“Removal”I worry so much about the weather in Alberta. If it continues to snow, I won’t get enough hours at work. I need to get this tooth out but I don’t have the money. The dentist keeps me waiting in the chair. I hear him walking back and forth behind the curtain, talking on the phone, complaining about his taxes. There’s a problem with the price of oil and it’s ruined everything. When he gets around to examining me, he says yes, it’s an infected wisdom tooth.
Charlene dumps her pile of heavy, wool coats on top of the ones I’m already holding in my arms. ‘Each one needs its own number tag,’ she says, poking the pile with her finger. ‘You can do that, right?’ Her voice is weak and the room is echoing with chatter. No one else has heard her so I just tilt my face in an expression of pleasant interest, as if she has told me about an accomplished grandchild or a recent trip to Europe. Her mouth gapes momentarily and she touches her husband’s wrist. He’s turned away from her, speaking to another woman. I cross the table, moving on before she can repeat herself.
At the end of October, we have an argument on the train. A homeless man in a thin shirt with missing buttons approaches and asks if he can sing to us. John ignores him, I smile politely and shake my head. The man lingers, offended by our disinterest. I give him twenty dollars, the tip money from my shift earlier that day.He accepts the money but it doesn’t help, we have still hurt his feelings by refusing his services. He turns away, his face glum.
John usually spends his weekends with Charlene. The weather’s too cold for walking, my hair turns white if I’m out there for more than a minute so I’m often bored, if I’m not working. People warned me of the cold before coming here but I suspected they were exaggerating. Possibly, I also incorrectly categorised myself as intrepid and immune to harsh conditions.
Later that week, I am back in work, doing a dinner shift. John has agreed to wait until the restaurant closes before he talks to Charlene so I am not especially uneasy. It’s a slow night so I spend most of my time in the back, by the stairwell, polishing cutlery. I’m dipping the silver in the chrome buckets, filled with hot water, and wiping it off with a napkin. I hear someone approach, their footfall quick and heavy. Charlene stands very close to me.
At almost nine o’clock, I hear the heavy front door swing open and slam shut. I turn to see a man wavering on his feet, clearly drunk. He looks to be in his seventies but his hair is long and dyed blonde. As he approaches, I can tell he isn’t about to order any food. Still, I offer him a menu. He laughs at my extended hand and then seems disappointed that I’m frightened. He’s wearing a bomber-style jacket zipped up to his sternum with no shirt underneath it.