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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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And for some reason I just remembered him. Someone I worked with 20 odd years ago.
An ass, really, tall - apparently good looking (the girls liked him) - and - well, the stories tell themselves.
Derren, spelled with 2 e's, I'm not certain it wasn't an affectation, or Derwood as I'd call him but you had to be careful he could be a bit "touchy". In your face sort-of touchy.
His story, his go-to story was about how he was on a midget hockey team *(he's in his 30's) and there was a guy there he didn't like. Cock of the Walk. A little too arrogant for Derren's taste. Nobody liked him.
This is a common thing in these stories, we justify our actions by saying "nobody liked him", and this, because there's no way anyone can check, it's a sphere of acquaintance we have no access to, we trust in the narrator.
I don't think I trusted Derren.
Anyways, they're going out of town to play at an overnight tournament and Derren had had enough of him. Was going to teach him a lesson, if you know what I mean.
So he took a shit in a zip-lock bag and froze it, and when they were getting on the bus dumped the frozen shit in his hockey bag.
By the time they got to the tournament and unpacked the shit was fully thawed. Messy.
Derren's laughing, boy, that sure shut him up!
And that's how Derren taught him a lesson.
***
Now Derren had grabbed the bus-boy, young, impressionable, nice kid. And too young to know any better and maybe, just maybe he was believing the stuff Derren was telling him.
Derren was telling him how Humble he was. I mean, laying it on thick; "You will never meet anyone humbler than I" sort of stuff, this after yet another "He Shoots - He Scores" saved the game sort of story, and he's repeating it over and over until - finally - I've had enough.
I interrupt. "I don't think 'humble' means what you think it means" I tell Derren, bus boy overhearing. "Humble people don't go around telling people how humble they are...".
Derren was unprepared for this. He was never prepared for any sort of battle of wits, and resented any correction. He drew himself up to full height, there was gonna be a hockey brawl, only another waiter - Dion, was nearby and laughing. And while he hated me he looked up to Dion and so my life was saved for another day...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Personally, I've had enough of the guy, and it's small consolation that like Trump he's only a couple of years tops from imploding -
Here's Slates Take: Slate on Musk: https://slate.com/technology/2023/01/elon-musk-new-billionaire-rule.html?utm_source=digg
I'd just say he's a fucking idiot and a jackass and be done with it.
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And, the road to hell paved with good intentions and all of the people I didn't contact this holiday season.
You know who.
Dag, into the thrift shop, railing at M***, then me. Her daughter. It's not her daughter, it's merely the bringing of bad tidings, of which her daughter has the misfortune to be the bearer.
You see, Dag, being deprived of her drivers license due to crimes against humanity, is now house-bound in Procter.
Talking to her, now 10, 12 years younger than when I talked to her last, she's regressing, it's not obvious, she's plausible in all other respects, but this backwards-aging, and were I better acquainted with her I would notice the others, I'm not so and so it flies. Just this, her age, getting younger every time we meet.
And I still haven't made it up to see Stormy. Which I'd better see to quick or I'll be going to hell...
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And, volunteering, back at the thrift shop. I had cleared the area - M***'s area, made it to the back wall, had my picture taken and it was distributed to the staff as proof that it could be done.
This was while M*** was away. M*** got back a few weeks ago, and offered dim congratulations on my 2 week success that undermined his 5 years of constant, 5 days a week labor...
I knew it would be this way. And, whether contrite or infected with my Zen enthusiasm he even cleaned up his shrine, all into a tub.
But - now I'm noticing, his Shrine is being rebuilt. A new one, from new donations and - to him (and occasionally me) - filled with items he(or I) find curious.
This is it at the moment:
You get it. Kitsch.
And - his area - as I'm often in when he isn't - has been sealed with red tape, like a crime scene, none shall pass, and I'm directed instead to other departments that have need of my skills.
He's rebuilding the nest. He can't help it. It's in his blood. Just as much as it's in my blood to destroy it.
I'm thinking at the moment jewelry could use my attention. I have yet to find a single interesting watch, and would be most curious to go through the tubs - and tubs - of bad plastic/Bakelite/gold plate/silver alloy jewelry and see if maybe, just maybe, there's something of interest.
Pretty sure there isn't, but pretty sure M*** is done working with me for a bit and so time to diversify and find other ways to keep productive and busy...
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Now, news that Ken has gotten a job in the dive bar in Nelson. For the moment he's liking it, and I'm a little saddened because one of the highlights of my summer at work was finding new and inventive ways to wind him up...
Ken, Ken, had the patience of Job and would generally just look at you with a "What did I ever do to deserve this?..." look upon his face, before occasionally reaching for his knives which signaled it was time to get back to work.
To begin, Ken, as of late, had taken in with Jessica, the homeless woman living out of her car on the Ferry Landing. She had been slowly starving to death, in a spiral of being unable to make any decisions regarding her life. She was the dine and dash that we caught. So, after taking her for Thanksgiving Dinner I charged Ken with keeping her alive, bringing her food from time to prevent her from starving. Ken was too willing to oblige. Soon they were living together - not LIKE THAT, but you could tell, Ken, Ken, he had hopes. They called each other "Partner" and she went and got a job at the Hotsprings and Ken got a job in town and they found a small place to live together in Balfour.
To hear Ken describe it it was just going to be a matter of time. There were backrubs and petty domestic squabbles and they would make up.
I got to hear it all, or as much as he would tell me, which probably still too much given my incessant roasting of him.
From his descriptions he was "In like Flynn". Read between the lines and this was not going to work out well. Ken, he's used to being "Friendzoned" but this, this was "Petzoned". In the end, shortly after he got his new job he was sick for a couple of days, during which time Jessica was sick as well. Well, not sick, she just called in sick to the Hotsprings. And when finally Ken dragged his ass out of bed to go to work he came home to find a note declaring him "The Best Friend Ever" and his carton of cigarettes missing. Jessica had vanished. He checked his computer, saw that she had been googling Grand Prairie, driving routes, figured out that she was off.
So ended the best potential relationship he never had. And while you knew, you knew, she was - unstable? - maybe not the word. Maybe just down on her luck and the intolerable friendship that saved her just provided her with enough incentive to find her way home. I mean - really, the weather was snowy, shit, and to consider heading back to Grand Prairie - in the winter - well, things had to be dire. She knew she was being suffocated, groomed, Ken lacks a certain required degree of chill around women, his hopes heaped upon her slender shoulders probably proved to be too much.
Anyways, Ken in mourning, Ken now grieving yet another romance trampled before it had a chance to bloom.
***
So, Ken, starting at the restaurant some 5 years ago, a few weeks after me which meant I was his "senior" and could roast him as I saw fit. Back then I knew Ken from the Superette, where he'd worked previously, the convenience store clerk of perpetual good nature, everyone knew Ken, and so it was like a bit of "Celebrity Apprentice" when he came to work for us. And of course I'd take the piss. When customers sat at the bar I would yell into the dish-pit questions about the well he had in the basement and his butterfly collection and the van he prowled the ferry landing in and what's with all those missing women posters, huh?
And the customers would laugh and Ken would bristle and stick his head through the small dish-pit pass and glower at me like Oscar the Grouch.
Back then, Ken wasn't the only one, there was the alcoholic chef complaining about his alcoholic girlfriend's health issues, she was sickly, blind, and I would suggest maybe he should just drive up the highway with her, throw a can of Bud out the window, let her go, somebody would find her, she'd be fine....
Or the two younger guys, 19, 20, members of a "Boy Band", and I could easily divert myself roasting them. Or the other service staff.
In time, though, over the next few years we got fewer and fewer staff, chef's, the Pandemic was the final wedge, most of our kitchen staff was now teenagers, in high school, and not the sort of people I could roast with the same impunity I could Ken. And Ken, ever good natured Ken, well...the whip that once cracked over the whole crew became squarely focused on him.
I would warn the new staff about him. About how they were never to turn their back on him and never, ever, bend over in front of him. I made them practice saying "No, KEN, DOWN, DOWN" and shake their legs. I would tell them about how worldly he was and how he could say: "How much is a blowjob????" in 12 different languages. Or about his origin story, which was that basically you just had to dig a basement and a Ken would appear, most construction crews would just whack him with a backhoe and fill it in, but this Ken, Our Ken, he'd escaped. And I would do David Attenborough styled narrations of his life: "Kenneth in the Springtime. It is spring, and the Ken is emerging from his winter long slumber. Appearing in the doorway to his basement, clad only in a towel, the Ken lights up a cigarette and begins to try and attempt to attract a mate. He is the last living member of his species. His nest, feathered with soiled pizza and poutine boxes, awaits, as it has for 30 years now, the loving attention ..."
And so it would continue. I would tell the new hires about Ken's "Special Cocktail" which was basically just Date-Rape-Drug and how you'd wake up dressed funny and posed all around his basement, never remembering anything but pretty sure you'd had a good time.
Or about how they should never, ever, visit his "Only Fans" page, and then, under the shock of it all refuse to discuss it further but allude obliquely to raccoon costumes and his kittenish clawing at the camera from a red-velvet bed...or introducing him to the female customers with whom he had some sort of acquaintance as the "King of Balfour", only under some sort of evil enchantment, if only he could get a kiss from an honest woman he'd be restored....
I don't need to tell you he never did.
I would do my creepiest Ken voice and tell the new hires they "Must puts the lotion on it's skin...", or brag him up by telling them that he was one of the bestselling authors in the "Bigfoot Erotica" community, sadly he wouldn't give me his pen name but I have heard through the grapevine that he's very highly regarded...
Sometimes I'd forget to tone it down, forgetting that our staff, now largely under 18, under 16 even, they didn't have the necessary cultural background and reference points to appreciate how vividly I was painting his character. Ken, unfortunately, did, and would invariably try and interrupt my praises....
Anyways, dammit, Ken, Ken, Ken, has gone and found another job.
I'm pretty sure he's going to miss me.