He paid the garage attendant with his newly-acquired Canadian money and headed back to the main road. Soon he found himself driving out of town on the QEW multi-lane expressway. Traffic was heavy. This is terrible, he thought.This is not what I expected. I feel as if I were driving in New York City, except that I have never been to New York City, much less driven there. He also realized that distance and speed limit signs were posted in kilometers, not miles. One kilometer, five-eighths of a mile he remembered from somewhere. Eighty KPH, a roadside sign said. Fifty MPH. Traffic was moving much faster than that, however.
Having looked at the Ontario map he had acquired while he was in the tourist office, Jack had chosen St. Catharines as his first destination. It was not too far and, he hoped, not overwhelming in size. Exits for St. Catharines appeared, marked by road signs. He chose one. Niagara Street, it was signed, and he found himself entering St. Catharines on a commercial street. He passed signs for Tim Hortons and Wendy’s restaurants. Well, he thought, I don’t know anything about Tim Hortons, but Wendy’s must be Wendy’s everywhere.
Continuing on, he spotted a convenience store. Generic, not a 7-Eleven or other chain brand he recognized. Independently owned, he supposed. Large letters across the top of the façade proclaimed:
Super SINGH’S Store
A man with his beard and long hair swept up under a turban was sweeping the entrance to the store. He had evidently swept the floor of the store out onto the pavement, and was now pushing the trash into the street gutter. Jack pulled the VW into a spot in front of the store. Out of the car, he said to the turbaned man, “Let me do that for you.” He took the broom and finished sweeping the front store walk.
Surprised, the man stood and watched. Then he asked, “Who are you? What do you want?”
Jack supposed this man might be suspicious and concerned about his presence. “My name is Jack Stavitch. I’m an American, from Ohio, actually. I’ve left home—run away from a bad, ugly home situation—and I hope to settle in Canada. I’ve just arrived, and now I need to find a place to stay and a place to work.” Jack was not sure why he opened up to this man.
“You’ll need to get a work permit. I don’t know how you get that, but you can probably find out at the town hall in the center of the city.” He pointed down the street. Then he paused and added, “Maybe I can offer you something.” Jack was a bit apprehensive about what the man might say next, but he did not want to miss any advice or opportunity he might be offered. “For now, until you get settled, I would be willing to take you on here. You look strong and you have already shown me a willingness to work. I will pay you fifty dollars a day, and I will let you sleep in a room that’s not much used at the back of the store. There’s a cot there. Also a lot of trash that you would have to clean out.”
The man paused, apparently thinking a bit about his offer. Then he continued, “This would be without a work permit. When you get your permit, I would have to pay you the legal minimum wage. Of course, I could do that and charge you room rent, but for now perhaps we can do this just informally. No permit, no minimum wage, no benefits, no room rent. Just fifty dollars in cash each day. Each day you work all day and do a good job, that is. I open at seven in the morning and stay open until seven in the evening. Twelve hours. Any time I am unhappy with you, I will tell you to leave. And, of course, you can leave any time you are unhappy with me.
“There is one other thing. If you work for me, I will sell you items from my shop at cost, but I will not tolerate thievery. If you steal anything from the store—anything, even so little as a candy bar—I will turn you over to the police.”
“That’s wonderful,” Jack replied. “Thanks. I’d love to work for you. And I won’t steal.”
“Good.” The man reached out and shook Jack’s hand. “My name is Singh. I came to Canada from India, and I know it is hard and confusing to get started in a new country. I came here two years ago. I am a Sikh, and that’s why I wear my hair this way. Now, get your things out of your car, and we will make a place for you. And you’ll have to move your car to the back; the front spaces are for customers. There’s an alley off the side street that will let you into the back.
“And another thing,” he added. “No alcohol here. Not beer, not wine, not liquor. Not in the store, not in the back room. We Sikhs do not drink alcohol, and I will not permit it in this store.”
“Not a problem. One of the reasons that I ran away from my home in Ohio is that my mother is an alcoholic. I don’t drink. You can trust me on that.”
Jack found the alley and parked behind the store. He retrieved his pack and his Gore-tex jacket from his car and entered through the back door. Singh met him there. “This room can be yours.” Jack looked around. There was a cot along one wall opposite a door that opened into a hall leading to the store. There was no blanket; he could use his sleeping bag, he thought. A single lamp stood in the corner. There were shelves on one wall holding a miscellaneous collection of old boxes and papers—the trash Singh had referred to, he surmised. On the other side of the room there was an electric hot plate on a shelf and a small refrigerator beneath it. Across the hall was a small washroom with toilet and sink, the only source of water and the only sink in the store. Basic, he thought, but sufficient, at least for the present.
“I can manage here. I’ll be fine,” Jack said to his new host. Then he asked, “How about laundry? Is there a place where I can do some of that?”
“There’s a laundromat just down the street in the next block. They’ll even take stuff out of the washer, put it into a dryer, and hold it for you. Oh, and let me get you a key to the back door.”
“Good. And I guess I’ll get dinner at Wendy’s.”
“Or someplace. Tim Hortons has a little more than Wendy’s. You should be able to manage breakfast and lunch with what I have in the store, unless you eat large meals at those times.”
“No, that will work for me.”
Singh returned to the store. Jack found an empty box and filled it with old newspapers and other accumulated trash from the shelves and floor. The sheets on the bed seemed clean, as did the pillow case. He found a rag, wetted it in the lavatory sink, and cleaned off the shelves. His clothes would go there when the shelves were dry. All right, he thought. This will work out well for me.
Finished settling in, at least for the present, Jack reentered the store. A well-dressed woman, in her mid-thirties, he supposed, entered. Jack smiled and approached the woman. “Good afternoon. Is there anything I can help you find?” Although, he reflected, he did not yet know where any of the store’s goods were located.
“No. Just a Pepsi. I know where it is.” She retrieved a large bottle of Pepsicola from an upright cooler at the back of the store.
“A bag of chips to go with the Pepsi?” Jack asked.
She smiled, cocked her head to the side, paused, and said, “Yes. Good idea. I don’t usually do that, but I think I will.” She chose a bag of chips from the center counter and proceeded to check out with Singh at the cash register.
“Well, Jack, you’re a natural salesman. She comes in every day to buy a Pepsi. But she has never bought chips before. Keep it up and I’ll have to pay you more. Maybe fifty-one dollars a day!”
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I’ll do what I can to help. And, if you don’t mind a suggestion from me—of course you know your business and I really don’t.”
“No. Speak up.”
“Well, I’ve been in other convenience stores like this. Sometimes in gas stations, you know. It seems to me they usually have impulse buy things—you know, candy bars and such—right by the cash register. People might round up their purchase that way.”
“Good idea. Tomorrow morning you can rearrange things in the store like that.”
Most of the afternoon had passed. Jack looked around the store, familiarizing himself with locations of goods. He helped three additional customers. Promptly at seven, Singh closed the blind on the storefront window, turned out the lights in
the store, and left Jack alone. He put his things in order on the now dry shelves, tested his key in the rear door lock, and drove back to Tim Hortons for a chicken dinner.
Following dinner, Jack returned to the Singh store, parked his car, and went out to explore the neighborhood. Once away from the main street, he found himself in a residential neighborhood. The housing seemed modest, lots small. Roofs steeply slanted to prevent winter snow from accumulating. A working-class neighborhood, he thought. Houses, lawns, and streets were orderly. No trash was evident. A neighborhood where residents cared about and cared for their homes.
Back at Super Singh’s Store, Jack propped the rear door open, pulled out a chair, and sat down to watch the sun sink over roof-tops. It was a warm and pleasant evening. He took out his cell phone and called Marilyn.
“Where are you?” she asked immediately. “I mean, it’s great to hear from you, and I miss you, and thanks for calling. But where are you now?”
“Actually, I’m sitting outside my tent, watching the sun set.”
“Yeah, but where?’
“In Florida.”
“Come off it, Jack. You know what I mean. Where in Florida?”
Jack had anticipated this question and prepared for it before leaving home. “Hontoon Island State Park, near De Land. There’s a nice camp ground here. But I’m going to push on tomorrow. And I won’t say where to. In fact, this is the last time I’ll tell you where in Florida I am. I’m sure you’ll be asked, if you haven’t been already. So it’s best that you don’t know any more details. Florida is a big state, easy for me to disappear in, I think.”
“Oh, Jack, give it up, this crazy idea. Come home.”
“Nope, no way. But I miss you, and one day I’ll figure out a way for us to be together.”
“Jack, what if your mother stopped drinking? What if your father let you apply to a good college?”
“Maybe, I suppose, but that won’t happen. So now, tell me about your day. What happened at the library?” Their conversation continued for another twenty minutes. Then, telling Marilyn he loved her, Jack brought the conversation to a close. He connected the cell phone to its charger and made his way to bed.
— — — —
The following morning found Jack up and in the store by six-thirty. He took a package of sweet rolls and a jar of instant coffee from the store, leaving a note for Singh. Breakfasted, he was surveying the store when the proprietor arrived. They exchanged greetings, and Jack asked, “Do you mind if I make another suggestion about the store?”
“No, of course not. Your idea about impulse buys near the check-out was a good one.”
“Well,” Jack spoke tentatively, “if you like, you could put a pot of coffee somewhere—not in front—near the back where people would have to walk past counters of goods to get to it. Then put a cup next to it with a couple of loonies in it. So people could pay for the coffee with change.”
“Yes. Excellent idea. We’ll do it. I think I can find a hot plate to keep the coffee warm.”
In the late afternoon the woman to whom Jack had sold a bag of chips the previous day came into the store and picked up a Pepsi. “Chips again today?” Jack asked.
“No thanks. I don’t need the calories.” Then she asked, “You’re new here, aren’t you? And you’re not Canadian, I think.”
“Yes,” Jack replied. Then, not knowing quite why he should open up to this woman, he continued, “I’m an American, from Ohio. My family situation there is—was—awful, so I ran away. And here I am.”
“Well,” she replied, “welcome to Canada. My name is Mollie Sullivan. I’m the branch manager for the RBC—Royal Bank of Canada—bank just a block down the street. We, my husband and I, live just two streets up behind Singh’s store. Sean, my husband, is a computer programmer. He works out of our home.”
“I walked up that way last evening. It seems like a nice neighborhood.”
“It is,” she said. “Lots of young couples, some with kids.” Then she added, “Look, if you’re going to stay in Canada, you need a bank account. Come to the bank tomorrow and I’ll get you set up. You have checks on an American bank?”
“No, I closed out my account when I left. So I have a lot of cash, and I should get it into a bank.”
“Canadian or U.S.?”
“Both, actually.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She walked toward the door, then turned and asked, “And your name is?”
“Jack. Jack Stavitch.”
“Right. Tomorrow, Jack.”
After the store closed, Jack returned to Tim Hortons for his evening meal. It was another balmy evening, and he walked the several blocks to the restaurant. While walking back, he called Marilyn. He told her he had found a temporary job helping out in a convenience store. Once again he rebuffed her queries about his location, simply saying he was in Florida and enjoying sunny weather. She told him about his father’s visit to the Hanson home seeking whatever information she might have about his whereabouts. “I told them you were heading for Florida, but I couldn’t be more specific. I guess it’s a big state, and you haven’t told me anything. Except one night in a state park.”
“Yeah, and I’m not going to tell you more. I don’t want anyone coming after me. At least not now—not for a while, anyway. Maybe never.”
“Oh, Jack, don’t cast off your family. Not now. Not totally. I know there are problems, but you are loved. And,” she added, “I love you and I am worried about you.”
“I’m all right. I’m doing okay. Really I am.” And with that, Jack brought the conversation to a close.
— — — —
The next morning Jack excused himself to Singh and went to the RBC bank, his cash stuffed into his pants pocket. He found Mollie Sullivan in a cubicle opposite the teller counter. “Good morning,” she greeted him. “What can I do for you? How are you doing? And,” she added, “how much cash are you carrying?”
“Well,” he said, “I left home with a bit more than three thousand dollars, U.S., that is. I’ve spent some, but not much, really. In Niagara Falls I changed one thousand American for thirteen hundred and something Canadian. Singh has been paying me fifty dollars in cash for each day I work there. And, of course, I’ve spent some to eat. So what I have now is, I guess, just about eighteen hundred U.S. dollars and about fifteen hundred Canadian.”
“You know, Jack,” she commented, “what Singh is paying you is not what he should be, not what is legal in Canada.”
“Yeah, I know. But it works for the moment and until I can get settled and get a real, honest job.”
“Okay. I’ll pretend you didn’t tell me anything about that. Now, you could open an account with all of that money, changing the U.S. dollars into Canadian. But it seems to me your situation is still in limbo, still being sorted out. You cannot be sure yet where you will settle. Maybe St. Catharines, maybe somewhere else. So, what I think you should do is put your U.S. dollars in a safe deposit box here and open an account with the Canadian money. We will set you up with a debit/ATM card that will give you access to cash as you need it and let you deposit the money Singh pays you at any ATM machine. Or you can come into the bank; we’re close to Singh’s store. This account will pay you some interest, although not much. Later, if you wish, we can convert it to a checking account.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. “This all sounds perfect.” With Mollie’s help, he rented a safe box and put his U.S. dollars in it. She gave him an ATM card and watched him use it to check the balance in his new account.
Mollie found Jack to be a pleasant, engaging, and bright young man. As he rose to leave, she said, impulsively, “Jack, where do you eat your meals?”
“Well, breakfast and lunch from things I find in Singh’s store. Dinners I’ve been getting at Tim Hortons.”
“Not tonight,” Mollie said. “Dinner tonight with Sean and me.” She wrote down her address. “After the store closes at seven. It’s only a couple of blocks away.”
“Go
sh! I mean, well, thanks. I’d love it. I should bring a bottle of wine, except Singh doesn’t carry wine, and I’m too young, I think, to buy wine anyway.”
“No, no. Don’t bring anything but yourself. And Sean and I don’t drink anyway.”
Dinner with the Sullivans proved to be delightful. Jack found himself enjoying this couple and his time relaxing with them. Why can’t my parents be like them? They once were, he thought sadly. They once were. Of course, the Sullivans were considerably nearer his age than were his folks. He found himself once again talking about his dysfunctional family.
“Sounds a bit like the O’Neill play,” Sean said.
“Yes, exactly. Long Day’s Journey Into Night. And just as O’Neill couldn’t go to a good sanatorium for his TB, I can’t go to a good university.”
“Didn’t O’Neill eventually run away?” Sean queried.
“Yup, and here am I. On the run. Just like O’Neill.”
“If I remember rightly, O’Neill came back,” Mollie added. It seemed evident that she thought Jack should return home.
“After a couple of years,” Jack commented.
“And will you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. And I’m very, very committed to my girlfriend, Marilyn.”
“Now then,” Mollie said as she brought out a chocolate cake for desert, “I know that you and Sean will want to huddle over his computer after dinner.”
“Not until after some of that cake,” Sean interjected. “But I do want to show Jack what I am doing developing computer games.”
“Not yet. I want to sign Jack up for July 1, just a bit more than a week away. It’s Canada Day, the nearest thing we have to your American Fourth of July. I never have figured out just what we celebrate on July 1, but it’s our national holiday. The bank will be closed. Singh’s store also, I suppose. And I will tear Sean away from his computer—violently, if I have to. We’ll have a picnic in the park down by the Ontario lakeshore. There’s a big park there. You must join us.”
“Oh, I’d love that,” said Jack. “We used to have family picnics at a park on the shore of Lake Erie. Before my mother got so much into drinking.”
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