The Beginning of an Era: Yukon Tales v1.0

I’d begun working in the photography store back when I was finishing up my last year of college for journalism. I would graduate at 19 and soon be working in the first truly cool job of my life, printing photos. (Outside of college, that is. There, I was a librarian and photography lab assistant. Pretty sweet gigs, both.)

The storeowner, Mr. P, was a classic asshole. He thought he was slick, had a wife who was 4’9, which was fitting, since he called himself “The Big Man” and often spoke in third-person.

His son, B, was a pretty cool kid who raced cars and climbed mountains, and his easy 'tude made the hassle worth it. Most of the time, I worked in photography, doing the printing of shots and such, but in busier times, my personality was great in sales. And so I found myself out front on that fateful morning.

I was helping the nearly 60-year-old woman amass frames and prints for the upcoming funeral of her late husband. She would require just over a dozen 11x14 frames. I grabbed the stack, which was tall enough to mean I could see straight ahead and nothing more, then staggered off to the counter where I would begin processing the nice order. In theory.

That was the assumption, before I stepped on the stapler. You see, Mr. P believed himself to be too important to waste spending time doing the mundane, like picking shit up off the floor that he dropped. It his was his store, his kingdom, his call.

So, I stepped on the stapler and my foot rolled. I crashed to the ground, having shredded and strained every single muscle in the foot.

I was sobbing like a girl before B came and helped me hobble to the back room. He sprinted, literally, to the food court for ice and came back to help. His father had already fucked off for some felafel.

“A doctor’s gonna need to see that, Steff,” he muttered as he held the sprained foot gingerly, icing me.

Flashforward, and it was a series of shredded tendons causing me to be in a world of hurt. The diagnosis? No work for eight weeks. Crutches. Painkillers, ice. The Worker’s Compensation Board would pick up the tab, it seemed. Mr. P was livid that I was “inflating” his premiums.

I knew one thing, working there would be an even grander hell by the time I was through. Mr. P’s avid car-racing season would be ending and he’d be back full-time at the same time that I’d be returning. This is the same guy who would check employees’ coats for evidence of ski tags and such after a day off “sick.” Imagine eight weeks of scrutiny all bottled up?

“I need to get the fuck out,” I thought. “I’ll move.”

I began thinking in terms of other Canadian cities for an experience. Victoria, Calgary, and Whitehorse (in the Yukon) were the choices, I thought. Someone offered that Whitehorse had a “job boom” going on, and that should be priority one. I swallowed that line, then checked into it: 24% unemployment. Shit, I thought. Ah, well, can’t hurt. Calgary and Victoria were cities, more of the same. The Yukon, I thought, would be an experience. I was all about the experience then, as I am now.

During that eight weeks, I couldn’t really drive until about week 6 or 7. I was going insane. There were no buses, I lived in the boonies, none of my friends would visit, my life was at the most boring standstill ever. I was watching Donahue and Oprah on a daily basis, and felt as close to suicidal as I’ve probably ever been (which is to say not that close).

The first day I could be mobile, I got the hell into my car, zipped into the city, checked out the library for a Yukon phone book, jotted down addresses and names of any business I had applicable skills for, and then went off to the always awesome Benny’s Bagels to get into a little work.

I sent off 35 form letters and resumes to those businesses in question on that Tuesday afternoon, and returned to my open-face pizza bagel with great trepidation. Now, I would wait.