Author: Nic Olson

I just ate at Steve Pizza. It’s not Steve’s Pizza, it is Steve Pizza. I am dizzy and nauseous, completely sober, thanks to my devoutness to the idea that all my spare change should be promised to pizza. The values that are ‘pizza change’.

A struggling ‘human’ moves to a new city. He gets a job with poor pay, late night hours, wet conditions. He then gets a job with improvements in all distinctions. But an institution he does not share values with, about money, honesty and loyalty. He wants to leave, he needs the money. He wants to stay in the city, he needs his morals. What the hell does he do?:
I talked with a man named Ajoy from Alberta, at work, and I heard of a business going bankrupt, in legal battles with giant corporations, struggling for life. Indirectly caused by a free ‘service’ offered by my company. I should’ve quit that day.

The next day, with job termination weighing heavily on the mind, I entered the dark chamber-like cubicles to the relentless thud of GaGa. The same day, some men of the folk (Chuck Ragan, Tim Barry) were scheduled to play to a sold out crowd, so decided to play another show at the neighbouring bar two hours earlier, with only twenty tickets available at the door. I knew this. I knew this when colleagues talked about dance floors and R&B playlists and getting faxes. It was either ‘quit and enjoy’, or ‘work and hate’. I did neither and still got to close my eyes and hear fury and soul scratched out of the throats of punk legends. It was 4pm, and I was going to leave either way, my boss decided I could go before I could self terminate.

I’ve never been swayed by a paycheque before, but I have been swayed by the prospect of not being able to afford living in a place that I want to be able to live in for sometime. So I stayed, and I need to quit. I need to change it. I’d rather be poor and without pizza change than be morally bankrupt. I’d rather be Ajoy himself, than be what caused his plight.

The lady that hired me told me that with my morals I am never going to be able to work at any company in the world.

And the job search re-continues.

A number of people have told me that I’m doing a good thing being here. I still haven’t figured out why.

I look down upon those getting an education, because the process doesn’t work for me. But as I sit upon the saddle of my high horse of business and look down my nose at those whose noses are wedged in the spines of textbooks, I am jousted in the ribs by my opposing ideals, knocking me back down to the dusty ground of reality. At lunch breaks and coffee breaks I sit alone reading Russian literature on a marble bench on the fourth floor of the Eaton Centre and wonder whether this is where I need to be. Whether my ideas of the education system, or the system of business are all wrong and I’m just wasting my time, as if there were entry level jobs that weren’t the same thing.

But ; I am not in any way regretting my decision to start new. I love it here. I’ve started relationships that are authentic, I’ve learned immense amounts about actual human beings, but confusion is still striking. I haven’t solved everything I want to solve. I haven’t figured out all of life’s problems, which is why I continue to bitch and complain. Because one or two aspects of my life have improved, but there is still the unanswered questions, which weigh on me. Not that I believed a new location would answer my questions or solve my grievances with humanity.

Maybe it is good that I am here so I can be myself. Finding one’s self is not a process of actual searching for something, but a process of being in places or situations or mindsets that allow you to be yourself.  And maybe that is something I’ve got. And maybe the rest will come naturally.

Two people yesterday told me they were going to report me to the RCMP. Just for asking them how their day was and if they wanted to take advantage of a free offer that would allow them to save twenty to thirty percent on their merchant processing statements in the upcoming two years or so. What did I do wrong?

My friend got a ticket for taking her skates on the metro without any skate guards. $15. Keeping our public transit safe.

My boss got a ticket for jay walking. $47. Taking down the bad guys.

New! Today, while enjoying lunch sitting on the floor in a secluded mall hallway, the security guard came and told me not to sit on the ground. Picking up the trash, I guess.

Every other day I come home to a convoy of police vehicles, blocking off certain roads, erupting from underground tunnels, bombarding local ears with the song of fraudulent protection. Tax dollars well spent on dead heads that can drive cars fast and write bilingual fines.

They should have a new police force, forcing the police to police with less force. And farce. They should also have a new police force that enforces character; that enforces a law system of producing less brain dead money lovers and selfish creatures, and if you don’t comply with the laws laid down, you go to a isolated detainment centre where at least half of a brain is given to you, through surgically designed machinery.

That would be a program worth investing in. Where the police would give you a $15 ticket for neglecting to offer your bus seat to an elder fellow transitee. Where speed radars could be installed to send a notification to those who are constantly rushing through the days and never actually considering the day as something more than a page in a day timer. Where the program was designed to create better humans, and not more lawful humans. I guess we could have started with an education system that works. Prevention is better than cure.

Police would still be disliked. But at least we wouldn’t be in as deep as we are now. Maybe only half as deep.
Half of a brain, half as deep.

Police yourself, because it might be a while until our government thought it was a good idea to breed something other than money hungry vultures. It might be a real long time.

I am selfish for moving. I didn’t move here for any reason besides myself, when I break it all down. And I could have spent that money on something better. More selfless. When friends of mine are struggling for life, I have moved to a new place for no other reason than to change things for myself, with no regard anything else, and I did so with absolute ease. As people I meet here grapple for employment, two jobs that I didn’t even want fell into my lap. As thousands of humans struggle for life after the earth fell from under them, I pitch debit machines to wealthy business owners. If anyone can explain this to me, I’d be really relieved.

So I continue to eat cheap pizza, sip cheap beer, make phone calls and learn French, and I forget about it all a little bit more. With each hockey game I think less of India. With every plate of rice I think less of Regina. With every phone call from home I forget a little more about my duties here. Each second spent enjoying myself could be a second spent on something better. The truth is, each second of happiness is selfish.

And the worst thing I have got in my life is slight body aches and a dry throat in the mornings. And trying to catch up with the complete change of my life. And the thing that really bites is that I feel good here. I knew I would, but the fact that I have moved to a new city, started a new life and am actually enjoying it, only makes the world harder to understand, and makes me only feel worse about where things are at.

I’m not the only place. Change occurs elsewhere and life evolves constantly, and an Outlet Era officially ends.  A reminder of how the constant is not reliable, but that the only constant is change. And change is unreliable. And change is inevitable. And it is inevitable that it will be eventually be selfish.

Hooray for the pursuit of selfishness. May we all rot in hell.

‘You are wasting your time, buddy,’ he said to me.

A cold call, they call it. When you get backhanded over the phone. When someone who doesn’t know who you are, what you are calling them for, why you work at a call centre in the first place. When that someone knows exactly what to say to make  you question everything you’ve done in your life. That’s a cold call.

A hot call, I call it. When I am bored at work and call Toby and World of Trout to let him know of his Merchant Processing rate options, but actually talk about the status of the store, and the work being done by the boss. That is a hot call.

A bad call, we call it. When VanMassenhoven raises his arm after a slightly paralleled stick is visible from a poor angle. Accroche, they call it. He’s booed. That is a bad call.

A good call, I call it. When I decide to buy six Boreale beer instead of milk and cereal. That is a good call.

A booty call, the kids call it. When booty is exchanged for little more than a hello and a goodbye. That is a booty call.

I am wasting my time, regardless of what I do. I now know this, thanks to a disgruntled shop owner in New Brunswick.

School, wasting my time.
Work of any sort, wasting my time.
Watching hockey, wasting my time.
Reading books, wasting my time.

Life is but a waste of time, I guess. But I do love wasting it in different ways.  Like making all these kinds of calls.

I’ve completely sold out. I ‘dressed up’ today, in my regular, but washed, black jeans, sans shoelace belt, and new hybrid shirt from the skateshop that is part dress shirt, part ‘rad’ skater shirt. My professional work wardrobe consists of the clothing I already owned before the hire. The clothes that I once believed to be too dressy for regular use, are now not dressy enough for professional call centre use. How things change.

I know employers look at Facebook accounts to rate the integrity of a new or future employee, so I should be in the clear, but my sources have recently indicated that they use blog addresses too, so I guess if I lack the diplomacy required to keep myself out of trouble, I should just stop typing now…

But I feel comfortable with my level of tact, so I’ll keep going.  Today I called people in Pilot Butte asking them if they wanted a free evaluation. I called people in B.C. who didn’t speak English, to see if they realized they deserved rate reductions. I practiced my conversational pseudo-pushiness and confidence in times of pressure. I understood the business and was skeptical of its legitimacy as we talked about tablets and electric Maseratis. Getting rich has never been a concern of mine, but it seems to be an important attribute in this business, in its employees and in the mindset to properly sell. The contrast between scraping greasy cheese off of nacho platters and greasing up innocent entrepreneurs is striking. Mind blowing. With many friends in India who live the call centre life, I am now beginning to understand the interesting and sometimes horrific stories they tell. But I’m excited at the prospect of a new trade.

I listened in to other Customer Service Representatives’ pitches. One man said, ‘dramastically’. I hope I can be more eloquent than that.

Does working here make me a capitalist?

As Eugenio, my dishwashing friend from Mexico whose wife has a Masters in Psychology but is working in a cafeteria, said, ‘No  money, No hunnies.’

Couldn’t be more true. It all makes sense now.

Moving on up, to the east side.

I got a promotion. Three days of making it happen in the dish pit and I was recognized for my hard work, dedication, attention to detail, skinny arms and ‘Iwannagetthehellouttahere’ attitude. I have been promoted from dish crew rat at the sleazy sports bar attached to the Bell Centre, to Head Coach of the Montreal Canadiens. Jacques isn’t running the team properly, so he got demoted. We basically just traded spots. Look for me on the bench tonight in Florida.

To a deluxe apartment in the sky.

But I got a call centre job. English only, Monday to Friday, 9-5, considerable pay raise. I guess the universe wants me to stay here for a while after all. And I learned my lesson, dishwashing is the pits.

Moving on up, to the east side.

My french is slightly improving. Walking home from the Metro station today in the rain, because bus #24 has dropping the metaphorical ball lately, I passed some Francophone man who wanted to know the time. I showed him the time on my iPod and he walked down Sherbrooke with me about four or five blocks. His name was Steven, he was kind of loopy, he was waiting to meet his cousin. We had an actual conversation, mainly in French, but some in English. I understood some of what he said, I asked him questions in French, and not the few that I learned in grade four, but ones I came up with myself. Steven appreciated it. We shook hands at Papineau and he was on his way.

We finally got a piece of the pie.

Things here are starting to feel like I think they should. Familiarity sets in, but staleness is not at all an issue. Relationships are blooming, not quite the sense of community as back home, but it’s getting there.  Life is good.

Fish don’t fry in the kitchen;
Beans don’t burn on the grill.
Took a whole lotta tryin’
Just to get up that hill.
Now we’re up in the big leagues
Gettin’ our turn at bat.
As long as we live, it’s you and me baby
There ain’t nothin wrong with that.

I sat by some Americans who had no clue, but they were nice.
The game could not have gone any  better.
The Bell Centre; the home of hockey.
I lived today. I die happy.
For more photos, click on the one above.

Unreal times.

Since being a resident of the big city I have had the opportunity to engage in forms of social awareness media more than I did or could have in a less populated city. Or maybe it is just the interests of different crowds. Regardless, one of these events that I had the chance to participate in was the photo exhibition called ‘Human Drama in Gaza‘ presented by the organization called Canadians for Justice and Peace in the Middle East (CJPME) which featured the photographs from journalists reporting from the Gaza strip in late 2008. Cities completely demolished, children crying in piles of rubble, bleeding men crawling out of doorways were the most memorable of the forty plus photos, all accompanied by brief descriptions or stories of life in war and wreckage.

The ‘Human Drama in Gaza’ exhibition is partnering with ‘Rachel‘, a documentary about a 23-year old American activist Rachel Corrie who was killed peacefully protesting the demolition of a Palestinian home in Rafah, at the south of the Gaza strip. Both the exhibition and the film are being shown at Cinema du Parc, a small independent theatre in Montreal. The documentary was a search for truth in the tragic death of a young social activist in one of the most war torn places in the world, but also succeeded telling the story of Rachel’s socially conscious life through the eyes of her fellow workers of the International Solidarity Movement (ISM). A brave group of young people living with affected families and standing up against the demolition of households and communities through non-violent action.

A third of the way through the film, between trying to translate the French subtitles of Hebrew interviews, there was a part of me that briefly wondered why there was a documentary made about this woman. Why, when Palestinian families have been killed in peaceful protest and have not had websites devoted to their name, nor movies made about them, when the money spent could have been used to support those very families in need. Even Alice, Rachel’s fellow activist there at the time of her death, told the story of Rachel’s body in the hospital being rushed out of the room to make way for a Palestinian man who had just been murdered by Israeli militants for no reason. Alice meditated on the idea that this man wasn’t going to get a movie made about him, nor would he ever be recognized as a martyr or hero as the media flocked around Rachel’s friends to get a piece of the story, but didn’t even regard the Palestinian man that was murdered. But the end of the film somewhat answered my short bit of uncertainty, when in Rachel’s own words, written as a letter home, she states the fact that it is an extremist view to think it is necessary for this kind of conflict to stop. That everyone should literally stop what they are doing to put an end to the injustices occurring in this part of the world, and how she believes that is not crazy to think this anymore. How she wants to live a life of boyfriends and beer and Benatar, but needs to see an end to the situation she has witnessed for so long.

The documentary allowed time for thought. Thought about peaceful protest, about the Israeli-Gaza strife, about the death of innocent local and international civilians. It is another source of awareness to the western world about the general situation of human beings in Gaza, awareness of the impact in theory that can be had without violence or government bureaucracy, awareness that people can protest peacefully, die for their cause and still have made little difference. The film ‘Rachel’ had the power to make aware the brave life of a young activist and the boldness to force the audience into the important institution of thought. Whether it be thought about the virtues of direct protest, or thought about the downfalls of even the best intentions of mankind.

Going to work today, I knew it was going to be gruesome, but had no idea to what degree. Some say that if you go into the unknown positively then everything will be good. Others say that if you go in to something new thinking it will be the worst time of your life, you usually come out realizing that it really wasn’t that bad and are pleasantly suprised. I went in with neither mindset and that was my mistake.

Mid-shift I began to wonder to myself, ‘What the fuck am I doing in Montreal?’, and as my mentor, Maruis, repeated his directions in French a third time I wondered further, ‘Why did I drop out of French class in grade nine?’. I also began to wonder if this were the movie of my life, would this night of spraying tiny red and blue cups of chicken sauce, of melting the skin off my hands, of pretending dishes are clean by thumbing off BBQ sauce after they’ve been through the wash, be the turning point?
Was this God trying to say, “Well Shit Nic, I do indeed exist and this is what you get for doubting that. You damned moron”?
Was this the universe saying, “Get an education and then we’ll talk.”?
Was this my common sense saying, “Enough prolonging the inevitable, sell-out already.”?
Was this karma telling me,”This is what you get for not washing dishes for five months.”?
Was this Travis telling me, “The Northgate needs you.”?

As the kitchen door swung open I could hear the inebriated singing of ‘Ole’, and as the door swung closed again all I heard was spraying water and the Ultrawash2000 humming and sloshing. I came to Montreal to live a dream and to act independent, when I realize now that all I am doing is delaying the growiing up process, and that it’s hard to live the dream when part of that dream is being lived by thousands of people in the same building as you, as you try to fathom the total opposite side of the enjoyment part of the world.

My hands are perma-raisins and will forever smell like soaked coleslaw and bacon grease as I ponder my next move.