Seeing Red (3 page)

FIVE

The global recession hit us hard in
2010
. It was difficult to find work—especially for young people my age with no discernible skills or motivation—and any job you were lucky enough to get came with fewer hours and less pay. The North American post-war gold rush of the previous century was long over. The manufacturing sector had shut down and moved overseas. We didn't make things anymore, we just shuffled money around.

In June, I woke up early every morning to be out pounding the pavement by
10AM
. There were no
Help Wanted
signs on the commercial streets, the one exception being an independent coffee shop with a poster in the window advertising part-time work. When I went inside to drop off a résumé, the old Asian lady behind the counter informed me, in broken English, that she would only hire a female. I walked through shopping malls and received a similar reaction everywhere I went: some managers took my résumé and politely feigned interest, asking questions like “Do you have any experience in retail?” while scribbling indiscernible notes at the top of the page, but I never received a single call from any of the people I met, nor did any of them try to schedule an interview.

As I was leaving the mall I decided to try my luck at one last place, a record store that also sold DVDs and video games. I asked the girl behind the counter to fetch me a manager and she sighed and told me I was the fifth or sixth person to come in looking for a job that day.

“How were the other applicants?” I asked.

“Ah, they seemed alright,” she said.

“
Shit
,” I mumbled. She smiled at that. Moments later I was greeted by a large, greasy man with shoulder-length hair and a dirty Iron Maiden t-shirt. These days, men like this exist by the millions: poor bedeviled guys leading sad, pointless lives played out on computer screens, experiencing the world from the comfort of their own reclining chairs. Yet, somehow, this man had a managerial job and I didn't. How does that happen? I think the key is to spend enough time in one place working for the same company and you'll eventually climb the ladder to a mid-level position. Unfortunately, I've never had the patience to do that. I told him I was looking for work and he fed me the familiar line of questioning; I smiled from ear to ear and tried to answer with that phony, bullshit workplace enthusiasm.

“Full or part-time?” he asked.

“Preferably full-time, but I'd be happy with either.”

“Do you like movies?”

What did he expect me to say to that?
No. Don't care for movies. Never seen a good one. They're all bad
.

“Oh yes. I've seen several.”

“What about music?”

“Love music. I used to play in bands when I was a teenager.”

“What kind of music do you like?”

“Indie rock and punk, mostly, but I run the gamut. I like folk music and old blues from the forties and fifties, like Sonny Boy Williamson and Son House to—”

“Like video games?” he interrupted.

“Oh yeah. Still play them often. I have an Xbox and PlayStation and I used to own every Nintendo console.”

“Cool.”

“And your name is?”

“Louis.”

I shook his hand. “Thanks, Louis. It was nice meeting you.”

I left the store. Louis never called. Neither did any of the other managers who made notes on my résumé that day. Apparently, even though I'm young, enthusiastic and university-educated, I'm not qualified to sell CDs at the mall.

A few weeks earlier, I had an interview with the owner of a Second Cup coffee shop. I had been drinking heavily the night before and didn't sleep very well—my eyes were bloodshot and my mind felt hazy. The owner was a clean-cut man with a pressed black shirt, black tie, short black hair and a lazy left eye. Probably in his early thirties. We sat uncomfortably close to each other in a cramped booth and he asked me about my résumé, my work experience, what I had studied in school and why I wanted to work in a coffee shop. Everything was going well until he wanted to know what kind of coffee I liked. I scrambled to think of an answer because I rarely drink coffee. I was also very, very hungover.

“Uh . . . black? Sometimes I put a little cream in there, though, and stir it up. I like, uh, Maxwell House? But, to tell you the truth, I'm more of a tea-drinker. Can't get enough of that tea in the morning.”

“What kind of tea?”

“Uh . . . black?”

He stared at me with a confused look on his face. At that point I realized I probably should have done a little research on coffee and tea before agreeing to the interview. Five minutes on the internet really could have helped me.

“Cool. So. Ethan. Tell me. Why should I hire you?” I was slightly taken aback because interviewers usually aren't so direct. Again I had to improvise.

“Well, I'm a hard worker. I'm loyal and I'm . . . totally punctual—”

He interrupted me. “No, no, no, cut the
bullshit!
I want to know the real you. Like, say, when you go to a party, what do you like to drink?”

I was stunned. Was he hitting on me? No, he couldn't be. But then no interviewer had ever called me on my bullshit before or inquired about my drinking preferences. I was unsure as to how much information to divulge; nobody wants to hire an alcoholic, but I had to give him something.

“Umm, I'm not much of a drinker, to be honest, but if I did have one, I'd probably order a scotch on the rocks. Maybe a gin-and-tonic.”

“Right on,” he said with a smile. He seemed satisfied by my answer. Then he began to describe what the job entailed and the hours I'd be expected to work. He said he could only offer me about sixteen hours per week, usually on Saturday and Sunday mornings at
5
:
30AM,
probably because those were the shifts nobody else wanted. They would pay me minimum wage plus a cut of whatever change was left in the tip jar, which would amount to an extra buck or two. I was also expected to clean the bathroom sink and scrub the shit off the toilet at least once per shift. As he droned on, my eyes began to burn and I struggled to keep them open until I hit a breaking point and couldn't continue the charade any longer.

“I'm sorry, man,” I interrupted. “But that all sounds
terrible
.”

“You don't want the job?”

“No. I mean, I do, but . . .” My voice trailed off.

“Are you okay?”

“Too much
scotch
last night!” I admitted. “I should probably go home and lie down.”

He nodded and we sat in awkward silence for about five seconds. I knew he wasn't going to hire me anyway, and I had nothing to lose by being forthright. He stood up and extended his hand. “Well, Ethan, thanks for coming in.”

Three weeks later I received a voicemail message from the interviewer actually offering me the position. Unfortunately, by the time I received it, I had completely forgotten about the job.

For my interview at Old Navy, I was placed at the end of a long table in a dimly lit basement room amidst cardboard boxes and fake plastic trees left over from the holiday season. Alongside me were seven or eight teenage girls and a guy who resembled a young, lanky John Lennon. The woman conducting the interview called it a “fun, relaxed group meeting.” I assumed that, like a reality show, we would be kicked off one by one until they found that
one
special person who was truly worthy enough to sell their crappy clothing. She went around the table and asked us to stand, say our name, and tell the group a little bit about ourselves—I've never been to an AA meeting before, but I imagine this is what one feels like:

“Hello, I'm Ethan Reid.”

“Hi, Ethan!” they all said.

“And I want to work at Old Navy because I'm broke and everybody thinks I'm a failure.”

The interviewer piped in. “Well, no one
here
thinks that. Right, everybody?”

They all nodded in unison.

“Thanks, guys.” I sat down.

For the next challenge, the interviewer passed a hat around the room containing little pieces of paper with questions written on them. John Lennon was the first to go: he unraveled his paper and read aloud, “‘Describe a time in which you went above and beyond the call of duty for someone.'” He rose from his chair and in a nasally voice answered: “Well, I remember this one time my sister had a really big math exam. We were sitting at the kitchen table and she was just
freaking
out
because she didn't have a calculator to bring with her. So I calmly said, ‘Look. Don't worry. We'll get through this somehow.' And then, I went upstairs, and I looked inside my desk and, lo and behold, there was a calculator. And so, I let her borrow that calculator . . .”

When he finished telling his story, the interviewer nodded and smiled and there was a long moment of silence before I inadvertently burst out laughing. Then the girls joined in. Even the interviewer was grinning. But
I laughed harder than anyone else. Then I slammed my fist down on the table and pointed at Lennon and shouted, “Hire him! He wins!”

After the giggling subsided, I withdrew into my chair, still snickering and covering my mouth with the palm of my hand. The interviewer passed the hat onto me and said, “Your turn, Ethan.”

“Alright,” I said. “But I don't think I can top that calculator shit.”

My ball of paper revealed the question,
Describe your greatest fear
. I stood up and read it aloud and then thought about my answer.

“My greatest fear . . . is
not
getting this job.”

I nodded my head and grinned, pleased with myself for being so clever. And then I added, “Oh, and snakes.”

I was eliminated from the first round and never heard from Old Navy again.

SIX

Doc, Craig, Scott and I are huddled around the kitchen table playing a drinking game called Pyramid. Fifteen cards are placed face down on the table and arranged in a triangle with five cards at the bottom and one card at the top. Cards are then flipped over one by one as you work your way up the pyramid. Each level is worth more than the last, starting at one drink and ending with five. Once a card has been flipped, you can order someone to take a drink—assuming you have that same card in your hand. Bluffing also comes into play—you can order someone to take a drink even if you
don't
have the card. It's risky, though, because they can call your bluff, and whoever is in the wrong has to drink double the original amount. In short, Pyramid can get you hammered pretty quickly.

But you know how to drive, baby you're my ride
blares from the stereo in the background, and a mix of marijuana and cigarette smoke lingers in the air. Scott flips over a jack on the fourth level of the pyramid; I don't have a jack, but I've been losing badly and so I try to bluff. “Craig! Take four drinks.”

“Bullshit!” he says. “Show me!”

“Fuck!” I shout. The other guys laugh as they watch me grudgingly swallow eight mouthfuls of gin-and-tonic. I flip over the next card and it's a queen. Again, I don't have one.

“Reid! Drink!” says Scott.

“No way. Bluff. Let me see it.”

He wades through his hand and then carefully plucks out a card with his thumb and forefinger and I already know by the expression on his face that it's a queen. “Goddammit!” I yell. Again, the table erupts into laughter as I'm forced to take another eight drinks. Having emptied my glass, I get up from the table and grab the ice cube tray from the freezer and make myself another. “Just turn over the last card. I won't have it anyway.”

The top of the pyramid. This card is worth five drinks—ten if you're caught on a bluff. Scott flips it over to reveal an eight of hearts. Without an eight in my hand, I throw down my cards in disgust. Meanwhile, Doc and Craig start eying one another, each waiting for the other person to speak.

“Drink five times, Doc,” Craig says ominously.

“No,
you
drink five times,” Doc retorts.

“Bluff. I don't think you have it.”

“Well, you don't have it either. I'll bet my goddamned life on it.” Now they're staring eye to eye. Both players have called a bluff. The stakes are high. The tension is palpable. This is the most exciting thing that's happened all night.

Craig lays his hand down on the table and calmly turns over the last card. Eight of spades. Doc looks at it in shock and then starts laughing.

“You son of a bitch!”

“You don't have it?” Craig asks.

“No!”

“So you're wrong on two bluffs!”

“That means you've gotta drink
twenty
times.”

“Fuck me!” Doc yells, knocking his cards off the table with one sweep of his arm. Then the three of us watch in awe as he arduously chokes down an entire glass of Jameson Irish Whiskey. Finally, red-faced and out of breath, he victoriously slams the empty glass onto the table. We applaud his effort but he remains silent, still staring at the empty glass in front of him. Then, without a word, he slowly rises from his chair, wipes his mouth and nonchalantly walks into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him while the rest of us snicker and cheer and high-five one another.

“You think he's okay in there?” Scott asks. As usual, he speaks with a listless, uninflected tone, yet seems genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, he's fine,” says Craig. “I've never seen him get sick.”

“Even after chugging vodka,” I add, referring to a time in which we walked home from a house party and Doc brandished a bottle of Smirnoff and demanded we drink it right then and there. We passed the bottle around in a circle and drank it down until there was about a third left. Then Doc took off his shirt—why, we still don't know—and chugged the remainder while flexing his arms and cackling maniacally. The vodka was trickling down his chin. I'd never seen anything like it. The man can definitely hold his liquor.

Doc is a binge drinker. All of my friends are—Craig, Scott, everybody I know, even the girls. However, unlike me, they don't seem to suffer any of the adverse effects. It doesn't affect their memory, their appetite, their circadian rhythms, it doesn't prevent them from waking up in the morning or getting to work on time and they certainly don't need it every day. I suppose I just take it a step further than they do.

Still, they all drink excessively on the weekends, and for me, the weekends can't come soon enough. Sure, I don't mind drinking alone, but it's far better with friends, and these guys, no matter how sophomoric, are great company. Like me, they're perpetually single, so none of them have any delusions of landing a wife or a white picket fence anytime in the near future, and that gives us the freedom to do whatever we want, whenever we want. There are no responsibilities, commitments or constraints. Really, why would anybody settle down at such a young age? How exciting is it to stay at home on a Friday night? I've never understood why some people are so eager to grow old.

So instead, every weekend, we pool cash for a cab to take us to an overcrowded bar where we pay for overpriced drinks and then flirt and dance and jump around like idiots, but really, what's the alternative? It's better than spending a night alone in your apartment. Anything is better than that.

A minute later, Doc opens the door and is noticeably more disheveled than before. He returns to the table and collapses into his chair.

“Aren't you glad you came back?” I ask jokingly.

Scott is confused. “Doc was gone somewhere?”

“Yeah, Vancouver. He went to see his sister.”

“Which one?” Craig asks. “The hot one?”

“
Nooo
,” Doc moans.

“Yup. She just had a kid.”

“I wanna see his sister,” says Scott, rising from his chair. The three of us saunter over to the computer while Doc rests his head sideways on the tabletop; he tries to object, but can only muster an incoherent groan. Craig logs onto Facebook and immediately finds a picture of Kelly standing on a sunny beach with her arm wrapped around the waist of another girl. Both are tanned and wearing brightly-coloured bikinis. Scott is impressed. “Wow. She
is
hot. She reminds me of my friend, Doug.”

The three of us pause and look at one another.

“. . . Because he
also
has a hot sister,” he adds.

Craig returns to the table and asks, “Who's this husband of hers anyway?”

“He's an alright guy,” Doc says, rearing his head. “But he's German so, you know, he's got a lot to atone for. He's a massage therapist.”

“Did he go to school for that?”

“Must've. You can't just start massaging people. But yeah, me and him went to this party, and he's German, so he was drinking all efficiently and shit, but I went overboard and ended up puking on the patio. The next morning I was so hungover I tried to clean it up with a rock.”

Craig furrows his brow in disbelief. “
You
threw up? I've
never
seen you throw up. You have, like, an iron stomach.”

“Iron? Come on. My stomach's harder than
that
.”

“Like what? Diamond?”

“No. Harder.”

“Nothing's harder than diamond.”

Doc thinks for a moment. “What about boron?”

“Boron?”

“Yeah!”

Craig scoffs. “Boron's not hard.”

“Boron's
tough
, baby!” Doc yells.

Doc and Craig will fight about anything, but this is the first time I've heard them argue about the Periodic Table. I think that's the sign of a good friendship: when you can yell and scream at each other without getting angry. Both are well-read and opinionated, but they live at opposite ends of the political spectrum: Doc is an anti-government libertarian with a “screw-anybody-who-isn't-me” philosophy, whereas Craig is more compassionate and perhaps too idealistic, the kind of person who gets upset about the starving children in Africa but doesn't give a damn about people going hungry in his own backyard. Politically speaking, I suppose I fall somewhere in the middle. I can relate to Doc's apathy and indifference toward others—although I hate to admit it—but I used to be a lot more like Craig. I think your idealism gradually fades as you get older. Cynicism is easier to believe in.

They continue to argue and bicker about boron for several minutes while Scott and I drink our gin-and-tonics on the couch. When their debate finally dies down, I calmly ask, “So, where are we going tonight?”

“A bar called the Phoenix,” says Craig. “There's a band playing that's worth checking out.”

Scott is puzzled. “Didn't you see it on Facebook?”

“Reid doesn't have Facebook.”

“Why not?”

“'Cause he's a weirdo.”

“Man, you gotta get on Facebook.”

Whenever I tell people I don't use social media, I get one of two reactions: what Scott just said, or
Good, don't get it, it'll take up all your time.
Either way, they always look at me like I'm an alien—or the last person on earth who hasn't joined their little club. To me, the whole concept seems entirely unnecessary. What's wrong with a phone call? Or an email? Or actually meeting someone face to face? It wasn't so long ago that everybody was telling me to get a Myspace page. Now it's Facebook. Soon it'll be something else. Where does it end?

The most egregious aspect of social media, in my opinion, is the fact that anything you post could potentially stay on the internet forever. People save it and pass it along. I say and do so many stupid things I would never want to be permanent. I don't want to leave a trace of myself anywhere. I'd rather be a ghost. Scorch the earth, that's my policy. And to be honest, I have no interest in seeing pictures of people I knew however many years ago. I prefer to keep my head in the sand. Regardless, this is an argument with society I'll never win, so I always lie and say, “I'll get on it eventually.”

“Well, we should get going,” Doc announces. We all look at the clock and nod in tacit agreement before swilling the rest of our drinks. Then we put on our shoes and turn off the lights and head downstairs to the city below.