tantastik dot org

My retirement plan

I’ve been back from Europe for two weeks and slowly getting into the rut of things again. My summer of unemployment is moving along smoothly and my weeks blur into my weekends; neither are so very different. I wake up, roll over to the living room and continue my foray into self-employment. I’ve recruited a friend to join me in my quest for emancipation. He’ll likely help out with business development.

We often have video conferences using Skype, sometimes daily. Its encouraging to talk to people when you’re self-employed and work from home, seeing as the most conversation I have is with my tequila bottle. I like to reach out to those who are in the same situation as me, and we form an ad hoc league of self-employed deadbeats.

He commented once, when we were Skyping, that the scenary never changes in the webcam. Sometimes I am topless, but the background is generally a scattering of papers, dying plants and biodegradable coffee cups. Perhaps I might surprise him one day and answer the video chat from my bathtub.

You might think of me as a Man of Leisure, but that is the whole point to being your own boss. You work at your own pace. I work during the mornings the best and rest during the afternoon, reading books on related materials. Sometimes I work late into the night, other times I work Sundays skipping meals. That is all part of the new world order for me.

I think back to my vacation in Europe, and when people ask me about it, I catch myself sounding like a tired old cliché. Is Europe a cliché? I have always thought so, doing my best to avoid Western Europe mostly, but wondering why do people have the same general experiences when going to Europe? “A revelatory experience!” or “I’m a changed man!” are the catch-phrases of European dilettantes upon their return. Though I cannot articulate why, I feel remorseful for feeling the same way.

I came home to an apartment strewn with cobwebs, a few knocked over potted plants and dishes I somehow missed cleaning before I left. The spiders did not miss me at all and I had to throw out a cup that became home to a colony of pathogens, nestled in a puff of orange, furry moss. And somehow, there are ants roaming freely in my apartment. At least, rent-freely.

Only two weeks ago, I was sharing a park bench with a bearded homeless man* as we silently watched the scene that revealed itself before us: the sun going down over Lake Zürich, young Italian travelers laughing by the port, a Swiss couple hand-in-hand walking along the dock and scooters zipping and buzzing by behind us. I had a small tupperware of mini-pepperettes which I would quietly pass over to him and we ate without saying a word. If that’s not romance, I wouldn’t know what is.

It’s scenes like those that I remember about my trip. That, or sitting in a big park in the middle of Stockholm with Liam, eating a torn off leg of a Tandoori chicken in one hand, and gripping the neck of a bottle of red wine with the other. Or jumping on a train to Vienna instead of a plane back home, looking to spend one more week, maybe seeing something I wasn’t expecting. Searching for moments, taking chances and never looking back.

I’ve been looking to gain clarity and see through the fog without the necessity of infrared glasses (although that might be pretty cool). The future remains uncertain, with only a shell of a plan for myself, so any guidance I can ascertain from reading these books will hopefully make me more sure-footed if not somewhat emboldened.

————-
*I met another homeless man at the train station (Zürich HB) later on that evening. I sat in the SBB lounge waiting for my train while he sat beside me. I offered him some of my aforementioned pepperettes. He began to speak to me about Che Guevara in German. None of which I understood. He was a large man, of about 50. Stood 6 feet tall, perhaps taller. He proceeded to pull up his pants (while explaining to me in German) and showed me his swollen ankles. Due to malnutrition I suppose, or possible walking a lot. He refused my pepperettes and walked away, but not before shaking my hand in gratitude.

High Park, Toronto

In the first part of this series, I was on an interminable search for reversible suits. It appears, since then, I’ve found one but now it just sits in my closet with the tags still on, wrinkled due to the humidity. It was a very nice suit, designed by some Italian guy with tiny hands probably. I spent half my signing bonus from my previous job on this suit and its been over a year ago already. Unfortunately, I quit that job faster than you could say, corporate whore. And so, the suit remains.

These days, I am officially self-employed. Self-employed or unemployed, both generally mean the same thing for me. I work out of my second story apartment in the Junction: an undiscovered neighbourhood spilling over with struggling artists and people who can’t afford to live in the more affluent Bloor West Village. There are also those like me, just too stubborn or lazy to find a real job. I became quickly aware of the fact that I am also the only Asian in the village.

This last fact I found out recently as I was sitting at the Axis reading a book and having a pint. I’m not completely unaccustomed to being approached by leggy blonde girls (although I still have anxiety attacks when it happens and on good days, I am able to avoid throwing up on their shoes) but truthfully, girls that are too aggressive often scare the crap out of me. She sized me up and down, pointed out that there are no other Asian boys in this neighbourhood, and that this meeting was destiny. I could’ve used a bit of warning.

As much as I am for destiny, I fled the scene. I still couldn’t come to terms with being tied up, forced to wear army fatigues and being called General Tso. I don’t even like chicken balls! Do all girls have this same fantasy? Perhaps more research is needed.

Despite my occasional encounters with life or death, I try to maintain a positive outlook. I’ve recently found ways to curb my spending and limit myself to eating out less frequently. While living off my savings, I’ve had to find other ways to supplement my income without selling organs. Using every ounce of my creativity, nothing came to mind.

Then it occurred to me. During my baseball games, I always see these shabby looking people walking around, with their eyes trained on the ground, scanning, scanning, scanning. They carried large garbage bags and most of them could pass for an older version of me: old Chinese men or women stalking the parks of Toronto, waiting for people to finish their beers and then deftly swiping the empties off the benches. If a 70 year old lady can do this, then so can I! With competition like this, there was a certain amount of success guaranteed. I am not beneath wrestling feeble seniors for an empty magnum. That’s $0.20!

I decided to go for a test run with all the empties I could find in or near my apartment. Scurrying the quiet back alleys of the Junction, collecting beer cans, wine bottles and anything that I can exchange for at least a nickel I managed to fill up the trunk of my car and headed off.

I went to the LCBO first to drop off the wine bottles, but when I arrived, and unloaded my car, a homeless man came over to me. He looked at me, then looked at my pile of recyclables and I worried that I might need to defend my loot.

He had a deeply wrinkled face that was tanned from being outdoors every day. His clothes were grimy, held together by threads. His eyes didn’t look menacing beneath his grayed brow. I couldn’t help but notice that he rode a really sweet bike with fruit colour noisemakers on the spokes. I wondered if there was a kid somewhere missing his bike.

Our stand-off lasted only a few seconds before he raised his hand and pointed at the Beer Store next door. As a beginner, I clearly didn’t realize that the Liquor Store does not take empties, only the Beer Store does. How embarrassing. Here, was on-the-job training!

Relieved, I said thanks and reached down to offer him an empty bottle for his troubles, but when I looked up he had already rode off. I watched him ride away, listening to that distinctive plastic snapping sound of his bicycle wheels trail off into the distance. I’ll see you tomorrow at 5AM with your shopping cart, good sir! He didn’t look back.

It was a good first go at this, and after collecting my $11.20 I tried to bargain with the storekeeper for a 9-pack of Cameron’s. Of course, in this capitalist society, there will be no bartering at the Beer Store. So I put the $11 in a jar, and now I’ll see how much I can make from it over the summer. Its true, the rate of return is not high, but at least I’ll have co-workers again. Maybe we can all have lunch in the park.

Dom has been deported out of the country. He’s had a good run at being Canadian, but to be honest, we just don’t want him here anymore. He had a going away party in Vancouver, and I made a surprise appearance via Skype. Or should I say, Quacho Libre made a surprise appearance.

This is what I had the pleasure of waking up to the next morning:
Play

Have a safe trip back to England, Dom! Keep those incisors sharpened. I may need you one day.