Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.
Fabricland/Curves: Wed 3 — 10:15-6:15; Thurs 4 — 9:30-5:30; Fri 5 — MN rehearsal; Sat 6 — 9-1 Curves; Sun 7 — 9:30-5:30; Mon 8 — 10:15-6:15; Tues 9 — 10:15-6:15; Wed 10 — OFF; Thurs 11 — 10:15-6:15; Fri 12 — 3-7 Curves; Sat 13 — 10:15-6:15; Sun 14 — 9:30-5:30; Mon 15 — 10:15-6:15; Tues 16 — 10:15-6:15; Wed 17 — OFF; Thurs 18 — 9:30-5:30; Fri 19 — 3-7 Curves; Sat 20 — 10:15-6:15
It takes about an hour each direction to get to FabLand. Gotta lose some of those hours and get a regular schedule. They want employees to be available seven days a week so they can cobble together seemingly random groupings of days to work. When I started, I wanted three days, but at $9 an hour, I needed to work four; then she put me at three days a week, so I took a couple of shifts at Curves, and then without saying anything, she put me at five days a week. I still want my Curves shifts. My life is in tatters. Shattered.
Each FabLand employee is expected to, on her own time, sew an apron to wear in the store during the Olympics. An apron made from fabric in the zany Canadiana section: beavers on ice skates, provincial tartans, hockey pucks and figure skaters. Do I need a fleece apron with Canadian flags all over it? No, I do not.
Me, I like a good plaid, more the Madras than the Scottish—even though I am Scottish and Welsh on my father’s side (and mystery history on my mother’s). I checked out (pardon the pun) some of the least offensive ones (PEI and BC) and settled on (pardon the attempt at a pun … settlers settling) a brown tartan that, damn, wasn’t part of the provincial collection. Giovanna cut it for me, and when she looked at the bolt end to see which province I’d chosen, of course it was revealed that I hadn’t followed the instructions. I’d picked an ineligible fabric for my Olympics apron project. “It’s Saint-Pierre and Miquelon,” I joked. She shrugged and wrote something on my receipt, and I am here now wondering when I’m going to sew this apron.
It is actually great to be back at Curves. I’ve only done a few four-hour shifts, but, my god, compared to the lugging and hauling at FabLand, it is paradise. FabLand customers are insane. Yesterday, first question, “Do you have any bag material?”
“Yes,” I replied and walked away.
Next question—and this is regular query—”Do you have any material for a table cloth?” What do they think? Are they concerned that some fabrics, if laid flat on a table, will slowly creep upwards to the ceiling?
As for the Olympics, Brian and I went over to the pool at Brit on Saturday and saw the ice rink behind three layers of metal fencing with about 15 street cops positioning themselves, hands on hips, to discuss logistics. It is very strange to see our little recreation centre—rink, gym and pool at the high school on The Drive—part of this crazy international event. It’s a practice facility for skaters. Ice time, man. It’s all about ice time.
At Curves, I’m two blocks from where they’ll be doing the figure-skating events. Streets are closed, Olympics lanes are open (closed to local traffic), parking is heavily restricted. Luckily I ride my bike to Curves: seven minutes. FabLand is a block and a half from one of the three bridges that go from Vancouver to Richmond, where they built the facility for speed skating, I think. I have no idea how long it will take me to get to work on the bus if there are events scheduled near my shift time. I’ve heard there will be hour long waits for trains. I don’t think anyone really knows what is going to happen.
Something about the fences and the cops standing around was very unsettling. I mean, this is an area between two buildings at a high school, an area the size of a Starbucks. This is the neighbourhood in which many potential Olympic protesters live, so I’m wondering if the security is related to that, or if this is standard Olympic security. Are all Olympics facilities behind three layers of fencing?
Saturday was a good day at Curves. Two older women on the circuit were talking about the Resistance in France. Judith (English) was asking Jeanne (French) if her husband (86) was part of the Resistance. “My father was supposed to be shot a 2 o’clock in the morning,” I heard Jeanne say. “He had to be out of the country … ” Her voice became inauible beneath the Black Eyed Peas. After her work-out, Jeanne used the phone to call her husband to come and get her. “Tout suite,” she said. I took the phone back and said, “Merci.”
“Do you speak French?” she asked.
“Mais non,” I accidentally replied.
Brian and I had a loose plan to bump into each other at Donald’s grocery after my shift at Curves, then carry on with our individual obligations like responsible citizens, but that didn’t quite work out. Brian got to Donald’s at 1 p.m. and hung around, waiting for me, but I couldn’t get there until 1:30. I’d sent an email that he didn’t get, saying I needed more time because I wanted to stop at the drug store on the way. I wanted to buy Brian a bath brush.
Earlier in the day, before work, he’d said he was going swimming at 2:30 and would I like to go. I thought I’d be too tired after work so I didn’t bring my swim suit. But I felt great, so I figured I’d buy a bathing suit at the Salvation Army and surprise him, ready to go for a swim, casual-like. I bought the bathing suit without trying it on, noting that the yellow top was maybe slightly too big and the non-matching brown bottoms were slightly too small. I checked again at Donald’s—no Brian. I unlocked my bike and rode over to his place about six blocks away. I don’t normally drop by people’s places, but it seemed OK since we had a basic plan to meet. I bumped down the lane of many potholes, put the bike on its kickstand on the path at the back of the building and walked up to the waist-high cinder-block wall of his patio. He was sitting at the computer. “Hello,” I said through the open door.
He came out onto his tiny patio and said, “I just hit send on an email to you when you said hello.” He was happy and very surprised to see me standing outside his apartment.
I could feel heat on my back through my down jacket. I gave him the bath brush with a nice long handle—part of Valentine’s Week. He had a new haircut and a story to go with it. “Noon. Nancy not available. New girl. Too long. Too short.” A haircut story. I was happy standing there in the sun. It was very nice to be there, even if there was a wall between us.
I brought the bike inside and tried on the bathing suit in the bathroom. I came out, and Brian said, “That’s a bit revealing isn’t it?” which resulted in me going to another thrift store on the way to the pool to look for something less revealing. I figured “hubba-hubba” would have been a better response. The thrift store didn’t have any bathing suits, so I wore the revealing one, and it was basically fine.
Brian swims lengths—something I’ve never done, but I thought I’d give it a try. Man, that’s hard work. Crikey. I mean, I was tired—I’d worked out in the gym upstairs before the swim, worked-out at Curves, ridden my bike here and there. I was tired when I started and very surprised at the intensity of the cardio and the general sense of sinking like a stone as my energy rapidly decreased.
I think the top of the bathing suit did come off my left breast as I crossed the whirlpool heading for a better set of jets. I’m actually very modest, but somehow I didn’t really care if anyone saw my left breast or not. I’m just a female human. Being.
