Life story

Is life a story just being told, or is it what happens while waiting for a story?

Surprise cleaner’s disguise

There’s a cleaning lady at work. She’s in her mid-sixties, wears smart narrow glasses in a thin dark frame, and a ready smile on her face. She is always in a blue cleaning-coat, pushing a cart loaded with cleaning gear, everything from Mr. Clean spray to extra rolls of paper towels and tissues. She’s of average height, dark haired, but graying on temples, and has a gentle face, with lines of worries, or laugh, around her mouth. And, although spending her working hours cleaning toilets, she always appears clean and in good humor.

Last week I had a little chat with her, while waiting for water to boil for coffee. She told me I was the only person in the newsroom who says “hi” to her. Everyone else passes by, like by an inanimate object. I told her some of the colleagues take themselves too seriously. She laughed. “That’s Canada,” she said. There was no contempt in her voice, only sadness.

Her English is basic. I asked her where she’s from.
“Albania,” she said. Then laughed when I told her I’m from Croatia.
“I knew you couldn’t be a Canadian, you are too polite,” she said.

She was a pediatrician back home. She escaped the anarchy and corruption that mark Albania’s emergence from Communism. Her two daughters are doctors in the US. And she cleans toilets in the newsroom where everyone believes to be above her.

Valentine’s Day

I wanted to write a book about us, but the pages would be empty…
True love needs no words.

Darkness

I was in a too good a mood this morning. I went on jumping and singing and laughing while getting ready for work. Weird, considering I didn’t sleep all that well. And considering I haven’t seen sunshine in what seems like ages. And considering how battered and tired my body felt. Maybe it wasn’t really good mood. If you scratched underneath the surface, you’d find me on the verge of hysteria. The laughter wasn’t merry, it was edgy. The jumping was concealing a deep distress and agitation. I’m afraid I’m going to snap one day, like a dry wig tree struck by lightning. Every passing dark day I feel less and less alive.

Both, Meg and I are like zombies. We wake up in the dark. We sleepwalk around, we sit in the car and drive to work in the dark. It dawns while we’re on the road. All the dawns are heavy grey, hanging over our heads like a curse. We part, inhabit our cubicles and pound our keyboards for 8 hours. Then we emerge into the dusk, darkening grey enveloping us. No sunshine, no colors, everything is flat and grey. We drive home. Meg makes dinner, I force myself to run through the trenches dug in the snow. I can’t see where my foot is landing, it’s all black, slippery and wet. Then we’re home, eating, too burnt out even for small talk.

“How’s your day?” One would ask.
“Hrrmmmpffff.” The other would harumph. “And yours?”
“Hrrmmmpffff.”

January felt endless, with its eternal succession of grey dawns and dusks. February feels even worse, now that we are already weakened by January. I can’t remember winter being so gloomy. It’s not the cold, it’s the dark. I wish I could hibernate, like a bear, and wake up in spring.