by Edeet Ravel
Yours forever,
Fern
Tuesday
January 8
Hi Xanoth,
The building is falling apart!!!!
I got a call really early this morning from the East Indian guy on the second floor. He said one of the bathroom pipes is leaking and it flooded the floor and the water’s dripping into the bathroom in the apartment below. Then all of a sudden everyone was calling me about water problems, like their hot water only comes out in a gush or not at all and their toilet is leaking and taps aren’t closing.
I pretended I wasn’t in a total panic. I called the guy who moved me, Jeff, on his cell and asked him what to do. He said he was going to be in the area and he’d come by at noon.
I was a mental case until he showed up. On top of everything else, I was worried because I had to leave for the restaurant at five. I took Jeff to see the problem apartments. He said it’s a job for a plumber, and no one expects me to be a plumber. He said the pipes have to be replaced.
He came on to me. I guess he’s one of those guys who doesn’t care what you look like. They just want sex bad. I said I was too stressed out and maybe another time. I don’t think he was serious anyhow.
I called David and luckily he came over right away. He swore under his breath and began making these angry calls on his cell, some of them in French, all about money and who’s going to pay for what. I told you there were big problems with who owns the building.
I got from the conversation that David’s father is unconscious and they need him to sign over the power or something like that. Meanwhile he’s not dead but he’s not conscious so that’s the problem, but it’s more complicated.
Finally David said a plumber would be coming first thing tomorrow. He was in the worst mood. He didn’t take it out on me though. Actually, he sort of joked. He said, “Well, Fern, I hope you can swim.”
Gotta run!
1:45 a.m.
My job was a nightmare. The guy in charge, Amir, is severely communication disabled. He’ll say DISHES and I’m supposed to figure out if that means wash the dishes, dry the dishes, put food on the dishes, or what. Or FILL POT and he doesn’t bother saying fill with what or how much. Or PUT IN MICROWAVE. I never used a microwave in my life. He’s around 30 and his English is fine. He just has a communication problem. Or maybe a personality problem.
There’s another cook who’s very good-looking and much friendlier. I didn’t catch his name. He didn’t say a word to me all evening, but in his case I think he really doesn’t know much English.
The owners do the cash. The paranoid wife does some of the waitressing if it gets busy, but the main waitress is a skinny pretty redhead, around 20. To someone like that someone like me is invisible.
I was sure I’d get fired after tonight. It wasn’t my fault. I can’t read minds. But they didn’t say anything. I was there until one. The job ended at midnight and they told me I could leave, but I still had more pots to wash and I didn’t want to leave a mess on top of everything else I did wrong.
The only good thing was supper. The food was weird, and I was afraid I wouldn’t like it, but I did. They didn’t watch to see how much I was eating. Amir kept going in and out of the kitchen, Mr. and Mrs. Taza don’t come in the back, and the quiet guy doesn’t care what I do. I had pita with fried chicken, rice with vegetables, rice with lentils, rice with chickpeas, fried potatoes, fried cauliflower, bean salad, and falafel, which I heard of but never tasted before. So at least that part went OK, but they’ll probably fire me by the end of the week.
The place was full most of the evening. A lot of people can afford to eat out. Or else they can’t afford it but they use their credit card.
I’m in bed now. I like sleeping in Mom’s double bed. My old bed was a single and the mattress was saggy, but Mom’s is still OK.
Yours forever,
Fern
Wednesday
January 9
Hi Xanoth,
My arms are killing me from lifting those heavy pots yesterday. The Tazas haven’t called to fire me, so I guess I’m working again tonight. They probably couldn’t find anyone to replace me on such short notice. At least I’ll make another $50.
The plumbers were here all day, and tomorrow some builders are coming to repair the damaged floors and ceilings.
I had a conversation in the hallway with this woman who lives on the fourth floor. She’s around 35, kind of high strung, with really bad taste in clothes, like a top with vinyl pink hearts, and tight white slacks with a metal belt, and high heels with sequins. Her name’s Adorée and she has an eight-year-old daughter. I really like that name – Adorée. She told me she had her daughter with a man who’s been coming to see her almost every evening and on weekend afternoons for 16 years, even though he a wife and three kids at home. And his wife doesn’t know a thing about it! He tells his wife he’s working late, or that he has to go to the office on the weekend to catch up, and he never lets her see how much he makes so she doesn’t know that he gives Adorée a big part of his money. He runs his own import company, so I guess he makes enough for his wife and for Adorée.
I can’t believe his wife doesn’t know. How can you not slip up in 16 years? I mean, how clued out can a person be? Also, if Adorée goes around telling people, wouldn’t someone eventually tell his wife? But Adorée said his wife has no idea at all.
I read a murder mystery once about a guy like that. He ended up in a cement mixer.
Yours forever,
Fern
Thursday
January 10
Hi Xanoth,
The restaurant job was a little better yesterday. I only made about a thousand mistakes. I also managed to fill a plastic bag with scraps for Beauty. Instead of scraping food that people left on their plates into the garbage, I scraped some of it into a plastic bag to take home. Beauty couldn’t believe her luck when I filled her plate with chicken. I have enough for a week at least.
New tenants moved into the last vacant apartment today – an old pruny woman and her son. I have a bad feeling about her. I gave them a 1 because I was sure they’d pay, but now I think maybe I should have given them a 3. I think I was just getting tired of showing the apartment. It’s the one where Victor lived before he moved upstairs.
The woman’s name is Mrs. Coleville. Her son, who’s around 30, is called Markus. Markus looks exactly like Humpty Dumpty. He never says anything. He just stands quietly next to his mother but half a step back, as if he’s a kid who got sent to the corner, except that the corner for him is behind his mother’s shoulder.
The reason I’m worried about Mrs. Coleville is all the complaining she’s been doing. She says everything needs repairs in her apartment. She gets really angry, and she acts like everyone’s her servant. You should have seen the way she shouted at the movers. You wouldn’t think such an old skinny person could have such a loud bossy voice. All that’s missing is a rifle on her shoulder and a whistle.
The rent in this building is really high, considering how rundown it is. It’s $850 for a two and a half, $950 for a three and a half and $1025 for a four and a half. That’s why they’ll be glad we left our old place. They’ll double the rent now.
On her application form Mrs. Coleville wrote that her former address was in Beaconsfield, and she was a homeowner for 38 years.
Those houses in Beaconsfield are mansions. Mom used to clean a place out there, but I made her quit because she had to take two buses and a train, and they wouldn’t even pay for the train.
I wonder how you can go from a mansion to this place in like one month? Especially a three and a half for two people. Markus will have to sleep in the living room.
Everyone else in the building is OK, I think. Some of the tenants are a bit grumpy, but they’re not a problem. But Mrs. Coleville has a long list of complaints: the windows are stuck, there’s paint on the glass, the linoleum in the kitchen has cracks, the bathroom mirror is stained, those wood strips between the floor
and the wall are coming off in a few places, the bedroom lock is broken, and I forget what else. She made it sound like everything that’s gone wrong in her life is my fault and I have to fix it.
I told her I’d talk to David, but he’s just going to say that this is what you get for $950.
I really wish I’d given her a 3!
Yours forever,
Fern
Monday
January 14
Hi Xanoth,
It’s my day off. I baked two cakes and slept most of the day.
The restaurant job is a bit better. I don’t think they’ll fire me. Amir is still not explaining anything, but I can mostly figure out what he wants me to do.
So now I have my supper taken care of. But I need more food, and I need to make more than $50 a day. That means I’m going to have to find a job for during the day at a hotel or restaurant.
Mrs. Coleville is driving me crazy. I really made a mistake with her. She left like twenty messages on my machine while I was at the restaurant, asking where I was and complaining that the door of the woman next to her keeps banging all night.
Then this morning she woke me up at eight. I’m a deep sleeper, but she was pounding away on my door. Beauty got totally freaked out.
I crawled out of bed and opened the door. She didn’t care that she woke me up. She was probably happy about it. She stood there in the hallway, with Markus in his usual spot. She began ranting again about people going in and out of the apartment next to her all night. She said, “I’m paying enough rent. I expect decent accommodations, not a house of ill repute.” She has a kind of British accent. Fake, if you ask me.
I left a message for David. He called back a few minutes later, and I told him there was a problem with one of the tenants. I said she’s been asking for repairs and she’s complaining about doors banging.
He asked, “What kind of repairs?” in that lawyer’s voice that’s sort of scary. I told him the list and he said what I thought he’d say – “I guess she thinks this is a luxury condo.” Then he sighed and said, “Well, do what you can. Next time I’m there I’ll take a look.”
Yours forever,
Fern
Monday
January 28
Hi Xanoth,
I haven’t written in a while because I get home late and then when I get up I have to clean the building and shovel and pick up the flyers and deal with Mrs. Coleville. I found some glue in the tool box and I glued the loose strips in her apartment. I also scraped the paint off the windows with a knife. I can’t fix anything else. I can’t put in new windows or new linoleum or replace the bathroom mirror. I promised her the owner would look in, but David hasn’t been here since I told him.
She’s still going on about the banging door. I promised to talk to the tenant. She’s this mousy woman who reminds me of the war refugees in Murder Without Borders, with her big winter coat and rubber boots. A Value Village shopper like me, but with weird taste.
Mrs. Coleville also expects me to shovel every five minutes when it starts snowing. It snowed the entire day last Tuesday, and I went out to shovel three or four times before I went to work, but she complained that I wasn’t there to shovel in the evening. What makes it so annoying is that she doesn’t even go out.
I should feel sorry for Mrs. Coleville, but I don’t. Adorée found out from Markus that her husband sold the house in Beaconsfield while she was out shopping. He did the whole thing secretly. Then he took all the money and vanished. He took all her jewels too. The only thing he left was the furniture, and that’s what she’s living on – money she made from selling most of the stuff in the house.
Well, all this could explain why Mrs. Coleville is so mad, but it doesn’t explain why she acts like everyone around her is a cockroach she can squash with her shoe. Or why she keeps pounding on my door like a mental case every morning and leaving me a million messages when I’m not home, as if my whole purpose in life is to stay in my apartment and wait for her next rant.
Another thing I’m worried about is Beauty. I feel bad leaving her alone so much. She really misses her old life, with all the rooms and the balcony and a view of trees.
Maybe I can leave her with Victor. He mentioned he likes cats, and he’s home during the day, and his place is a lot bigger than mine.
One thing about working, it keeps your mind off things. You fall into bed and the next thing you know it’s time to get up and clean.
I’ve been reading the ads in the retired man’s Gazette, but so far the restaurants are all too far or the wrong hours, and I only saw two hotel ads, one for valet parking and one for bartending.
I’m wearing my second-to-biggest jeans now, which I haven’t worn in a long time. It’s from all the running around, and having less time to eat, or even to buy food.
Yours forever,
Fern
Tuesday
January 29
Hi Xanoth,
Mrs. Coleville and I are having a contest. It’s called “Who’s going to go over the edge first?” She’s been writing down every single time the door of the mousy woman opens and closes.
Meanwhile I’ve been trying to talk to the mousy woman, because I really would like to sleep in now and then instead of being yelled at by Mrs. Coleville while I’m half-conscious.
But the mousy woman has a peephole, and when she sees it’s me she doesn’t answer. And I don’t start pounding away because I’m not Mrs. Coleville. Yet.
Yours forever,
Fern
Wednesday
January 30
Hi Xanoth,
I finally talked to the mousy woman. She came in with groceries while I was doing the floors. She was soaking wet. It’s been half-raining, half-snowing most of the day.
I said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but the tenant next door to you is very sensitive to noise. She hears every time your door opens and closes, especially at night.”
The mousy woman looked scared. She has a wide pale face with big pale blue eyes. “I more quiet,” she said with an accent. Her accent might explain her refugee coat and rubber boots. Maybe she really is a refugee.
I hope I’ll be able to sleep in the mornings now, without that Coleville maniac trying to kick my door in.
Yours forever,
Fern
Sunday
February 10
Hi Xanoth,
This morning I found an ad for a hotel job that looked good. It said CLEANING AND GENERAL HELP and it also said IMMEDIATE, which brought me luck last time. I think it means they’re desperate.
So I called and a guy answered. He said, “Just to tell you right off, we’re in the gay village.” Kind of random, but I said OK. He wanted me to come over right away and he gave me directions. So I left a note on my door –BACK SOON – mostly so Mrs. Coleville won’t have a fit.
On the phone the man told me the hotel was very easy to find, but I almost missed it. I imagined a big hotel, but it was a plain low-rise and kind of old, so I went right past it without seeing the sign. It’s called Le Baudelaire.
I went in and told the receptionist who I was. He had a purple punk hairdo, but the rest of him wasn’t punk at all. He was dressed like he was in an ad for sailing. So that was weird and the building was weird, and for a second I thought maybe it’s a trap, like in one of those urban legends where they pretend there’s a job and then they kidnap you and take out your kidney or sell you into slavery.
But I relaxed when he said, “Wonderful, wonderful.” He sounded normal. A second guy heard us and came out from his office and shook my hand.
The second guy seemed kind of lost, around 40, with thin messy hair. His office was a mess too. He kept looking for something on his desk, only he couldn’t remember what he was looking for.
He told me the hotel catered mostly to gays and he was telling me right out front that some of the customers are probably or for sure HIV and the pay is minimum wage, which is $8.00. It’s 3 hours during the week and 5 hours on Sat
urday and Sunday.
He told me that even though he’s the owner he does some of the housekeeping himself, but he can’t manage alone. He needs someone to fix rooms, keep the place clean, and help a person called Sally with laundry.
He said he wants someone stable who’ll stay and not vanish, because he had three people in a row who vanished without notice. He said the hours were flexible. Check-out time is 12:00 and check-in time is 4:00, so I can show up any time between 12:00 and 2:00. I said I’d need Mondays off. That’s the day I get off at the restaurant, and I need a free day to catch up on shopping and sleep and bake cakes for the week. He said that was fine, especially since Mondays are slow anyhow.
I asked if they had a kitchen. He said yes, but it’s only to store beverages and sandwiches and so on. They don’t cook or anything like that.
So I asked if lunch was included, and right away he got this nervous look on his face and said people bring their own lunch.
I was afraid I’d blown it, so I said quickly, “I’m definitely interested.” The hours are perfect, and even if lunch isn’t included, I can probably get shampoo and soap and maybe toilet paper. Also, I’ve been getting more food from the restaurant lately. They let me fill a styrofoam take-home container every night, and I can take as much pita as I want. They have huge bags of pita in their freezer.
He relaxed and said, “Are you sure you want it?” He didn’t mean am I sure I’m going to show up and stick to it. He meant am I sure I want such a bad job.
I don’t know why he thinks it’s bad. Anywhere you work, people might have HIV or a million other diseases, including weird ones from distant countries, like bird flu or SARS or whatever. Or if you go on a bus, who knows what the other passengers have, and sometimes they’re coughing all over the place.
I said I was sure and asked him if he paid cash. He got all offended. He said he was running a real hotel, not a brothel, and I’d get a payslip with all the benefits, and he needs my social insurance number. I told him I don’t have one, and he checked on his computer and told me I have to go to an office on de Maisonneuve with my birth certificate, and they’ll give me one.
