Monday Night Blues

Employment is such a drag. Why do I have a work ethic? Why am I not industrious enough to conjure a waif-like existence sprawled on some sub-tropical beach, jotting pontifications onto a page as I suck back a liquored-fruit concoction under the midday sun?

Oh, why, oh, why, oh, why.

The office is a weird place now, but it's not that bad. There's this strange vibe, though, like we can all catch a little glimpse into each other's mind: The Bubble has burst.

This is my second time being a lay-off survivor, but this time ain't got nothing on the last one. I was an employee at Duthie Books back then, one of the legendary independent booksellers in British Columbia. Bill Duthie, the founder, had a big role in creating whatever lit scene existed in the city back in 1947 and on. I grew up thinking the name "Duthie" was synonymous with the word "book," and landing a job at their Fourth Ave store wasn't really a dream come true, but it was an awesome happening and gave me a chance to do something I just loved doing... for awhile.

I worked there for a couple of years and had a deep loyalty to both my store and the family, since they had been mighty fine people towards me. At the time when "it all came down," there were some 177 people, give or take a few, in the company's employ, and they had just won the National Bookseller's Award for Best Independent Bookstore Chain some months before the demise.

This was 1999. Me, I'd been going through some personal hell that spring and summer. I'd had my right wrist cut open and a ganglion (in this case, a bone-mounted growth) removed. I wasn't able to write, drive, work, or do anything for a number of weeks. Also, my mother was "recovering" from cancer, which would suddenly kill her in the next couple of months. And then I found out my beloved bookstore was coming to its end, too.

Out of the 177 people, 170 received their notices. Six of seven stores closed. I was fortunate and was able to stay, but the death of Duthie's as a chain struck a chord in me and made me fear for the future of regional literature, since no one championed it like Duthie's did. To me, it seemed a mighty loud death knell had sounded.

Instead of just mourning for the death of my mother, I wound up being in mourning for my colleagues, my company, and my province's literature scene. Yeah, 1999 was a year without compare, for me, at least.

So I know I'm supposed to be more brokenhearted about the events of this past week, but on my scale of comparison, this is a walk in the park. Still, I think I'll fix myself a stiff drink tonight, because the weirdness rolls around again in 12 hours. Fortunately, I get paid for it. (Hardly a consolation.)