THE YEAR OF RENDING
The Ambler’s 2003 formed a perfect unity. It began
with terror followed by a seven-mile walk; it ended with a
seven-mile walk followed by terror.
My employment by United Western Communications (though
not their contractual obligation to me) ended June 20. As
is customary, I received an official Record of Employment
(ROE) from them shortly afterward. I paid little attention
to it and merely passed it on to a Victoria Human
Resources Development Canada (HRDC) office. This was a
serious error.
In late November, I received a notification from HRDC
that my unemployment benefits were to end
"soon." Around that time a friend of mine who
had been laid off from the magazine when I had been called
HRDC to ask when his benefits would expire. He was told
March. "Soon" enough, it seemed to me. Two weeks
ago, I received only week’s worth of benefits instead of
two. A few days later, a notice arrived stating my
benefits had been "exhausted." This was much
sooner than I had expected.
I called HRDC last week for an explanation. I was
informed that benefit length was determined by the number
of total insurable hours as determined by my ex-employer
and declared in box 15A of the ROE. According to this
document, my hours totalled 1,050. This was a gross and
inexplicable error.
I told the woman at HRDC that by my count 52 weeks
times 35 hours equalled 1,820 hours. (I later received a
copy of my friend’s ROE. The number in Box 15A was
2,025.) She suggested I find my 2002 Income Tax T4 record
and my pay stubs for 2003 and bring them to an HRDC
office. I had not yet comprehended the gravity of my
situation.
I found my T4 and all but two of my pay stubs. I took
them to the downtown HRDC office Monday. The woman at
reception expressed irritation at my presence: her office
did not collect records. This was news to me, as I had
twice earlier deposited records at this office. She made
copies of the records and told me they would be forwarded
to the Borden Street office (five miles closer to my home,
as it turns out).
I called HRDC Tuesday to inquire as to my status. A man
at the Vancouver regional office informed me my file was
"closed." I asked what this meant. He explained
I would receive no further benefits until my
"appeal" had been judged. A terrible sickness
came upon me. How long would this take? It could take five
business days for my documents to be transferred to the
Borden Street office. After that, a decision would be made
within four weeks.
The gravity of my situation was now all too apparent.
HRDC owed me $1,152 (and counting). I was almost
penniless. There was no food in the house, utility
payments were due, and I owed my landlord $850: the
balance for December. That dying scorpion, United Western
Communications, had stung me again, perhaps fatally.
Tuesday afternoon, Tuesday evening, Wednesday morning.
Wrath, anguish and despair.
I called Citizens
Elsewhere (owner of UWC and successor
company to it) Wednesday morning inquiring about an
amended ROE. The result was inconclusive. In any event,
even an amended ROE wouldn’t bring the appeal judgment
any closer.
At noon, I headed south on foot down Quadra Street, as
I had bus fare for one way only. I was seeking emergency
financial aid. I arrived downtown 90 minutes later and
searched for Mason Street. Not for the first time, I had
got hopelessly lost north of Quadra. I scurried hither and
thither, my panic rising. I asked close to a dozen people
for directions; most professed ignorance, others
wrong-footed me. I finally found someone who knew where I
should go. As I headed south on Mason, I realized I had
passed within two blocks of my destination several times.
Upon the threshold, I realized I had passed within 100
feet of it an hour earlier.
A group of motley youths loitered in front of the
office. One had a pit bull on a leash; the dog worried a
traffic cone to considerable and colourful effect. I went
inside and spoke to a kindly woman. She informed me there
was nothing her office could do for me that day. She
suggested I return Friday. I spent my last $1.75 on the
bus ride homeward.
My landlord, having not received his $850 that day, had
called. After several hundred deep breaths, I returned his
call. I explained my situation. He explained his. The
delays in my rent payments had increased the cost of his
mortgage payments; now he would have to borrow money.
Despite this, he decided not to evict me and my family.
The gravity of my situation has thrust me down to the
nadir. I will not ask for aid from my readers. Nor will I
ask for sympathy. I understand it has been exhausted, just
like my benefits. I am the author of my misfortunes. For
too long I had tolerated the intolerable: the
unconscionable humiliations meted out by the Byfield
family. I am not a stupid man, only a passive one. I knew
they would rid themselves of me, but I also knew that if I
kept my head down they could not do so with cause. I was
not going to be cheated of my due, or so I thought. They
did so regardless and continue on their merry way.
A salaried income is a great comfort. For most it is
the bedrock of security. But no job is worth a man’s
spirit. For there comes a point when the weight of
cumulative indignities will crush him, and this I allowed
to happen. Every two weeks for three years I sat at my
desk on a conference call to Edmonton, seething, vowing
that any further gratuitous insults or scurrilous abuse
from Mike Byfield would be met with this considered
response (please forgive the profanity): You will never
fucking speak to me in this manner again. But I
always funked it. For my last nine months at The Report,
as the magazine careened toward disaster, and I was jerked
about from one job to another, I vowed that the next time
I spoke to Link Byfield I would deliver this considered
judgment (again, forgive the profanity): Appointing
Mike Byfield editor or policy editor or editor-at-large or
to any editorial position whatsoever is akin to Caligula
appointing his horse consul, except that Incitatus (the
horse in question) would be a better editor than your
brother, and everyone in this organization fucking
knows it. But I always funked it.
I seethe now, as I remember. Enough. Let the
dead bury their dead. I have been dead in spirit for a
whole year. So consumed was I with bitterness and
resentment I became a rank coward. I lost my bottle, as
the British say. As I sat at my keyboard working on
commissioned pieces, waves of fear and revulsion rolled
over me. I abandoned more than I care to remember. On
Christmas Eve, I snapped. My innocent family, having
already suffered so much, felt the force of my impotent
rage.
A week later, after the dying scorpion’s sting, I am
truly spent. But my wound is not fatal. 2004, will be, God
willing, a year of rebirth. The Byfields can go to blazes
(and probably shall). Their name shall not pass my lips
again.
To every thing there is a
season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and
a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down,
and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and
a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones
together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from
embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a
time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence,
and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a
time of peace.
My year of rending has passed. It’s time to sew
again.
Kevin
Michael Grace, 3.08 a.m., January 1, 2004►
