Bladder Inflection

I still remember the exact spot I would sit in the parking lot on Plank road waiting for the blue Mazda-3 to arrive. I would try and have the 35 cents needed for a coffee at the end of the day, although I usually spent all the spare change in the pockets of my black hoody by third break. When I did have the the change I would enjoy the fuck out of that little cup.

It was only the last month or so that the the parking lot had been paved. Until then it was a dusty gravel. I was used to that dusty gravel. I'm from Stoney Creek for fuck's sake. We only have three things in Stoney Creek: ice cream, strip malls, and unpaved industrial parking lots. I liked sitting and watching all the other workers leave for the day while I waited for my ride home. In the winter I had a piece of 5/8th white melamine that I had taken from a dismantled drawer that had been improperly measured and I would set that over the curb and what ever snow had built up around it. It was the warmer weather though that I really enjoyed.

It was the kind of industrial area where the road was lined with deep swampy ditches. My curb was what separated this particular parking lot from the ditch. Although the ditches are obviously created for man-made purposes they always have this kind of over-growth universe to them. Long reeds and pussy-willows mixed with Golden-Rod and thick grasses. They're the kind of ditch you've driven past a million times and never even noticed. They're an entire eco-system built on a foundation of run-off to keep pools of water off the road.

I remember being intrigued with just how many grasshoppery creatures were around. There's so many and they all have slightly distinctive characteristics. From where I sat I would face the two large loading docks that we used to load up cabinets and counter-tops. So many beautiful kitchens and vanities went out those doors in my time there and I don't remember a single instance where a comment was made on just how incredible they looked. It was a means to an end for pretty much every person who worked there. It was one of the reasons I always felt uncomfortable. I would marvel at the drawer-pull catalog and when the monthly industry magazine came in I would read every article there was. Advances in hinge technology, routers and edge banding machines fascinated the fuck out of me. There was such an amazing blend of artisanship and systematic industrial processes involved in cabinetmaking. People either think of a shop as being either factory-esque or all hand tools and saw-dust. The reality is that it's all equal parts. Like the vertical panel saw. It was a monstrous automated machine but every piece had to be measured out to 1/32nd of an inch in order to work. The white plastic melamine that you find lining the shelves and drawer bottoms in your kitchen... those edges are trimmed and sanded by hand using a razor-blade and sanding block. Yep I would sit and watch the loading doors and think about how little the people who built the amazing work that came out them actually gave a shit.

If I looked over to my right I would face the unknown business next door. It was separated by around 40 feet of weeds, field mice, snakes and deer ticks. I think the business was some kind of salvage yard. They had a low single story building that may have stared out as a trailer and then got added to and added to. There were two Rottweilers that sat chained out front. They would bark at me and I would stare back, look them dead in the eye showing no fear. It's amazing how quickly they calm down when you command respect from them. Also I think they were old and were most likely just out of breath.

There were no signs anywhere and the building looked like it may also have been serving as a make-shift house. I never saw anyone working there so I have no clue what they did. I doubt it was drugs as it looked too shifty even for a meth lab. It was probably just some old dying family-owned fabrication shop that did welding for people under the table.

The Sarnia Cabinet's logo is bad in a way that I would be embarrassed to wear anything brandishing the insignia. I desperately wanted to redo their branding and even did some revised takes to the cartoonish "SC". But they didn't need to change it and I never mentioned it. It was the kind of design you'd expect to see on the front of an old little league baseball shirt from value Village. Not the good little league but the dirt poor type whose games were played on the diamonds of various elementary schools around town. It was just like that, if the shirts were also designed by mentally challenged and legally blind boy.

It's amazing how many cars look exactly like the one you're waiting for almost until it drives right past you. It could be a fucking school bus but up until it's about 20 feet from you you are certain your ride has arrived. I would switch to the street view after 17 minutes of watching the door, the dog and the woodland critters of ditch county. I have this weird tick that I've always had where if someone is like 45 seconds late I'm convinced they're dead. I've always had it and continue to do so through medications and life changes. If you're late, I think you're dead. I'm sure it has something to do with growing up in a single parent household where the other parent doesn't exist anymore. People die so easily and everyone does it so it's really not much of a stretch to think lateness = death. I remember a few specific times when I was probably 8 or 9 where I knew, knew my mom had died on her way home from work. When she did get home I would cry myself into a beautiful coma.

I also remember one specific time when I was waiting for the blue Mazda that I was 100% sure I was going to get a phone calling telling me something bad has happened. I had taken my phone out of the pocket of my black hoody and held onto it so that I wouldn't miss the vibrating ringer when I was called and told the grave news. It never actually happened of course, real life is much less dramatic than that and I'm just not that lucky.

Only once did I ever begin to walk up the road. It was winter and I was too cold to just stand still so I walked up the snowy black shoulder. Three other people from my work stopped and asked me if I needed a ride. They all seemed concerned and didn't understand that I was walking to kill time and get the blood moving. In Sarnia people don't walk. My in-laws would drive to the store a half a block away. Even the ex-wife drove the car to work and she was a seven minute walk from the house. There's only three times a year that people don't drive. Canada Day at Canatara Park, Canada Day evening at the river for the fireworks, and of course Bay-Fest.

Like Stoney Creek, Sarnia still has a ton of unpaved sidewalks. They'll spend millions on obscure fountains with statues and crazy lights and nothing on pedestrian traffic safety. I've found that even more than the United States, Ontario depends on driving everywhere. Even I fall back into the trap quickly. Once Mary and I move downtown though I'll be walking everywhere. If I end up working in Toronto I'll be train-ing and walking everywhere there too. If there is one person who knows walking, I'm that person. Who the fuck needs a blue Mazda-3 anyway?

Second Song of the Day: