LOND HO ADVENTURES PART TWO

OCTOBER 1992

Day shift at the BVS Towers… ung! Day shifts are the worst for me, even more so than the dumb-ass 18:00 to 02:00 “split shift” nonsense which I despised only slightly less. I leave home at about quarter after six and shuffle through the skywalks from the flat all the way to work. I quickly get dressed in the locker room located deep in the bowels of the parkade below the quad-tower complex and sit reading until about a quarter to seven before I take the lift upstairs to the “+30” level and the tiny closet that is the security office. I bang on the door and say “It’s Idi Amin,” when the muffled interrogative comes through the door. The door is jerked open from the inside by one of the night shift guys who doesn’t even bother to get up from his chair. The scent of fresh coffee only sometimes wafting to my nostrils. I say “only sometimes” because there is only coffee if the night shift makes it. The rotund day shift supervisor never makes coffee for his guards, only for himself, and only after he kicks the day shifters out into the massive foyers to wander about aimlessly. By coffee break there is never any coffee left and Thor would be sitting there, fat ass firmly planted in his chair, chuckling to himself and chanting his mantra:
“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, so izzat!”
I squeeze into the tiny room and see that already squirming his corpulent ass away in the supervisor’s chair at the supervisor’s desk is the porcine Thor “The Hutt” Jugg - Security Supervisor extraordinary!
I look around me and wonder how the hell people can be happy working a “day job” for a living. A job should be a means to an end, not something you get stuck doing for the rest of your life.
From an early age I realized that I was not cut out for the work-a-day world. Indeed, the father of my ex-fiancée Karyn, proper Englishman that he was once told me he pictured me in the future being a “gentleman of leisure.” Probably just his way of telling me I was a lazy no-goodnick that had no business trying to marry his daughter.
I look around at the hundreds of wandering zombies as they walk past me, sometimes right into me, (I’m just a lowly security guard, hardly noticeable at all!) going about their fatuous lives in their dull, grey suits, tightly gripping shiny briefcases, strolling the carpeted foyers and sound-proofed skywalks. They stop for less than nutritious lunches in the food courts, incessantly glancing at their watches, or fidgeting nervously on tall wooden benches while people of lesser stature shines their shoes. Thousands of these people stagger through the two mammoth foyer levels of BVS Towers, never so much as a smile on their faces, always their mouths a hard slash, worried lips pursed with pseudo pensivity, or for the most part sagging in a deep, black frown.

The Lull2




Coming to the end of the side street he hangs a left and is greeted by absolute silence. He takes a few steps before slowing down and stopping. He looks up and down Broadway. The only sound is the buzz of the street lamps, and his smoke ravaged breathing. He stands perfectly still, his eyes darting furtively around in their sockets. Walking again. Glancing around. The sushi restaurant is empty save for a lone bartender polishing a glass, and the sixty-five inch tele-visual monitor on which plays a sumo match. Forward. Coincidence, he thinks. Still no traffic. Still no people. The only sound, that of his footfalls. The coffee shop, usually spilling over with people, is deserted; the staff inside wandering in a daze trying to look busy. He drops his cigarette butt to the sidewalk and gives it a stomp. Stopped. The red hand on the walk light is telling him not to proceed. In a few seconds he wonders why the hell he’s standing there, and crosses the street. Finally, up ahead he spots a lonely figure standing in the chill of the night streets. The man is in his forties, bearded, his eyes full of pain. The man reaches out and begs for some change. He shakes his head “sorry” and offers him a cigarette. The man gratefully accepts. The flash of the bic lighter as it blazes to life, it’s child-proof metal band discarded, snapped off weeks earlier when he was sitting in the pub with his friends. They sat in a corner booth, drinking pint after pint of ale, laughing, smoking. As the evening continued it was an easy, simple decision to break off the offending piece of politically correct technology than to continue struggling with it. One by one those gathered went their separate ways until only he and The Monkeyman remained. And then they drank. And all was good with the world for the next few hours. It was just like old times. The bearded man looked into the eyes of the younger one and took a drag off his cigarette. Then it was “thank you and god bless” and he was off again into the quiet night. Finally, a Porsche roars down Broadway. He jumps, looking over his shoulder and follows the speeding car with his eyes as it screeches, disappearing around a corner. A group of rowdy frat boys erupt from the front doors of the brewpub, yelling, singing, cursing, fumbling with their car keys. As his mind takes it in, tears well up and a feeling of extreme melancholy overwhelms his spirit. The lull was over.

This is a little something written by the MCBAIN that I just had to share!


So I'm getting of the BART this morning and go through the gates and am heading towards the little café beside Virgin to get my morning caffeine. As I get near to the stairs that take me up to the street, some black guy comes up to me and asks "You got some cash or sumpin?" He's about 22-24, dressed in full on hip hop cheeze head complete with pants around his ankles; he’s clean and probably wearing $150 worth of cheezey clothes and cheap jewelry. I'm like, "What?!" because he's talking with such a gansta-ghetto accent, I can barely understand him. So he axes again, this time I understand and give him the "No." and walk away. So I go to the stairs that’s about 50 feet away to a bank machine because I actually had no money and needed to get some. So while I'm making my withdrawl I can hear him bothering others. Whatever, so I go up the stairs and out of the BART station and get my caffeine. As I leave I see the dumwad coming out of the BART station. He noticed I've spent money. So he's trying to talk to me again, "Yo man, lemme talk to you." I just ignore him and walk on. Behind me I hear him say, "Fuck dude, you got money, I got none. Gimme some change man!", so I turn around and tell him: "I also have a JOB." He starts swearing at me and yelling so I keep walking away. Fucking pissed me off though. Like he has some right to other people’s money! Last time I checked on my pay cheque, there was no "Idiot BART Hip Hop Fuckwad Tax." There are some very annoying people in this city. I'd like to shoot them. Too many damn bums.

Anyhow, just had to vent.