michael murray

On the weekend Rachelle and I went up to Planet Ikea in Scarborough. While there I fell into conversation with one of the cashiers, asking her how her weekend had been going. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon, and I guess it really doesn’t take very much imagination to realize it was a stupid question for me to be asking her. She gave me the look I deserved and said, “Well, I’m here, ain’t I?”

The woman was probably somewhere in her late 30’s, and she went on to enumerate all the ways that work had destroyed her weekend. She made a pretty compelling case, as it seemed that pretty much all of her time was spent either at work, getting to work, or getting home from work, and the slivers of time that existed otherwise were dedicated to cooking and cleaning. The woman was unhappy and irritable and the last thing she wanted to do was indulge some man who was buying $300 worth of picture frames.

Outside the store a young man, probably around 20, was working loading customer’s purchases into their cars. Polite, competent and appropriately cheerful, he was good at his job, and it was clear that he didn’t hate being there. I mean, I’m sure he would have rather been swimming in a friend’s pool, but there would be plenty of days for that. For now, he was working so that he could study in Montreal, take a trip to Australia or buy new hockey equipment. He was working toward something-- toward becoming the version of himself he always imagined he could be.

It was an interesting juxtaposition.

The cashier clearly felt that the life she wanted to live was inhibited and restricted by her job. Working, the only time she had to herself was consumed by exhaustion and disappointment. Life was taking place elsewhere, in the past, but for the boy, who was still perfecting himself, the world lay unfurling before him and whatever he was doing that very second, was propelling him into bigger and better days.