bothers encouraging me to move up in the world; she’s known me for too long. But other people sometimes say things like, “Dr. Ring, is it? My goodness, you could be…”
Yeah. So what.
When I got something good for a column—like when a woman who makes her living being poor and droning on about it suddenly blurts out that she would like to slap some of the poor people she knows, hard across the face, it feels good.
I guess I am asking for it: to be exposed, embarrassed, killed. But other than the odd letter of attack on me to the editor of the paper and those death threats I mentioned, I haven’t been tested. I’m almost certain I feel ready to take what anyone is going to give me, but I could be mistaken.
Joanne thinks it’s just a matter of time till someone shoots me. She’s probably right. She has a theory that I crave punishment. Maybe she’s right about that too.
CHAPTER 9
I’ve mentioned Myrna now, more than once, so I should explain her presence in my life.
When I was sixteen I got my first job. I worked at The Bay in the men’s shoe department. In those days men’s shoes were serious business and I had to take a course, on two Saturday mornings.
There were several of us starting at once and we learned terms like last , which we had never associated with shoes before. I forget now what it means but I do recall that it was the most important thing to remember about shoes, according to our instructor. His name was Ken McLeod and he was the manager of the men’s shoe department.
In order to work, I needed a social insurance number, and to get one of those I needed my birth certificate. So I enlisted Nora’s help. She dug it out from somewhere after my asking her for it on four consecutive days.
I studied it, this flimsy record of my birth, and was shocked to see the date written as November 13, 1949.
Nora was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking and flipping through a copy of Ladies’ Home Journal .
“It says here I was born on November thirteenth,” I said.
She looked at me with a blank expression fixed around the fag between her lips.
“I thought my birthday was on November fourteenth,” I said. “That’s when we’ve always celebrated it.”
If you could call Nora’s pitiful icingless cakes a celebration. Sometimes there was a present; sometimes there wasn’t.
“Let me see that,” she said, snatching the worn paper from my hand. It tore along one of the thin creases. “Well, what do you know!” She laughed.
I noticed that her teeth were yellowing and I rejoiced in her misfortune.
“Imagine us having it wrong all these years,” she said.
“It makes me feel kinda funny,” I said.
“Why?” Nora asked. “It had a hell of a lot more to do with me than it did with you. I did all the work and it was no picnic, believe me. Not like with Pete; he just slid out like a slippery eel.”
I took the paper back and folded it carefully. Maybe I could get a new sturdier one when I applied for my social insurance card.
A heaviness in my stomach dragged me down so far I had to lie on my bed for a while; I’m not sure of the exact reason, whether it was the incorrect date or the fact that Nora didn’t think my birthday had much to do with me. Both, I guess.
Anyway, the birth certificate got me my social insurance card and I worked Saturdays at The Bay through most of grade twelve, some Thursday and Friday evenings as well.
I hated it. I dreaded busy days but slow ones were worse. We weren’t allowed to sit down when there were no customers and sometimes I wanted to scream out loud. Maybe that’s where my hatred of standing up began. I like walking, I love walking, but I hate standing for more than a couple of minutes, like at bus stops without benches.
The only part I liked about working at The Bay was the time I spent in the employees’ lounge, smoking enthusiastically. I knew it was smoking that had turned Nora’s teeth yellow but I also knew it would never happen to
Yeah. So what.
When I got something good for a column—like when a woman who makes her living being poor and droning on about it suddenly blurts out that she would like to slap some of the poor people she knows, hard across the face, it feels good.
I guess I am asking for it: to be exposed, embarrassed, killed. But other than the odd letter of attack on me to the editor of the paper and those death threats I mentioned, I haven’t been tested. I’m almost certain I feel ready to take what anyone is going to give me, but I could be mistaken.
Joanne thinks it’s just a matter of time till someone shoots me. She’s probably right. She has a theory that I crave punishment. Maybe she’s right about that too.
CHAPTER 9
I’ve mentioned Myrna now, more than once, so I should explain her presence in my life.
When I was sixteen I got my first job. I worked at The Bay in the men’s shoe department. In those days men’s shoes were serious business and I had to take a course, on two Saturday mornings.
There were several of us starting at once and we learned terms like last , which we had never associated with shoes before. I forget now what it means but I do recall that it was the most important thing to remember about shoes, according to our instructor. His name was Ken McLeod and he was the manager of the men’s shoe department.
In order to work, I needed a social insurance number, and to get one of those I needed my birth certificate. So I enlisted Nora’s help. She dug it out from somewhere after my asking her for it on four consecutive days.
I studied it, this flimsy record of my birth, and was shocked to see the date written as November 13, 1949.
Nora was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking and flipping through a copy of Ladies’ Home Journal .
“It says here I was born on November thirteenth,” I said.
She looked at me with a blank expression fixed around the fag between her lips.
“I thought my birthday was on November fourteenth,” I said. “That’s when we’ve always celebrated it.”
If you could call Nora’s pitiful icingless cakes a celebration. Sometimes there was a present; sometimes there wasn’t.
“Let me see that,” she said, snatching the worn paper from my hand. It tore along one of the thin creases. “Well, what do you know!” She laughed.
I noticed that her teeth were yellowing and I rejoiced in her misfortune.
“Imagine us having it wrong all these years,” she said.
“It makes me feel kinda funny,” I said.
“Why?” Nora asked. “It had a hell of a lot more to do with me than it did with you. I did all the work and it was no picnic, believe me. Not like with Pete; he just slid out like a slippery eel.”
I took the paper back and folded it carefully. Maybe I could get a new sturdier one when I applied for my social insurance card.
A heaviness in my stomach dragged me down so far I had to lie on my bed for a while; I’m not sure of the exact reason, whether it was the incorrect date or the fact that Nora didn’t think my birthday had much to do with me. Both, I guess.
Anyway, the birth certificate got me my social insurance card and I worked Saturdays at The Bay through most of grade twelve, some Thursday and Friday evenings as well.
I hated it. I dreaded busy days but slow ones were worse. We weren’t allowed to sit down when there were no customers and sometimes I wanted to scream out loud. Maybe that’s where my hatred of standing up began. I like walking, I love walking, but I hate standing for more than a couple of minutes, like at bus stops without benches.
The only part I liked about working at The Bay was the time I spent in the employees’ lounge, smoking enthusiastically. I knew it was smoking that had turned Nora’s teeth yellow but I also knew it would never happen to
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