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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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I hate dentists.
Not my dentist in particular, he's actually a pretty good guy, but in principle, somehow they remind me of the tens of thousands of dollars that should be sunk into my mouth to fix things up, they remind me I need to quit smoking, they in short are a reflection of my worst self.
And I've been seeing a lot of them, him lately. There's a lot to be done and I want it done before I'm unemployed.
I go in for the cleanings, the x-rays, then there are the inevitable extractions. This is misery, I know it, but I've psychologically prepared myself, numbed myself, suspended all thoughts until this is done.
In the chair and he holds up a long needle.
"We call this 'the wand'" he tells me.
"Oh! Dumbledore!" I say, muffled because my mouth is already partially numb and wide open.
"Merlin" he corrects me.
"And we're going to have to use an elevator. But it's not the kind of elevator that goes up and down...." he says, he's using the same patter he'd use with a 5 year old child. His teeth, they are perfect, too perfect. He's big into the cosmetic dentistry thing, but he's taken it too far on his own mouth, perfectly regular, brilliant white, they glint and shine a testament to his skill. Unnatural, he should know better. Mine are the opposite, light bends and is lost in the crooked maze that is my mouth, the model for Theseus and the Minotaur....
And he holds up a hammer and chisel. This is the elevator; stainless steel, doubtless manufactured and overcharged by some medical lab, but it's a hammer and chisel nonetheless, and how they came up with the term "the elevator" for the moment is beyond me. I know why, because you can't tell patients that you'll attack them with this, they'll resist, maybe even retaliate...And, exactly what you'd expect, he takes the hammer and chisel and begins to chop away, tapping, banging, hammering in my mouth. It's primitive and I'm thinking that what they really need is a barbers post, none of these fancy cosmetic dentistry ads, just a twisting red candy cane in front of the store, leeches, bleeding, haircuts, this is the kind of dentist I need to see, I'm seeing...
While he's hacking away he's talking to his assistant, about vacations past and upcoming (he's a dentist, he's on vacation every other week), about hunting trips and minor personal issues, I'm not free to comment, it's not my conversation and there's that minor problem of having a hammer and chisel in my mouth.
Eventually they're done, I'm done, free to recover for a few months before I have to go through all this again.
I hate dentists.
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2 rare days off in a row, the last 2 days off in a row until Christmas, but I console myself that I won't be there at Christmas, still it weighs heavily on my mind.
And I'm tracked down by old friends in the city, old friends from out of town who are feeling somewhat neglected, and it's not them, it's my schedule I explain and I explain as well that I'll be quitting soon, but they don't share my enthusiasm.
He's a magician, I've known him over 20 years. And so we meet for a bite to eat, catch up, discuss mutual acquaintances, then he invites himself over for a bottle of wine.
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And I've piled the laundry on the bed and head down to 7/11. I need a slurpee, some cigarettes, maybe (although I'm not consciously thinking it, if I did I wouldn't go) a bite to eat.
And there's Big Talker, working behind the counter, he's got his "I'm a Trainee" badge on and I'm surprised to see him there, but only for a moment, it makes sense, probably his son got tired of paying the rent and made him get a job and I notice, only for a moment, a slight glimmer of schadenfreude; how the mighty are laid low, but there's some conscious wrestling as I'm paying, he's messing up big time, can't ring in my cigarettes, food properly, he's given me the incorrect change and I begin to feel wretched - ashamed that in any way I should take pleasure in another's misfortune, ashamed because in a couple of short months that could be, may well be, probably will be me, ashamed because while I've overheard all the talk of the big deals going down, (rather sceptically), he's done nothing to hurt or offend me, and I just want to hurry and pay and get out of there...
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He's come over from Italy to visit Canada, try things out, he's 24 years old, speaks no English.
Which is no problem, as everyone at the restaurant (bar myself) speaks Italian.
In Italy he was a painter/construction worker. He's good looking, very good natured, tall, charming, all the girls like him. His uncle sets to work getting him dates immediately. His family in Italy is very wealthy, he's a child of privilege, and his uncle, he's going to spoil him and show him the opportunity that exists in Canada.
We start him as a busboy. His job will be to get the customers water, bread, bring bruschetta, clean and reset tables.
He's pretty laid back, and we figure out pretty quick that he's not going to be the greatest star the restaurant has ever seen, but he's the bosses nephew and what do you say? The best we can do is adjust his tips to reflect his contribution, and even then we're erring grossly on the high side, we don't want to offend the boss.
He takes frequent breaks. Three 15 minute cigarette breaks an hour. Not quick cigarette breaks, choking back a quick half fag, but slow, drawn out breaks. The other 15 minutes of the hour he eats.
He's a classic case of "Paid by the hour union mentality". He has no sense of urgency, and in the midst of the busiest rush will find time to slip out the back of the restaurant and have a slow cigarette or another plate of pasta.
But he's very charming, and he regales us with the stories of his dates. He's getting quite a few. He can't speak a word of work related English, and requests to fetch bread, water - urgent - mimed with a gesture of a hand in the air filling a glass - and the words "Aqua - Agua" - only seem to fill him with confusion, he stands perplexed in the center of the restaurant for a minute or two before heading out for another cigarette.
In the morning he vacuums. And halfway through the vacuuming he takes the end of the vacuum and affixes the hose to the front of his trousers and stands there, waving his arms in the air while he pretends to receive oral sex. It's a funny joke and he repeats it daily.
He's learning English. Not the boring words that you might use in a restaurant, like "Bread", "Water", "Chair" or "Table" but "I want to fuck you" and "She has nice tits" and "Young girls, they are the best". In fact he probably knows more profanities than most sailors, all picked up in a few short weeks.
His dates, they don't speak Italian, still they seem to get on all right for a night or two. The next day he regales us with stories of his successes, exploits, he's not doing so badly. The boys, they don't believe his success, I've watched him however, heard his confessions of the less-than-ideal dates, I believe him. There was "Chelsea", who he took to Banff and who told him that she was "Married to God", a bad date if ever there was one. And he was busted making out with Chelsea when he parked under the balcony of his previous evening's mistress, who came out with her roommate and cheered him on. It was a shame, because she was a good date, and the sense of bringing a bad date to talk about God with under the window of a good date rather eludes me.
Staff meals: staff's turn to eat, he's already had 3 or 4 meals today and so passes, I crouch outside to quickly devour my food as there's still work yet to be done. He comes to visit, chats with me, farts loudly, belches, then expectorates on the pavement. I'm fast losing my appetite and stare at him, he looks a bit sheepish and continues.
"It's natural" he assures me.
***
He peruses all the flyers in the newspapers. He's amazed by the terrific low prices on commercial trash, iPhones, computers, sneakers, he reads the prices aloud, shows us the ad, we explain again the price, and he converts it for us into Euros and tells us how much it would cost back in Italy. He wants to buy a bunch - of it all, sneakers, XBox's, iPhone's, and ship them to his friends in Italy.
***
The Boss, he doesn't have much of a sense of humor. He likes the boy, what's not to like, but when I joke that the Euro has begun recovering ever since he came to visit, that Italy has started a collection to keep him in Canada, he's not so pleased...."Careful" he says under his breath...
***
The vacation, it's coming soon, and he's confided big plans to have a party at the Bosses house. Maybe a couple. And it would almost be worth hanging out in Calgary to see how this pans out...
***
You excuse it all, he's young after all, only 24, but I can't ever remember being that young. He's telling us about the new hostess, Gypsies Daughter, how he loves "Fresh Pussy" and he smells his fingers to explain to us, then argues that in Italy it's no problem to fuck girls 14 years old, it's normal.....
And I think, if he manages to fuck the gypsy hostess, even though she's 16 and he's 24 he will be by far the younger of the two. But like a lot of thoughts I hold them in, keep them to myself, I'm leaving in a few weeks and he's young and charming and most importantly he's the bosses' nephew.
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More chefs through the kitchen. A man flown in from Italy, on trial for a week, it was 3 days before I discovered that he worked there, he spent his time hanging out about the espresso machine and telling staff in broken English how life was too short.
And the latest, she's lasted 2 weeks, a Gypsy woman. She came to the interview with the owner and brought her 2 children (14 and 16) and husband with her. She's from Albania, lived in Italy before claiming refugee status in Canada.
So the owner tries her out. She shows up for her shifts late, her husband and kids wait for her outside the restaurant while she works. The husband, he's not working, can't find a job and so he's made it his job to get her work.
I tell the owner - "They're Gypsies", and he asks me if I really think so, Gypsies are from Romania, not Albania, and I just laugh it off, "Gypsies" and now he's thinking. ...
She's always late, misses shifts, doesn't call in, when finally she shows up a few days later she gives excuses like "I had shopping to do". The owner, he's not too happy but he's in desperate need of the kitchen help. And when she works, without fail her daughter and husband wait for her outside the back door of the restaurant. Not just to pick her up, but they're there to drop her off, then spend their time waiting in the parking lot, milling about, popping their heads in the back door to see how long she'll be, waiting for her to finish.
Her daughter, the eldest, 16 years old, she's taken over the hostessing position.
She's remarkably mature for her age and a good worker, she works a day job as well, comes to the restaurant after it and hostesses, she pours water for customers, busses tables, to look at her, talk to her, she's older than her years. The father, husband of Gypsy, he's got the whole family working apart from himself.
The mother, Gypsy, she won't last, the daughter, well, it'll be sad to see her go, good workers, bright hostesses are hard to find.