It doesn't work," said Sarah. "We just keep it there in case we have company."

I must have looked a bit confused because she continued then with, "You know. To sit on."

The place is tiny, Ms J. And they really haven't any furniture to speak of. The fridge leaks and contains only a carton of milk and some red juice in a plastic jug. The people upstairs are noisy. And the people downstairs are noisy. But it's Dan's home. It's a real, honest to goodness home. An address. A place he can call his own. He's proud of it.

And I'm proud of him. I offered him a hug and told him so.

"Thanks, Dad," he said and he was actually beaming. "That means a lot to me, you know."

His job is continuing at the chocolate factory. And Sarah goes off to high school every morning. They are safe for now. Content with very little. I am pleased to see them on the right track.

I wonder how my daughter is doing?

***

Still Living

... and learning. Living and learning.

Hello, Ms J. Sorry I haven't written lately. I've been dealing with some difficult emotional issues, but I think I'm coming to terms with it all. It's been a couple of weeks of decision making. They've been difficult decisions, ones that require a great deal of deliberation and introspection. I've decided to terminate a friendship.

I don't think it's appropriate to discuss it here, but I will tell you this much. I've discovered that some people, because of their troubles, are beyond my ability to help. Indeed, the troubles themselves are beyond my ken, nearly beyond belief. And all the time and money I've given to help, has had no effect whatsoever.

Sometimes perhaps, the best way to help is to refuse it.

***