March 25–28, 2002 — Slipping on dry floors

The last few days have not been good for me, and I feel awful.

In a more superficial way, though, the last few days have been very normal. I worked from Sunday to Wednesday and now it’s Thursday, the start of a two-day holiday before my confusing and stressful Easter plans begin.

Back on Monday, my boss left Toronto to return to her home in Edmonton on a vacation. For the next two weeks, there will be a lot less supervision at the smoothie bar. For better or for worse.

Whenever my boss leaves on holiday, a customer who never seems to visit while she’s around starts coming in again. His name is Gordon. He used to bring newspapers with him, and he would spend hours sipping his smoothie and cutting out newspaper articles to show to the staff. Sometimes he would leave for an hour or two and then come back; on some nights he would be there for the majority of my shift.

This would be alright if not for two things: 1) The store is so small that I start to feel a bit claustrophobic if there are too many people loitering inside for extended periods of time; and 2) Gordon’s aura of body odour isn’t satisfied until it has penetrated the entirety of the store, all the way to the back of the staff area. (Add to this his constant complaints if we leave the door open to try to cool the store down from its standard temperature of thirty-something degrees Celsius and he’s landed himself pretty far from ideal customer status.)

Not wanting to spend four hours ready to pass out from the heat while doing my best not to breathe through my nose, drastic measures were called for. After serving Gordon his smoothie (and having him remind us not to put a lid on it — he always immediately removes the lid and licks it clean if we give him one by mistake), we choose a CD with vocals that sound more like screaming than singing and play it at louder-than-normal volumes. Then we hide in the back and pout. It’s all very immature, but after watching enough customers stand as far away from him as possible while waiting for their smoothie, I’m not sure what else we should do.

His presence also terrifies me because a large part of me sees myself becoming him, lonely enough to spend hours sitting in a smoothie bar hoping to strike up a conversation with one of the other customers about World War Two.

I don’t want to grow old.

On Tuesday, there was an elderly man on the streetcar dressed in such a way that he would fit in better at an indie rock show than I would — all collared shirts and tweed hats and mod-looking pants. I sat at the back of the streetcar with him and was tempted to try talking to him, but I didn’t. I don’t think I could ever convince myself to initiate conversation with a stranger. I get an awkward feeling whenever I try, and I can’t force out the words.

I was still trying to force myself to say something as the man stood up to leave, his stop approaching. As he walked towards the doors, I realized that one of his legs wasn’t real, and I wondered what we’d’ve talked about if I had said hello to him.

After he left, I felt sad and wished that I’d spent more time speaking to my grandfathers when I had the chance.

A couple of days later, Jeff and Amy and Johnston visited Nathan and me at the smoothie bar. Before they left, a kid came in eating KFC and asking for a chocolate-banana milkshake. We don’t really have anything that completely fits that description, and he didn’t seem keen on the alternatives that I suggested, but he didn’t leave. Jeff told me to play some Skynyrd, and the KFC-eating non-customer let out a piercing, single-syllable laugh. And then he stuck around for awhile talking to us.

When I was on Queen Street today, I saw the same kid again; he had a squeegee and he asked me for change. I said sorry and that I didn’t have any, but I probably did. I just wanted to use the bank machine and to go home. And I feel a bit guilty for it now.

I wonder if he recognized me.

I haven’t spoken to Kerry much since I left last weekend. I don’t think this is really indicative of anything except that we’re both fairly busy much of the time, but I can’t help but worry. That we won’t see each other again until the end of April scares me a bit.

I can feel myself becoming a bit neurotic about this. I read too much into the little details, and I let them consume me to the point that I’m convinced that I’ve ruined everything and that the end is a conversation away. I’ve spent a lot of time curled up in a ball on my bed over the last few days.

I’m at a point that I’ve never really been to in a relationship before, and it scares me a lot of the time: that point at which any ending would be devastating. Thinking about it makes me heartsick. And even though I don’t have any real reason to think about it, I can’t make myself stop.

I could write more, but I have a lot of work that I should be doing, and I’m going to end up curled up in a ball on my bed again if I keep this up.

I’ll feel better soon, I think. It’s probably just a phase.