I, Scream

Can they hear the screams? I find myself asking on a surprisingly regular basis. Perhaps the underlying theme of 2009, are the monsters from my past continuing to wriggle their way back into my present and I find myself consistently rivaling my old ways. As mentioned in a previous blog posting, I am slowly trying to piece together some kind of new life, post graduation, and despite the impossibly horrible reality that I have been dipping my feet in some familiar mud pools along the way, I'd like to think I am moving in the right direction. Applying for another retail job was the furthest thing from what I wished to be doing, yet before I knew it, I quickly found myself ripping open the plastic pouch that contained my freshly folded work uniform, from a local Home furnishings store. The pay was borderline acceptable, and my full time status was exactly what I needed to make my dream come true. Not matter what anyone tells you, money can, and does buy happiness.


This afternoon, I was preoccupied reading the boxes of toasters and blenders trying to educate myself on the in's and out's of small kitchen appliance culture, when I was distracted by the sounds of a hillbilly accent, often heard in shopping malls outside of the downtown core, yet not common enough to disregard. Knowing how much time I had to kill before my next break, and knowing the likelihood of humor that would be attached to this accent, instantly attracted me to this crime against grammar. I soon spotted a tall man, in a wife beater, with armpit hair so long it could be braided curiously prodding at a Margarita mixer. "Do you need any help sir?" I desperately asked. "Heavens no" he replied, which at first got my spirits down, until of course he completed his frail sentence. "Its just this shop is so different, I've never been to a place like this one here." Likely in response to my inquisitive facial expressions, eager for more juicy gossip to later report on this blog, the man continued.. "You see here, I'm from the north, the far north, son.. so far north, that their 'aint no north." To condense, and spare my readers from the most ridiculous conversation I have ever had, this man and his wife came down to the "big city" for a summer vacation, and this was their first ever visit out of the north, since "the north was a desert". Whatever that means. I put my useless knowledge of permafrost and facts about the actuality that the north is much like a desert aside. The man then asked how much I was making per hour, and after I reluctantly revealed my "going rate" he chuckled, and replied, "You can't survive off that son, you need to come back up to the north with me" where they will "make me 30-40 dollars per hour."

I had to bite my tognue, at first I thought, "could I just disapear into the night, up to the far north, and live like a King?" Yes, of course I would miss summer, and daylight for most of the year, but I would be rich, and I would live in the most fabulous ice house ever, designed by me, but built by the locals. Then I snapped back into reality, and realized that if I followed this family up to the north, this could be me in five years, arriving at a dumpy mall, thinking it was just so amazing, and worst of all, just like this man, I would mistake the Margarita mixer for a crock pot.


B