Every year engineering students at the University of Toronto give the dome of the tiny, long-unused campus observatory a fresh coat of paint. This year's is especially festive in recognition of the World Pride event that turned my neighbourhood into a week-long street party.
As always, the celebrations observed all local by-laws, but Pride detritus - parade confetti, fallen bits of costumes, tickets, giveaways - distributed themselves far and wide over the area. How far? Monday morning after all the two million extra people had packed their bags and headed for the nearest transportation hub, I stepped out onto my third floor balcony overlooking the courtyard of the condo complex and there on the balcony surface where no parade reveller had stood, was a boa feather, dyed bright blue.
Another remnant - quickly removed by City of Toronto Parks staff - was an impromptu tree cozy in the Allan Gardens.
Chapter Ten
Sparky here. This is Chapter Ten of my story about how Gerry Ringbold met his untimely end. The story starts here.
Before I started my Gerry Ringbold project, I had been writing about my fellow washroom attendants. Most of us had some special reason for getting our jobs. I think this is just another facet of the Foundation's detail-obsessed philanthropy.
For example, there's Marriba. She worked the shift before mine last year. Her family came to this country in 1974. She’s about forty years old and, she says, a deep disappointment to her family. She should have been a doctor or a lawyer or an engineer or a dentist. Instead, she had a bunch of incomplete degrees: criminology, psychology, biology and a general B.A. that she had tried to stitch together from the credits from all her other incompletes, but which she also could not complete. Marriba said she didn't handle stress well.
“I have a mild personality disorder,” she explained matter-of-factly the first day we met, “it makes me impatient with people and things and I have trouble controlling my anger. I also have trouble finishing things.”
After her final refusal of her family’s demands that she get a degree, she got a job in retail at a large department store downtown and lost that when the retail empire that owned the store collapsed. She told me that she wouldn’t have lasted there much longer anyway. Next she tried the sandwich and burger franchises and coffee when the first two chains banned her for life. On the last day of her service industry career, she threw a cup of boiling water in the general direction of a customer who had pissed her off. No one was hurt but that was it. Marriba couldn't work anywhere.
Marriba’s family is well-connected. Their ungentle pressure on their daughter having failed completely, they went outside the family for help. Her dad knows someone on the Board of the Foundation. They offered Marriba a washroom shift and she was happy to take it. It’s a good job for a person who really is at her best when she’s all alone.
On the job, Marriba amused herself during the long inactive hours by fooling around with math problems. I would find the pieces of paper stashed in the drawers of the small desk in the washroom attendant’s booth. The scribbling looked insane.
Every day for the summer of 2013, Marriba's shift-change conversation with me consisted of ten minute screeds delivered at high volume and speed. The same as her math hobby, these were both awe-inspiring and troubling. I never got a word in. Aside from “hi” and “have a good day,” I don’t think I said 100 words to her.
Marriba doesn't work at the Gardens anymore. According to Jennifer, who worked the midnight to 8 a.m. shift in 2013 and who now works Marriba's shift, late last year she flew into a rage and threatened a couple of teenaged girls who had mouthed her off. The girls complained and the workplace harassment policy required Marriba be disciplined. The penalty was two days suspension with pay, but Marriba never came back.
For reasons I'll get into, I know Jennifer cannot possibly be telling me the truth about Marriba, but I can't find any other explanation. All that workplace stuff is confidential and no one else seems to know.
You can read Chapter Eleven here.
For example, there's Marriba. She worked the shift before mine last year. Her family came to this country in 1974. She’s about forty years old and, she says, a deep disappointment to her family. She should have been a doctor or a lawyer or an engineer or a dentist. Instead, she had a bunch of incomplete degrees: criminology, psychology, biology and a general B.A. that she had tried to stitch together from the credits from all her other incompletes, but which she also could not complete. Marriba said she didn't handle stress well.
“I have a mild personality disorder,” she explained matter-of-factly the first day we met, “it makes me impatient with people and things and I have trouble controlling my anger. I also have trouble finishing things.”
After her final refusal of her family’s demands that she get a degree, she got a job in retail at a large department store downtown and lost that when the retail empire that owned the store collapsed. She told me that she wouldn’t have lasted there much longer anyway. Next she tried the sandwich and burger franchises and coffee when the first two chains banned her for life. On the last day of her service industry career, she threw a cup of boiling water in the general direction of a customer who had pissed her off. No one was hurt but that was it. Marriba couldn't work anywhere.
Marriba’s family is well-connected. Their ungentle pressure on their daughter having failed completely, they went outside the family for help. Her dad knows someone on the Board of the Foundation. They offered Marriba a washroom shift and she was happy to take it. It’s a good job for a person who really is at her best when she’s all alone.
On the job, Marriba amused herself during the long inactive hours by fooling around with math problems. I would find the pieces of paper stashed in the drawers of the small desk in the washroom attendant’s booth. The scribbling looked insane.
Every day for the summer of 2013, Marriba's shift-change conversation with me consisted of ten minute screeds delivered at high volume and speed. The same as her math hobby, these were both awe-inspiring and troubling. I never got a word in. Aside from “hi” and “have a good day,” I don’t think I said 100 words to her.
Marriba doesn't work at the Gardens anymore. According to Jennifer, who worked the midnight to 8 a.m. shift in 2013 and who now works Marriba's shift, late last year she flew into a rage and threatened a couple of teenaged girls who had mouthed her off. The girls complained and the workplace harassment policy required Marriba be disciplined. The penalty was two days suspension with pay, but Marriba never came back.
For reasons I'll get into, I know Jennifer cannot possibly be telling me the truth about Marriba, but I can't find any other explanation. All that workplace stuff is confidential and no one else seems to know.
You can read Chapter Eleven here.
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