Acid-Washed Jeans

Sometime between 1991 and 1994, while working as a parts driver for Norwest Automotive, I picked up a used car battery from one of our customers. I didn't think anything of it in the moment; I'd picked up used parts for disposal several times already, and this was just one more instance. 

But a couple of hours later, I noticed that my bluejeans were developing white patches in odd places, starting just below my pelvis. Over the course of the day, those white patches spread and the miscoloured denim thinned, By the time I returned home, my pants had developed huge rends, tears and gaps, disintegrating almost entirely into scraps not long after I removed my shoes. 

I figured that the battery must have cracked and leaked some mildly corrosive form of acid down my pants. Certainly my legs were quite itchy by the end of the day, and they'd taken on a slightly pinkish hue. A thorough scrubbing in the shower relieved those symptoms. 

I had occasion to tell Mom and Sean this story tonight; credit goes to Sean for coming up with the perfect title for this post. 

Fast Food Nostalgia

Every now and then, I think about how much I enjoyed grabbing a chicken fajita at the drive-through for lunch during my time as an auto parts driver in the early 1990s. I drove a white Ford pickup with a red interior; it had a standard transmission, and I learned how to drive standard on that job. 

When things were slow and I could take a true lunch break, I'd sit in the truck and read while eating my bagged lunch. When I was busy, chicken fajita time. It was a simple meal: just a couple of pieces of plain roasted chicken, chopped onions, and slices of red and green bell peppers in a plain flour tortilla. But boy, were they good. Those fajitas and CBC 740 AM got me through that job. (It wasn't a bad job, but some of the customers were pretty mean to me, and I've never had a very thick skin.) 

I liked McDonald's pizzas. They, too, are gone. One day, perhaps in our lifetime, McDonald's itself will be just a memory. Nothing lasts forever, including civilizations. 

Validating Our Worst Selves

As sometimes happens, I had a pretty lousy week (by the standards of my particular forms of privilege). I missed a day of work, the news was getting me down, I'd accidentally inconvenienced a couple of people, I wasn't getting much sleep, I had no drive to accomplish household tasks--the sorts of problems that really should be taken in stride. Instead, by Thursday I'd worked myself into a state of fierce self-loathing. 

Today I felt much better, thanks almost entirely to simply cuddling with Sylvia through Thursday night. As we drove to pick up groceries today, I made light of my maudlin mood of the days prior, mocking myself by saying things like "Oh, I've been so mean to people over the years" and "I've been a complete idiot so much of my life" and "I've accomplished nothing." I said it in a tone that tried to suggest I knew such feelings were silly, but Sylvia saw through me, as usual. She admitted that she sometimes felt that way too, but then she said something that hit me like a bombshell: 

"Why do our negative thoughts get all our internal attention and validation?" 

Yes! Why? All my life I've validated my worst feelings about myself while at the same time dismissing or devaluing the positive assessments of other people. I'm not alone in this. 

I wonder what percentage of human beings validate their bad feelings about themselves, and what percentage enjoy a healthier, more balanced view--not narcissistic, but a view that accepts their good and bad qualities without feeling undue self-loathing or overweening pride. Furthermore, I wonder that genetic traits or environmental conditions make the difference between mental health and depression and other disorders. 

I've written a few times about how much I loathed my first job after graduating from the University of Alberta: driving a truck full of automotive parts to different garages on the south and west sides of Edmonton. I had that job for three years, applying for other jobs all the while, and the longer I was there the more I began to believe that I'd never do better. (To give myself some credit, I recognized, even as an ignorant twentysomething, the inherent value of any job that in some way helped the community; I didn't feel as though I was "above" the job, just that it didn't suit my interests or skills.) 

For several months of this three-year period, I was living with my parents and commuting to Edmonton with Dad. After one particularly rough day, I confessed to Dad that I thought there must be something wrong with me because even after years of trying, nobody wanted to hire me. (I'd gotten the truck driving job thanks to Dad.) 

"Earl, that's bullshit," Dad said forcefully, startling me a little. "You're a very smart kid, but these are tough conditions. It won't be long before you find something much better suited to all the things you can do." 

Dad's no-nonsense clarity helped quite a bit that day, and he was right; it wasn't long before I moved on to better things, though not without some amusing misadventures. 

Sylvia's question today has helped me realize that I need to investigate why I've given so much weight to the ways I've failed other people, the ways I've failed to live up to my expectations of myself, the ways I've hurt others--almost always unintentionally--and yet, NOT always unintentionally, and when you hurt someone, what do your intentions matter anyway? 

This is turning into a screed, so I'll conclude with this: If you've ever had feelings like mine, I hope you'll give yourself a break. Believe people when they say nice things about you; don't devalue their judgement or support. I'm going to do my best to take my own advice. 

Butchered by Bottles

It was the summer of 1992. I was driving a parts truck, delivering auto parts for Norwest Automotive, my first job after graduating from the University of Alberta. Upon returning to the store after dropping off some parts to customers, one of the partsmen warned me to be careful around the big cardboard box we used to store empty soda bottles and cans.

He was a burly fellow with curly black hair, with a laconic manner. Almost lazily, he gestured toward the box of bottles.

"Hey Earl, watch out," he said, and as he spoke he leaned into the box, pointing with an extended middle finger. "There's a broken bottle in here and you don't want to EARRGGHHHH!"

I watched, goggle-eyed, as the partsman impaled his index finger on the sharp tip of a shattered bottleneck. He jerked his hand back and started flailing, spattering blood all over the box of bottles, his own clothing, the walls, and the clipped-out SUNshine Girls that adorned them.

At that moment, Ron, the manager, rounded the corner.

"What the hell is happening?" he cried. "It looks like Freddy's final nightmare in here."

I don't remember if I managed to control my laughter or not. I hope so, but...

Broken Bottle Bloodbath

Today my colleague Stephanie warned Official Opposition staff that only plastic bottles should be deposited in our bottle recycling bin, pointing out that some glass bottles had been improperly put there and shattered.

Stephanie's cautionary note reminded me of a long-ago incident involving the dangers of broken glass bottles.

In 1992, while I was working as an auto parts delivery driver for now-defunct Norwest Automotive, a compatriot - one of the parts men - warned me that our recycling bin contained a broken bottle. He did so by leaning into the bin and pointing at the bottle in question with an outthrust finger, impaling it directly on a shard of razor-sharp glass protruding from the shattered bottleneck. His dialogue:

“Hey Earl, watch out; there’s a broken bottle in hUUARRRTGHHHHHHHH!!!”

He recoiled and blood squirted from his finger all over the bin and surrounding walls. The manager rushed in and shouted,

“What’s going on? It looks like Freddy’s Final Nightmare in here.”

Fortunately a quick application of gauze and a band-aid staunched the flow of lifeblood, and my colleague suffered no permanent ill effects. 

The moral of the story: beware broken bottles, lest lifeblood be loosed!