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.
We are working on our Curves Newsletter. I must not gossip about Curves members or complain.
Jean’s Corner
At the start of the Saturday morning shift, I decided to empty the vacuum cleaner. I got the very clearly marked dirt box out and released the yellow latch to dump its contents into a garbage bag. Easy. In a separate plastic box: the filter. It looked pretty bad. More simple directions, another yellow latch, and the filter was exposed. I removed the tangle of material from around the cylinder and tapped the unit against the side of the wastepaper basket, as per the instructions. But not much of the dirt came out. It was pounded deep into the filter crevices. I looked in the cupboard for a stiff brush: nothing. Meghan—the manager—may not like what happened next. I needed to clean the filter. I craved the surge of suction I knew I’d feel at the end of the hose pipe after de-clogging the accordion-style folds. I grabbed one of the cheap-o paint brushes that Meghan uses to make her very cheerful signs, and I started to dredge out rather a lot of debris. By 10 a.m., there were several members on the circuit, and I was attracting a certain amount of interest—fervent cleaning session with paintbrush. Man, that dirt was really packed in there tight.
I put the vacuum back together and joined the ladies on the circuit. One lady said, “You’re a painter, aren’t you?” This was strange to me, because I am a painter and I was, on that day, rather frustrated with the painting I had been working on at home. I told the lady she was very observant. I started thinking about my painting and wondered if I was taking out my frustration on the vacuum-cleaner filter. Interesting. I have since finished the painting, and it turned out better than it looked at work. It’s called Discovering Utopia, and it will be part of an art exhibit called The Black Dot Museum: Political Artists From Vancouver.
I was looking forward to a break in the action so I could see the result of my cleaning, but there was a constant stream of enthusiastic gym members coming and going. Soon it was 1 p.m.: closing time. I locked the door and switched on the vacuum cleaner. The change was noticeable immediately. The part that slides across the floor was actually more difficult to move; suction had been increased immensely. And now, at 4 p.m. Monday, the club is quiet, save for my tippity-tapping on these keys. Jollies. Thrills. Whatever you want to call it. I’m going to vacuum.
Edited out: On her way out the door, Tina makes a snide comment about me being OCD for cleaning the filter. I don’t take it personally, but various ladies on the circuit are outraged. “Don’t listen to her!”
“I wasn’t. I didn’t,” I say.
“She’s struggling,” says Sue.
“You mean with her weight or life in general?”
“Both.”
I represent something to Tina: the mythical being who can eat anything, not exercise and never gain weight. I am simply lucky. That I have been weight-lifting 30 years and that I eat carefully is not the story she applies to me. Tina is unlucky. Being unlucky makes life so much simpler.
