Category: Uncategorized

‘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.

I was walking home last night around midnight after a pleasant time at a bluegrass night, featuring hits from Hank Williams and a handful of others at Barfly, the only bar in the city that loves Habs, country music, and lets a pair of giant huskies walk around the stage while the band is playing. While walking, on the side of the road about five blocks from my apartment was a nice old wooden desk. It was sitting tipped over with the drawers sitting next to it. I needed it. My room is pretty humble; mattress on the floor, clothes in the bag that they traveled in, and everything else placed strategically around my mattress so as little movement as possible is necessary to reach the essentials, i.e. the laptop and water bottle. So this desk was necessary. I put the drawers in the desk and lifted it up, walked it up a block, dropped it and left. It was a little much for my lowly retail biceps.

I walked home. I was greeted by my newly engaged roommate, and convinced him to help me carry it the four blocks to the apartment. We walked there and talked about how he proposed, in a pitch black restaurant with only blind employees, as they ate their meal in the darkness. After three or four breathers and a few more groans, the desk made it home. It made it down the stairs at 1am. It made it through the front door. It did not make it through my bedroom door. So in the hallway/entrance way it sat for the night. Sideways and drawerless, completely naked. I popped my door off this morning and slid it in without a trace of damage… My first furniture purchase matches the hardwood impeccably, and matches the owner even better.

I got a job. La Cage Aux Sports. Sports Bar inside the Bell Centre. Dishwasher. Minimum wage. If that’s not living the dream, I don’t know what is. Washing dishes for the Habs. Nothing sweeter.

I was worried I wouldn’t fit in. I don’t speak French, I don’t like wine, I don’t dress well, I don’t wear boots, I don’t eat much cheese. But..

I am sitting alone at a full pub 4 blocks from my house, surrounded by the fans of the team that made the sport great, cheering as loud as I can and my voice is still drowned out by the masses. I am high fiving strangers. I’m in the heart of it all. So…

I could care less.

Saturday it becomes real. Tangible. The Bell Centre, alone again, doing what matters: living the dream.

After staying up only until 1am last night, I slept in until noon today. It was pathetic. I have no job, I don’t even stay out that late, but I can’t get out of bed in the morning. So, to counteract that immature, irresponsible act, I threw a dinner party.

After waking up I finally slipped on a crisp pair of jeans and looped the shoelace in my belt loops and around my waist, I went back to my bed. My bed is about all I’ve got in my room; it is my desk, my breakfast table, my dinner table, my lounging chair, my movie theatre, my computer charger, my bookshelf, my hat rack, my classroom, my everything… I cracked open my laptop and decided to get responsible the laziest way I knew how, applying for jobs by sitting on my ass at my ‘desk’ at home. The internet will be the cause of my first heart attack. I applied for probably more than twenty jobs today, ranging from Telemarketer, to Fancy suit Rental-man, Female clothing Sales Associate, Bartender, Dishwasher, Stripper, Hitman, etc. I got two e-mails back, both saying that I forgot to attach my resume, and one call back, a very short conversation that ended when I said I did not have three years experience selling insurance over the phone. Not bad. Tomorrow might be Tangible Friday where I actually speak to human beings that don’t actually speak my language, hoping that somehow someone needs a dishwasher or upper body model.

I went to an art show later in the evening. An exhibit at some fancy restaurant/bar/independent theatre on the fancy street featuring the photography of some French man that went to India. The photos were truly amazing, with proper lighting and colours and ideas that may have captured a piece of the truth of India. He sold some 4’x8′ portrait of some old Indian dude for three grand. To make it all seem better, he was giving a decent portion of the proceeds to the Red Cross for the recent troubles in Haiti. But the Indian man he took the photo of got a few rupees. Unshowered at 8pm, wearing my Habs hat and dirty jeans, watching rich, well dressed Montrealers drink $20 glasses of wine and listen to fancy club music while glancing at pictures of the destitute, I had my fill. We went home to catch the end of the game with a friend. Montreal 5 Dallas 3. I missed most of it as I cooked Indian. A few other friends joined. It was a dinner party. And I charged nothing.

A friend in the big city from the small town once expressed his confusion saying he couldn’t tell if the big city was the real world, or if the small town was the real world. Montreal is real, but when I explain Regina to the unknowns, Regina seems like it is reality, but when I think about India, it seems like the only part of the world where everything is actual and authentic. Not all of these places can be real. Tonight Regina was in Montreal which was, for a brief moment, in India. And the only thing real about it all was the realization that there is no ‘real world’.

Except dinner parties. Nothing more real than that.

I went to a ‘Youth Employment Services’ (YES) ‘Seminar’ today. I separately quote ‘Seminar’ because it wasn’t officially called that, and I don’t know what it officially should be called, except that I felt like I was in seminary. It was entitled ‘Jump-Start Your Job Search’. An introduction to the government run YES programme of Montreal. The seminarist ran the session in English and there was about twenty or so young unprofessionals, unhireables, in what was more or less a support group for those too weird, too awkward, too specialized, to find jobs. A few people I met yesterday told me about it, said they were going. They weren’t there. So I sat in a room with people under 40 years with at least one degree each talking about how impossible it is to find a job in Montreal in this terrible recession we are in. I learned that I need to know my personal human being ‘market worth’, so when I apply at jobs, I can tell them how much they have to pay me, because that is how much I’m worth. I decided that my own personal ‘market worth’ would be an extra large tube of salami and a $2.50 international calling card.

So, I was in the wrong room. After terrible introductions of each seminaries, the seminarist said that she wasn’t going to find any of us any jobs. She was going to support our search for jobs by essentially doing nothing and telling us that we were special. I pretended that I was manager of a lucrative store in Saskatchewan and moved to Montreal to broaden my entrepreneurial horizons. But really I just wanted the lady to find me a dishwashing job near my apartment. I left before she could take any more of my information and set up a further cumbersome one on one meeting with a career specialist. I took a pen. I walked home.

‘They’, whoever ‘they’ are, have created an industry out of people that can’t get into an industry. A trade was created for those who employers don’t want in their own trade. Resume writers/translators, head hunters, agencies and billion dollar companies. And I am sitting outside of these places, without a job, hoping my money lasts as long as it takes to find a new source of money, so I can save it up again for the next place.

Before I humiliated myself and told thirty-three year olds with three degrees that I moved to Montreal for fun, I went for free vegan food at Concordia University. Unreal, free, likely very organic chick pea curry and some sort of soup with couscous on the side. Socially conscious students with tupperware in hand, lined up for free, donation encouraged vegan food, complete with a full banana. This city is a mindwarp. Hippies serving free vegan delights. Australian Engineers nearly homeless waiting for jobs in big yellow rooms with other Masters with numerous undergraduate degrees under their ‘oh so high’ belts.

I sleep on the floor, but now on a futon mattress. I listen to real people have real conversations. I cook my own dahl. I’m a grown up. If I had a job where I wore a suit, I’d be Donald Trump.