Day by Day

When I visited the New York Stock Exchange I could not understand my guide when he declared it as the epicenter of activity in North America. Watching from behind a bulletproof plexiglass wall, I saw men in tailored suits scatter like ant farm residents and women in pressed skirts toss little slips of paper on the floor as if they were shelling peanuts in a smoky tavern. I got dizzy watching the Harvard graduates play what I consider a financial version of Dungeons and Dragons. Theoretical money is lost and gained at the ring of a bell while tycoons like Bill Gates and Martha Stewart get into fist fights over the title of Dungeon Master. To be sure, the Stock Exchange is an exciting place to spend an air conditioned hour in Manhattan, but it's nothing compared to a business operation in Carnduff, Saskatchewan, whose epicenter is smack dab in the middle of a kitchen table.

Spend one day in southeast Saskatchewan and you'll undoubtedly spot the words "Fast Trucking" embroidered in green thread on the brim of a hat or the back of a jacket. Come winter, the entire population of Carnduff puts on puffy green coats until the town appears to be overrun with Oompa-Loompas. In the sixties, when most people were getting high and listening to Jerry Garcia albums, Tony and Vi Day had already embarked on an enterprise that would later become Fast Trucking and all of its many subsidiaries. It would take at least two hands to count all of the services they provide, but among them are moving oil rigs, drilling oil wells, farming crop land and constructing leases. I would not be surprised if they were somehow involved with the Hubble space craft. Their empire now includes a magnificent fleet of trucks that stretches a half mile along the highway into town, which is overwhelming visual proof that anything can be achieved if only you put your heart and soul into it.

My parents were close friends of the Days so I spent much of my childhood at their home, which also happens to be their office. Heaps of paperwork that dictate larger financial decisions than I will ever see in my entire lifetime sit casually on the kitchen table next to cans of Coca-Cola and stray forks. A CB radio hisses regularly from atop a filing cabinet and a telephone with the longest cord I've ever seen never seems to be on the hook. The adjacent kitchen is nothing fancy, but the cupboards produce an endless supply of food and dishes, as if they had been constructed by David Copperfield. The living room boasts a big screen TV and two recliners; one for Tony and the other for honored house guests. Flanking the walls in all directions are large picture windows so that Tony and Vi can keep a close eye on their operation and fire up the coffee maker whenever visitors pull into the yard.

You'd never know Tony and Vi wielded as much power as they do because their home is infinitely cozy, the door always unlocked and the dinner table open to everyone. People come and go all day long, rarely invited but always welcomed. Their entry way often looks like a collection of shoes bound for the Salvation Army. When I lived in Los Angeles, I always had my eyes peeled for celebrities, but the closest I ever came to conversing with a star was meeting Kimmy Gibler from Full House. To think of all the time I wasted milling around Hollywood back lots when it would have been more likely to spot Tom Cruise or Catherine Zeta-Jones at Vi's kitchen table. The papers on the table are constantly being rearranged to accommodate new plates and new cutlery, while the stove top and dishwasher work tirelessly to keep up.

Ketchup is generally accepted as a condiment to be served alongside french fries, yet at the Day household it's a meal unto itself and dinner guests might find themselves asking for french fries to go with their ketchup. Bottles of Heinz are squirted onto and into pretty much anything that will stand still. Hearty scoops of macaroni and cheese are rescued from the pot, awaiting a swirly drizzle as soon as they hit the table. Bowls of creamy mushroom soup are decorated with tomato dots. And hunks of meatloaf that have already been painted red are given a second coat. Once a state of emergency was declared when a bottle that had sat upside down on the table throughout dinner would not produce a single spurt. Vi, in her infinite wisdom, came to the rescue with a can of tomato soup and a funnel. When the splattered after dinner plates hit the sink, they look an awful lot like Jackson Pollack paintings or, especially if spare ribs have been served, slabs of concrete from Nicole Brown Simpson's driveway.

If ever a hat is dropped, Vi can always be counted on to help pick it up. I don't know how she does it, but judging from her ability to make time for everything and everyone, she seems to have more hours in the day than the rest of us. Whenever I'm hiring employees and come across a resume that boasts the applicant as a master of multitasking, I think of Vi and say to myself, "wanna bet?" She is capable of most anything, including multiple conversations at once, both on the phone and the radio, whilst preparing corn for dinner, both creamed and not. She also happens to bear a striking resemblance to Bea Arthur that I honestly wondered as a child how she found the time to star in The Golden Girls, let alone Maude.

While Vi is a sure thing, Tony is more of a gambler. He and my dad would travel long distances to auction sales and come back with millions of dollars worth of flat bed trucks, gravel road graders and oil well machinery. Never one to shy away from a risk, he would put faith in his intuition and remain confident that he would see a return on his investment. The crazy part is, he was always right. As his company grew to epic proportions, his ego never did. His bold and intelligent nature never precedes him when he walks into a room; instead, one might notice his snazzy suspenders or sly grin before telling a naughty joke.

Some of my fondest memories are set within their four walls. Mom and Vi would stand together at the kitchen sink, one rinsing a plate before the other put it into the dishwasher. Dad and Tony would put the recliners to good use, cranking the handles on the side of each chair before kicking up their feet. Meanwhile, my brother and I would scavenge for decks of cards or stray jacks in every available drawer. Of course not all my memories there are tinted rose. Tony and Vi's youngest son once rolled me up in a hideaway bed and the horror of this entrapment still haunts me whenever I am asked to sleep on such a contraption. On many Friday nights my dad and Tony would huddle around the television with other big wigs in the area to watch the latest episode of Dallas. I remember being scared shitless to cross in front of these intimidating men, lest I interrupt their ongoing debate as to which one of them was J.R. Ewing and which was Clayton Farlow. Therefore, I always took the long way to the bedroom, where I would flop around on the waterbed and repeatedly watch Disney's Robin Hood from my wavy perch. Then there was the Christmas morning we spent there barely a month after my dad died. Mom was understandably distraught, so there was no time for her to shop for presents. There were many gifts under the tree with my name on them, but when I pulled away the wrapping and bows, they were filled with pictures that had been cut out of the Sears catalog. It's certainly the oddest December 25th I have on record, but I can't think of any place I would have rather been after such a loss.

My dad was not one for fatherly advice, but one hot summer day while picking rocks in the middle of a field, I began to cry helplessly in the sun until he had no choice but to open his heart to me.

"What the fuck is your problem?" he asked.

Okay, not exactly the words of Ward Cleaver, but he got his point across. Suddenly the rock became ten pounds lighter and I was able to lift it into the picker. Now when I'm faced with a dilemma that seems insurmountable, his words ring in my ear until I come up with a solution that satisfies both my limited strength and his enormous expectations. Other times, when a decision is less pressing, I take a moment and think to myself, "what would Tony do?" Once I get that sorted out, the next words in my head are undoubtedly, "how would Vi get it done?" My childhood trips to Carnduff were often under the guise of piano and figure skating lessons, but I've long since lost the ability to identify a treble cleff or land a double axel. However, the life lessons I learned from the Day household have stuck with me to this day and I'm proud to be a graduate.

I recently visited Tony and Vi at their home and was thrilled to find it preserved exactly as I had remembered. The only thing missing was a grandfather clock that I would spend hours pretending I had won on The Price is Right. Vi shoved aside a pile of bills and rolled a dining chair up to the table. Normally I sat on stack stools around the perimeter of the room so that the power players could chug coffee and discuss important business. Now I was being invited to join the ranks of men and women who had sat there before me and I was unsure if I could fill the chair.

Tony approached the table and the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. It was as if I was five years old all over again and I considered scampering to the entry for my shoes. "Good to see you, buddy boy," he said. Then he turned his attention to the dinner Vi had presented before him. My hairs immediately fell at ease and I slowly took a seat. As I sat in the coveted chair next to Tony for the very first time, one that had been previously occupied by my father, I instantly went from feeling like a boy to feeling like a man. We didn't say much, but that was fine with me. It was more than enough to sit beside the greatest man I've ever known as he picked up his chicken fingers and dipped them in ketchup.

Liquidating Blockbuster

I met a homeless man named Jack and it was difficult not to stare at the hole in his face where an eye should have been. Jack was rummaging through a dumpster behind the Blockbuster Video I have worked at for the past few years, looking for day-old bread that had been discarded by the bakery next door. At the risk of overstating things, Epi Breads makes a dazzling assortment of sweet and savory breads, as well as one hell of an apricot cookie. Often times on my way to work I shake my pocket to see if I can hear the jingle of loose coins that will allow me to indulge my sweet tooth before a nine hour shift. As I filled the dumpster to capacity with perfectly functional remnants of my store, which is now being liquidated, I became overwhelmed by the enormous amount of waste that was accumulating in the receptacle. With just one eye, Jack had spotted a way to survive on the wasteful nature of commerce, yet he was the one feeling sorry for me and my pending unemployment.

It's been a long time coming, and comes as no surprise to many, but a large number of Blockbuster stores in Canada have been forced to liquidate their assets in order to pay for a debt that had been racked up by its American counterpart. After months of dodging the bullet, my location has now fallen victim to the times and will close its doors in less than two weeks. I never considered my job at Blockbuster a career, but rather a low stress day (and night) job that afforded me the ability to earn a living that did not require lugging home any proverbial baggage that would burden what I consider to be my actual career, writing. As a matter of fact, for the past few months I have been secretly excited at the prospect of being able to spend 40 hours a week with my notebook instead of copies of Cuba Gooding Jr.'s latest straight-to-video action flick. Yet now that the time has actually arrived, I'm surprised at the loss I've been feeling ever since posting an ugly red sign that proclaims "Nothing Held Back" on the front door.

Working at a video store is unlike most retail jobs in that you get to see the same faces over and over again who, for the most part, are interested in the opinions of the employees behind the counter. Rarely does a person stop and ask their grocery store clerk for a detailed review of the "new and improved" Bran Flakes.

"The flakes are the size of your fist! And, as a special bonus, they come with a coupon for Charmin!"

Yet at Blockbuster my opinions mattered to many and I would spend the majority of my day talking to customers about a variety of different movies. As a result, I had the privilege of getting to know my regulars in a very personal way. As with any relationship, mine with the general public developed gradually over time, but it's impossible not to care about a person when you see them two or three times a week and ask personal questions in order to come up with the perfect movie for their evening. In a small way, a part of me went home with these "strangers" whenever they made a $5 investment in one of my recommendations. Now that the store is in liquidation mode, it's become increasingly difficult for me to summon the energy to come to work because the part of the job I enjoyed most has suddenly been plucked from the equation.

Now when the door opens, I'm greeted with a pitiful look and then some variation of, "I'm sorry to hear the store is closing. Is everything 50% off?"

"Yes," I reply for the umpteenth time, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

"Even Pirates of the Caribbean?" And before I can reply, they've already managed to scoop up an armload of movies that will inevitably be dumped in a pile on the floor before they check-out.

I don't know what it is about the word "clearance" that turns people into animals, but for the past two weeks I've had to witness the store I've spent so many hours making presentable be ravaged by bargain hunters who leave trails of droppings in their wake. The first day of liquidation was the worst, as I found myself wading knee deep in DVD's that had been tossed on the floor and face-to-face with smug Blockbuster naysayers. The line of vultures was so long that I could not even make my way to the bathroom without a dozen inquiries for the whereabouts of Avatar or Not Without My Daughter starring Sally Field.

One customer (who I had never seen before) was so insistent that I find her a copy of The Secret that she refused to move until I located one. After pointing to the long line of people behind her and nearly wringing her saggy neck, I finally gave up and forged my way onto the sales floor. The documentary section looked like some sort of Iranian conflict had happened there, but I visualized myself finding the movie as I sifted through the rubble. It finally turned up behind a copy of Austin Powers and I proudly raced back to the desk as though I had just found Osama Bin Laden himself.

"This isn't Bluray," the lady barked as she hurled the disc into a cinematic black hole that had materialized behind the Pepsi cooler.

For someone who thrives on order, it was nearly impossible to leave the store looking like Joan Crawford's bathroom after the whole Comet incident. Yet I was so drained of energy and emotion that I locked the door behind me and, for the very first time, took home the stress I had so diligently been avoiding all these years. "It's just a job," I told myself before breaking down into tears. "And it will soon be over." That's when it hit me for the first time. It will soon be over. And I cried all over again, realizing the job that "meant nothing" to me actually meant a great deal.

For the next couple of weeks I can cope with the obnoxious customers who act like I'm in charge of a corporate flea market and say stupid things like, "I'll give you a buck for all the Twizzlers" or "how much for the open sign?" I can cope with these morons because of the cherished regulars who have come in amidst the chaos to bring me cups of coffee, boxes of cookies, sincere words of encouragement and more than enough hugs to get me through the day. It's safe to say I will not become nostalgic for shelving returns, filing daily reports or counting tills, but I'm already mourning the loss of what I consider to be my extended family because no matter what kind of day I was having, I was always genuinely happy to see them. And a part of me knows they were happy to see me, too.

It's just starting to sink in that I will no longer see Ms. Egalik on Monday afternoons. She revealed herself to me little by little over the years and I looked forward to our discussions because they were always entertaining and often enriching. I was enlightened by the intelligent conversations I had with Ms. Michaels, Mr. Halpern and Ms. Healy. Or what about my weekly visit with Mark and Maria and their adorable dog, Rocco? At precisely 6pm every Friday, the three of them would greet me at the door with a smile and leave with a box of Glossette almonds, two movies and a Milkbone. I cannot imagine a Saturday morning without Gina calling in to ask if I'd put aside a couple of horror movies, followed by a cheerful "thanks, hon!" Not to mention, unexpected ice cream parties with Leeanne on rainy summer evenings.

There's also Elaine, a beautiful and outgoing dynamo that came in nearly every day with such vivacity that it was impossible not to have your day brightened by her presence. And Christine, a cancer survivor whose determination to live each day to the fullest taught me everything I ever needed to know about facing challenges with grace and dignity. Alan and Andy, two men that have been together for over 50 years, not only made me appreciate the true meaning of forever, but also had the ability to sneak crude jokes into a transaction that would have me laughing harder than any movie you'd find on the shelf.

I watched as Lucas grew up before my very eyes, and was there when he welcomed his precious sister Sam into the world. Sam has the biggest blue eyes you've ever seen and is on her way to becoming quite the heart-breaker. Her mom is about as friendly as a person can get and makes macaroons so good that she could give Epi Breads a run for their money were she to open shop. And her husband has such a "good to know ya" attitude that it cannot help but rub off on those around him. Blockbuster may not have been good at keeping up with technology, but it has always been a family destination, and many families such as this one will miss it when it's gone.

How does one say "good-bye" to a customer? For all I know, they think I'm just being nice to them because I'm being paid to be nice to them. I hope they know, and I think most of them do, that it has been my honor to serve them and I am certainly a better person because of it. Yet I find it difficult to say these words, even when they come in bearing gifts or letters of reference. Have our relationships been fleeting ones that will mark this period of my life like an overturned corner of a cheap paperback? Or will I turn the page and find they are still there? I am both scared and excited about the next chapter in my life, knowing that I have what it takes to make it as a writer. Then again, without the daily interaction with others that I have enjoyed for so long, I worry I will no longer have anything to write about.

One by one, businesses along Bayview Avenue have been forced to shutter and their boarded over facades are a sad commentary on what our society has become. People are slowly devolving into portable electronic gadgets and I will have none of it. I refuse to board over my exterior and live my life as a series of mouse clicks. There is something grand to be said about being a member of a community and I will cherish my time spent at Blockbuster on the corner of Bayview and Millwood. My job may not have been "important," but based on the number of times I am stopped in line at the supermarket or hear the words "Hi, Bradley!" shouted from across the street, I know that in a small way I was an important member of the community. And so was the soon-to-be obsolete "little video store on the corner."

As one-eyed Jack straddled his bicycle with a bag of buns slung over his shoulder, he turned around and looked at me through a pair of cracked lenses. "Good luck, buddy," he said. "And don't work too hard."

"Thanks," I replied as he pedaled off into the distance. Under the blazing sun, I followed his advice and sat down on a milk crate to think about the eye opening experiences I've had at the store. I stared at the pile of remains in the dumpster and smiled for the first time since I put up the "Store Closing" banner out front. Blockbuster may be gone, but it will not soon be forgotten. And thanks to the people who made my job worth coming to each day, neither will I.