Shit Building Mixer
In a normal building, I’m sure scheduling an electrical inspection wouldn’t cause a person to question their existence. But
this is anything but.
I was hoping that after five days of asking/reminding, at least one person would’ve acknowledged the upcoming inspection appointment,
other than Jane, who might be a bigger mess than I’d previously realized. But it seems most tenants are blanking me.
Sami is certain that people will come around after the mixer, but I have my doubts.
Worse still, I stopped by the diner for my morning coffee run and found Carmen sitting at the counter. He has a truly upsetting
method of slurping sunny-side-up eggs. And he swallows his triangles of toast whole, like a fucking pelican. He just glared
at me—so I guess I am still on his shit list for making him take his packages into his own home once in a while.
But it’s when I return to the lobby that the real bullshit starts. I ease my way through the finicky first door and spot a
long narrow strip of white paper taped to the interior door. It’s got the city’s logo on top next to big bold letters: VIOLATION TICKET.
Crap.
I peel the plasticky paper from the glass window, flip it over, and let out a sharp breath so big it makes Ernest’s eyeballs bug out.
The back of the paper is covered in words that indicate Irene has been fined $250 dollars due to our building bins having been consistently improperly sorted.
She has sixty days to pay or it could turn into more money and a court date.
Worse still, they apparently are refusing to take this week’s recycling until the bins are properly sorted.
Which means that—instead of preparing for the office’s annual director’s luncheon that would’ve been happening in my real life if I was still working—today I get to pick through literal garbage.
How is it possible for this place to constantly find new ways to blow using such limited resources? Is this building screaming
out for a merciful death?
I drop Ernest off at my place and change into my dirty team-building shirt and the sweat shorts that give me a bad crease
in the front before making my way to the basement.
The area where we keep the bins is somehow worse than I thought. It’s immediately apparent why the city guy refused to empty
it, because it’s overflowing in a terrible way no one should have to deal with.
Sitting on top of a flattened box is a dirty jar of Supershops brand peanut butter. These animals. Sure, rinsing peanut
butter out of a jar is a pain in the nip, but you don’t put the caked-on thing in recycling. I’m pretty sure I saw this exact
jar on Divorced Dad’s counter during his inspection. I remember because there was a spoon sticking out of it and it left a
small void in my chest. I take a picture of the offending jar for evidence and lift the dry cardboard box to find my next
treasure: a Michael Fucking Bublé CD—still in its cellophane! The person could’ve done the right thing and put it in the library
to live out its eternal days instead of tossing it. I take another picture and continue rifling, finding such gems as a wooden
charcoal toothbrush and the ugliest pepper mill ever (I dare say it’s haunted/cursed/never experienced love). It’s shaped
like a trout that is standing on its tail. (Are the little fins meant to be legs?)
I move on to the compost bin next, which smells worse than Norm’s kitchen.
There are several empty metal cans straight on top.
I slide on the rubber gloves I use for washing dishes and pull them out, disturbing the odors.
The urge to gag rises in my throat as my eyes start to water—and I can’t even wipe them with these disgusting, gloved hands.
I choke back another gag as I drop the cans and gloves and all into the waste bin.
I never thought I’d miss working with clients like Bob Wolch, but today I’d kiss that piece of shit if it meant I could end
this torment. Still, I wouldn’t suck his dick, so at least I’ve not bottomed out yet.
Right, this internal debate is not productive or pleasant. I take a few more pictures and write a caption for the Slack feed.
Mona Bucket, 12:48 p.m.: Recognize any of these? Well if they’re yours congrats you got us a ticket for improper sorting. You are part of the problem!
Please be more mindful in the future! This isn’t the nineties anymore!
Just as I’m about to hit send, I remember Sami’s words. As tempting as it is to yell at these people for their low-level ineptitude,
it won’t help today.
I delete the note and pictures and try again:
Mona Bucket, 12:50 p.m.: Friendly reminder the building town hall/mixer is this Thursday, June 3. Come ready with questions and suggestions for me
and enjoy treats from Corner Coffee & Food! Looking forward to chatting with you all!
The diner has a similar ambience to the night Sami made dinner. A warmth that invites you in, but this time there’s a lingering
sweetness in the air. The jukebox is playing the Tragically Hip’s greatest hits, which seems like the most crowd-pleasing
album one could pick.
“Hey!” Sami calls out from behind the counter when I enter, door jingling. Tonight he’s not wearing his cap or apron, his hair is combed back, and his shirt has a collar. It’s a not unpleasant change. “You’re the first mixer guest.”
Which is true since the only other person in the place is a guy in his twenties who looks to be having a small breakdown over
a bowl of French onion soup, AirPods in each ear.
Sami throws a cloth over his shoulder and smacks his hands together. “Can I get you a drink? Tea, juice, wine?”
“A white wine would be great.” I grin.
“Coming right up!” He opens the beaten-up glass Kokanee beer cooler that’s behind the counter.
“Mona!” Abu comes down the back staircase. Following behind him is a poised lady with curled hair dyed deep auburn (a typical
Aunty move when things go grey). She’s wearing a respectable dress and her brows are perfectly groomed. As she comes to stand
at Abu’s side, I notice they are exactly the same height. It’s not hard to guess this is Sami’s mom, but the dead giveaway
is the round and deep-set brown eyes—they’re exactly the same as Sami’s. I immediately straighten as Abu mutters something
under his breath to her. She turns to me with a sweet smile, her eyes crinkling with curiosity.
Sami hands me my wine before gesturing to the lady. “Mona, this is my mom, Ava. She sometimes bakes the pastries we serve,
but understandably, she doesn’t always have the energy after dealing with Abu as a husband.”
Ava lets out a surprised, full-hearted chuckle at this before giving Sami a scolding air slap. She’s gazing at him lovingly,
like he’s the king of the world.
“Nice to meet you,” I say as I extend my hand. Instead, she curls me into a warm side embrace. The scent of her floral perfume
invades my senses.
Abu tells her, “She’s a very successful businesswoman.” The pride in his smile is too much for my current situation.
“Oh.” Ava puts her palm to her chest. “Your parents must be so proud. A beautiful, smart daughter.”
I hold my grin through gritted teeth. Abu’s whole face crinkles with joy. “Of course they are, her mom is from Iran!”
Ava’s smile warms a full ten degrees. I’m having a hard time reconciling that my mom, who regularly names her email subjects
“HELLO ASSHOLE,” is from the same place as this calm and kind lady in front of me. Ava starts throwing a flurry of Farsi words
my way before Sami cuts in—also in Farsi—likely advising that I don’t speak the language, unless you count what I said to
him and his dad while wasted. Sami turns to me and says, “Mona’s mom is also in Calgary.”
I smile uncomfortably at this classy lady who is like the antithesis of my own mother. She seems to be waiting for me to add
something to the conversation, but all I can get out is “Yes.” I find it’s best not to elaborate, as the community here is
small and people’s experiences with my parents have been a mixed bag. Worst would be if she’d met my dad when he wasn’t sober.
“And what does your mother do?” Ava pries.
I swallow. “Oh, she, um, works at Lina’s salon on—”
“I know that place!” Ava interrupts with a joyous hand clap. I’m oddly taken aback by how shit it feels to have this place
filled with nice people become tainted by my family once again. “What’s her name, Mona joon?”
I wonder if I can get away with saying “I normally call her Mom.”
A sudden crash sounds behind Ava. All three of us whip around to where Abu has half fallen into a red leather stool and knocked
it over, its metal frame clanging against the counter. Sami races to grab him by the shoulder and helps him up before straightening
the stool.
“You okay, Baba?” He rubs his dad’s shoulder.
“I’m fine.” Abu smacks Sami’s arm. “This guy’s hitting on me or something?” he jokes toward me. “A little weird since I’m his dad, huh.”
Sami’s expression is pure exasperation. “That’s not a good joke, even.”
I laugh anyway, to Abu’s delight.
“Well, we must get going.” Abu starts moving toward the front door, his leather shoes slapping the linoleum teal-and-white
checkered flooring. “You kids don’t want us old people here too long.”
“You’re still going out?” Sami’s voice strains with unease.
“But of course, our taxi’s right there.” Abu casts his hands toward the window, where indeed a yellow cab is waiting next
to the curb.
Ava takes Abu’s hand and grins at me. “It was nice to meet you, Mona.”
“My pleasure—” I begin, but Sami interrupts.
“Is that really a good idea?” Worry lines are imprinting on his forehead. “What about your heart?”
Abu’s grin slips off his face before he regains himself and stands taller. “That was almost five years ago, and I don’t have
stress like that anymore, unless you try to keep me from dancing.” Abu raises a brow in my direction. “First he hits on me,
now he doesn’t want me to leave him.”
Again I smile, despite the tension. Or because of it. Abu claps Sami on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about everything I do.