Harvey's makes a hamburger...a beautiful thing

Week two of gainful employment is now history and the question that suggests itself is "HAVE i ever had a worse job?"

And the answer is, "Yes, that time you tried to learn French by working the late shift in an all-night hamburger joint in Montreal's red light district."

I'm not sure what possessed me, I guess I really did think I was going to enrich my French word power by serving "patates frites" to the Wild Billy's Circus Story of freaks and weirdos who constituted the late night clientele at a Harvey's on St. Catherine.

I knew I was in trouble the night five cops hustled a guy out into the snow and the 16-year-old Quebecois guy on the hamburger grill turned to me with shining eyes and said, "Five police for one guy, dat's not bad, but da record here is EIGHT! EIGHT POLICE FOR ONE GUY!"

I'd just finished four years of university followed by a year of French immersion and the 16-year-olds on the staff were worried about me. They didn't think there was any potential for personal growth for me at Harvey's (it's a Canadian hamburger chain, for those who don't know it). The two of them -- Luc and William -- took me aside one night and earnestly advised me to consider applying at McDonalds where there were "better benefits."

All the hookers who worked our corner (and ALL the hookers worked our corner) would hang out in Harvey's eating the food they'd bought across the street at Burger King. (One of them explained it to me one night, "I don't like the food here but they won't let me sit down in Burger King.") One of my duties as cashier was to regulate access to the bathroom. I had a button under the counter I could press to open the door. One night, I let a very drunk hooker into the bathroom then forgot about her. About 20 minutes later, I buzzed somebody else in and there was an ear-splitting scream and the hooker came storming up to the counter to inform me that she'd been "counting her money" and she didn't appreciate being interrupted and the last cashier that had worked here used to do that to her and she had had to "mess with that girl."

Having no desire to be "messed" with, I promised her it would never happen again. I was ready to promise never to let anyone else into the bathroom. I was ready to let her pee all over the restaurant. I just didn't want my attempt to improve my French to end in a fire-engine-red stiletto heel through my heart.

So yes, I have had worse jobs.

Let's Not Go!

sylvainsylvain's request for "more fucked-up travelogs" has been duly noted, but as I haven't gone anywhere other than work lately, there's not much to write about. This may change now that I have my new 3,200 kc passport (seriously, it SHOULD have some sort of special features - and being "machine-readable" doesn't count - it should be able to play MP3's or make julienne fries or help me lose weight while I sleep) but in the meantime, I have a great travel-related idea to share with you all: the "Let's Not Go!" guides.

Brilliant, no? The sort of brilliance found at the bottom of your fourth pint of Riegrovy sady beer (where I find most of my brilliance).

The idea is to write about places you'd never advise anyone to go. My first article will be "Let's Not Go Sackville, New Brunswick!"
I know, as if anyone needs to be warned against a town named "Sackville," but I've thought of my opening line and I can't bear not to write it: "There are worse things a person could do than go to Sackville, New Brunswick - crapping one's pants in public comes to mind."

Now all I have to do is set up a "wiki" (it sounds like a type of small tent, doesn't it? So how hard could it be to set up?), let everyone in the world know about it, post my opening article on Sackville, then sit back and let the thing write itself.

Dudes, it's as good as done.

Faithful readers!

Gainful employment has me to the mat and is twisting my arm.

I'd tell you about my new job, but my new job is SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO boring I'd put you to sleep just telling you what I do between 9 a.m. and 9:07 a.m.. In fact, what I do between 9 a.m. and 9:07 a.m. puts me to sleep every morning but the THWACK of my forehead hitting the keyboard never fails to wake me up.

So enough about my new job. Let me tell you about my new passport: it cost me 3,200 kc. I could probably have got two Uzbeki passports and a couple from Albania for that price. A passport variety pack. At the very least, you'd think a 3,200 kc passport would entitle me to some special privileges (free admission to Bryan Adams concerts) or come with some free gift (a hockey stick or a Loverboy toque) but NOOOOOOOOOO 3,200 kc just buys you a garden-variety Canadian passport. Mine with a particularly grim photo, at least, I hope it's particularly grim, because if that's what I look like, I probably shouldn't ever go back home anyway.(Below right: my new passport photo.)


On the other hand, the ASP (that's "average street price" for the uninitiated -- one of the many, many perks of my GREAT new job is that I'll be talking like this from now on) of a Canadian passport worth 3,200 freakin' kc is probably pretty high. But I should sell soon, before our new prime minister drives the value down.