Chapter 15: Concrete & Chainsaws

The title of this entry comes from a sign I noticed at Home Depot recently, while looking around during the "Ladder Anecdote" which will be seen later in this entry.

Sometimes I surprise even myself as to how I can go from happy-go-lucky to extreme panic mode to existential frustration and self-loathing and back again so many times in the span of a day or two. Maybe work brings out the manic-depressive in me, but you have to admit, these are extenuating circumstances. Let's jump back a bit, shall we?

I had to convince myself, Tuesday night, that the next day was going to be a good day at work. I was tired after a fairly long day that I felt okay about but not great. I was uncertain about the location and became relieved when it seemed, if not close, at least not a foreign neighbourhood. The job site was close to Heritage Glen, where Eric spent a few years going to grade school. To get there I took the Glen Abbey North bus, which took a while but was not irreconcilable.

I was hoping for a decent day at work, what I got was shaping up to be a great one. The work flowed with greater ease than the previous few jobs. The woman whose house it was was in good spirits. Kerissa bought us some Tim Hortons. The customer actually bought us lunch (which was brilliant since I'd neglected to pack my own!) and not only that, it was pizza... Litte Caesar's Pizza, which I hadn't had since I was a kid. It was great.

What we did was re-paint some baseboards around the house and re-paint the kitchen from a half-and-half blue/green combo to a solid light blue. Meanwhile in the washroom, they got busy tearing up wallpaper and found out the job was bigger than expected, as the drywall was shit (not surprising, in retrospect, people often just lay some wallpaper when their walls are shit.) It was a job too big for a student painting company and the frustration was visible on her face. But all, it seemed, was well in the kitchen, and at 4:45, we packed up, cleaned up, and went home.

On the bus, I relaxed and reflected on the day. It's funny how, when I'm not working, all I can think about is the job, but when I'm actually working, I space out and think about last week's season finale of the Office, or the next Scott Pilgim graphic novel, or think back fondly to the days when I used to go to Spring Valley with dad and Eric and as we'd pull up that long, dusty road, aftera 90 minutes in the car we'd realize we were almost there (after stopping for some Menonite pepperoni) and Everlast's "What It's Like" would be playing on the radio, almost every time by some strange coincidence.

I took the bus to the station and had a 20-minute layover, which disgruntled me somewhat. Still in my painting clothes, I arrived at dad's. The guys were doing their passports, which involved endless paperwork. The evening proceeded slowly toward dinner. There was some lively conversation over dinner and cake (James' birthday falls squarely between mine and B's) but the evening was distilled afterward while the guys finished up their forms. I felt a little guilty for wanting to go so badly, but I'd been out of the house for about 14 hours by the time we got home. I just wanted to relax in a comfortable setting. I got home and basically conked out immediately.

I got up this morning emboldened by the positive experience yesterday. I got to the job site and that immediately changed when Kerissa, as is a boss' job, asked us "How do you think you did yesterday?" Of course, whenever that question is asked, the actual answer is "Not as well as you think." It turned out, the client had a laundry list of complaints, primarily concerning frustration with the bathroom, which I'd had nothing to do with, but the complaints extended beyond that to the "blotchiness" of the first coat in the kitchen and our apparent carelessness and lack of use of dropcloths. I felt hurt, because of course a first coat is not going to be smooth, we all agreed a second one was (probably) in order. As for the dropcloths, I say poppycock. Catherine and I had been very diligent in placing dropcloths and I felt a little insulted that we were chastised about it. We had a lot of problems with dripping on Tuesday, and we learned from them. You can say a lot of things about me - I suck at cutting, I have little initiative, I often don't know what I am doing - but when you seek out complaints that are untrue? Well, bollocks!

What bugged me though was that the woman was such a nice lady. She was real personable and had good humour. At lunch today she showed us her favourite parody song on YouTube, a tune about the stages of sticking a gerbil up one's ass. It was pretty funny, but I didn't laugh out loud like the others did. when this was pointed out, I just kinda shrugged it off (I'm pretty tough to please when it coems to comedy, even when I like something.) I wanted to say It's not funny guys... my uncle died from a gerbil up the ass," just to prove I was funny and spontaneous, but the proper set-up never came about and I dropped it.

So the incongruence between her supposed complaints, and her actual personality was what bugged me, because she remained warm and personable and she seemed to be fine with the work we were doing. I mean, she did point out verbally that the first coat looked blotchy but that's a nitpick because it clearly wasn't staying that way. (Also she made it seem like it was more her husband's problem.) If I were then I'd have been more upset with the shitty cutting job courtesy of me. I mean, I try, but I had the wrong brush for it and ended up fucking up the sides a fair bit, and that shit's not easily undone.

Anyway, it got me to thinking. As a company policy, we are not to use tape, which is a common-sensical way of controlling the flow of paint. Certain parties have actually been shocked when I noted we don't use tape, and frankly I don't understand it either, I'm just forced to deal with it. Professionals, Kerissa says, are supposed to be able to cut without the aid of tape and make it solid using sheer technique. All well and good for professionals, but I'm just a dopey kid with a week's worth of experience and hands like a lie detector needle. I know it's all dignified and stuff to not use tape, but really, I think the customer 9 times out of 10 would rather we take the effort to take the shortcut (weird oxymoron as that seems,) and get the job done well than pay to have me practice my cutting.

But it's a dead issue. I intended to bring it up, but opted not to, while I was in the car with her. She finally bit the bullet and had to get a 28' Ladder from Home Depot. There was some ladder drama when we couldn't figure out how to obtain the ladder, or transport it, and in the end I had to go back and get swapped out with Brandon (the guy I work with, not my brother) who was a safer bet to tie a ladder to a roof rack. Thank goodness he's around.

Anyway, we spent the rest of the afternoon prepping the garage, which is tomorrow's project. We were supposed to go cold-calling for an hour afterward, and I had wondered upon hearing that how I was going to reconcile this extra hour with both transportation and grocery shopping, which I wanted to do. Without much prodding, Kerissa let me go when I mentioned it, which I felt kinda guilty about (seems to have been a running theme) and I scampered off. I didn't want to avoid cold-calling. On the contrary, I've warmed up to the idea and I'd like to try. But it was a bad afternoon for it and I wanted to go home. Go home I did... eventually.

I missed the bus by a minute or five, and had an existential "The world is against me, no I am against myself" breakdown when it dawned on me - what the fuck am I doing? Even disregarding my lack of qualification for this job, what am I doing relying on public transit to and from various jobsites all over town and remain a semblance of punctuality? Suddenly I felt like the world's biggest fuck-up. In that moment I exploded and could not fathom how I am supposed to last all summer like this. This, I decided, was no way to live, and for a few moments I wondered how feasible it was to quit.

I ultimately decided not to quit, that I can stick it out and go day by day, at least for the foreseeable future. This was the first serious transit-related freakout I've had yet; there are likely to be others. But until things become so impossible that I can't be bothered to even try, I oughtn't consider quitting. I should remain employed there until my employment because totally untenable. In fact, I should hold out until they fire me, which seems unlikely (but hey, ya never know.)

So there I am, way up by Third Line and Upper Middle, wondering why my life sucks so bad, basically having myself a pity-party like I used to when I was a kid and still have been known to. I did the most reasonable thing and called mom, and she said she'd pick me up and we'd go grocery shopping... but not right away, she'd just gotten in. I relented and begged of her "Whenever you want to, a half hour, more, whatever, it would be less time than if I tried the next bus." Shit, it would probably be less time than if I had caught my original bus, all told.

So I set down and waited, and mulled my situation and simmered with every conceivable form of rage, frustration, self-hatred, paranoia and disappointment I could muster in a 40-minute period. Mad at myself for being in this situation. Mad at mom for not coming right away. I guess deep down, I still have that attachment to her, even if it doesn't express itself very often, my need for her to help me out now and again is still existant (just less obvious than similar needs from my dad.) But we all need something.

Mom and Eric arrived at about 10 to 6 and we sped to the grocery store. Wearing my red hoodie and paint-splattered jeans I trod the aisles and picked up the usual items and let my negativity fade, especially as Eric and I ran into Mrs. D by the butcher. She was as always in positive spirits, which inspired similar feelings in me, so I was able to chill out for the rest of the evening and write this entry.

Anyway, things are set up for tomorrow... they want to start early so we can get a lot done before too late, so I'm getting a lift down there. One wonders why I don't get a lift every day, but such is the folly of man. Or something?

Eric told me in the meantime an anecdote for his daily walks, when he came across a girl on rollerblades who seemed spacey. It sounded familiar. He ran into her a few times in a row on different days at Extreme Pita and he was amused by that, but had warned me before starting the story that "This doesn't go anywhere." Not necessarily I thought and asked for a description of the girl. Upon hearing it, I nodded and said, "Eric... I think that was my friend Robyn." (They had met briefly.) He paused and gave it a moment's thought before deciding, "Yeah, it definitely was." Small world, we laughed.

I think I'm out of anecdotes for the night, so this entry is done. I've been typing a lot of things improperly lately, a sure sign of mental deterioration. I rule.

Stay beautiful and keep on rockin darlin',
-Scott