The Horny Creek Chronicles, V: Meat, Mafia and Mayhem

One of the more frustrating elements to my position at the Beggar's Market location, over and above the abysmal music and the smelly, cheap customers, was the close proximity of the company's head office. Horny Creek HQ was located directly across the street, placing all the upper-echelon management literally within spitting distance of my front door – our spit or theirs, depending on the day.

HQ was built inside a renovated warehouse, because Beggar's Market is made up exclusively of industrial buildings (so they didn't have a lot of choice), and besides, rent is cheaper. The ramshackle offices, more-or-less makeshift cubicles separated from one another by fabric-covered dividers on wheels, were home to the highest-paid members of the Horny Creek team, including the President, VP of Marketing, VP of Advertising (I know they're the same thing, but they had a different person working each role), Area Manager, District Manager, and a host of sundry corporate-level types. The place looked less like the functioning nerve center of a nation-wide clothing chain, and more like a college dorm room hastily converted into a workspace. Posters and promotional materials that were literally years out of date lay strewn around the common areas, sun-faded and half-torn. Discarded Styrofoam coffee cups were left all over every conceivable surface, where those surfaces weren't taken up by stacks of "confidential" documents carelessly left out for anyone to casually pick up and look over (which I did). Corporate drones could be seen wandering between the cubicles, looking very much like a bunch of confused Israelites without a Moses. Set this scene to a "Worst of the mid-90s Pop-Punk" soundtrack, and you begin to understand why Horny Creek worked the way it did. Or didn't, depending on your perspective.

Horny Creek was owned by a much larger international conglomerate, called "Worldwide Tailors". It so happened that the WT head office shared the same space as Horny Creek's HQ, so in addition to the head honchos of our own company, we also had to deal with the evil overlord of Worldwide Tailors, the owner of Horny Creek and its affiliates. This man's influence is vast and his agents are frighteningly efficient, so I will refer to him by the moniker Jebediah. Seriously, I'm actually afraid to talk about this guy even using a pseudonym, but in the interest of sharing a good story, my fear won't stop me. I'll get back to Jebediah later.

When I started work at Beggar's Market, I had no idea the big cheeses for the whole company were just a hop, skip and bumblefuck away. That is, not until I met my good friend "Ivan". I mentioned earlier that the buildings of Beggar's Market were all industrial space – warehouses and the like. Areas like that in Toronto are notoriously devoid of any other kind of business space, so that means no restaurants, no convenience stores, no coffee shops – basically nowhere to get food or drinks within a fifteen-minute walking radius. But Beggar's Market got a lot of pedestrian traffic, especially in the summer, so you wind up with a great untapped market of hungry, thirsty bargain-hunters who are willing to leg it all day long up and down the street looking for the right deal, but who are too lazy to walk out to a main road to grab a bite to eat. As a result, the sidewalks of Beggar's Market became a popular staging ground for the meccas of Torontonian roadside dining: the street meat vendor.

Every big city has street meat vendors. Everywhere you go, you're basically guaranteed to get the same general menu (sausage, hot sausage, veggie sausage, cans of cola) and the same level of quality (somewhere just above ground-up dog). For a measly two or three dollars, you can enjoy a "Polish" sausage on a bun with your choice of various over-salted, sun-sogged condiments, and a warm can of Sprite. It might not sound appetizing, but Beggars can't really be choosers (har har). Besides, there's nothing like getting your lunch from a cart that looks like it should have a horse attached to it.

The proprietor of our local cart, stationed just outside Horny Creek HQ, was a very large, imposing man of Ukrainian descent called Ivan. I feel safe using his real name in this context because let's face it: Ukrainian street-meat vendors called Ivan aren't exactly in short supply in this city. I first met Ivan while out for a smoke break some time after the Horrible Tent Day. I had just lit up when a huge, thick-accented voice came booming across the street.

Ivan: HEY! HEY YOU!

Alex: Who? Me?

Ivan: YES! YES! YOU!

Alex: …can I help you?

Ivan: YOU COME OVER HERE!

Alex: Um…why?

Ivan: YOU COME OVER HERE NOW!

Alex: …okay.

I don't really know what possessed me to come when called by a huge European brandishing tongs and a big knife, especially since there was a street separating us and I probably could have safely ignored him or ducked back into the store and hidden under a clothing unit for the rest of the day. I can only put it down to the conditioning I received working my first-ever job at a Greek restaurant (story coming soon). At any rate, I crossed the street against my better judgment. I was discomfited to see that Ivan was even bigger and hairier than he had appeared from a distance, a fact exacerbated by his absolutely enormous, piercing blue eyes, that rolled wildly in his head as I cautiously approached the cart.

Ivan: HELLO! I HAVE NEVER SEEN YOU BEFORE! WHO ARE YOU?

The volume of his voice didn't change despite the fact that we were no longer conversing across a street. I jumped again.

Alex: Ah, my name's Alex. I just started working at Horny Creek across the street.

Ivan: (sticking out his huge, meaty paw) ALEX! I AM IVAN! WE ARE FRIENDS NOW!

Alex: It's…a pleasure to meet you Ivan.

I awkwardly tried to shake his hand, which was difficult since it was covered in soot and dwarfed my own by about three sizes. When we clasped palms, his fingers crunched inward like a vise, and I physically had to refrain from wincing as I heard the unmistakable popping noise of dislocated bones.

Ivan: TELL ME MY FRIEND, DO YOU HAVE AN EXTRA CIGARETTE?

Normally I make it a rule not to give out cigarettes to anyone, unless they happen to be a very attractive woman who is also nice to me. It's an expensive habit, I'm not a vending machine, and anyway I'm possessive of my cancer. But in this situation, especially since Ivan's Right Hand of Doom was still strangling my precious guitar-playing fingers, I decided that rules were made to be broken. Kind of like my hand, apparently.

Alex: Sure thing Ivan, here you go.

Ivan: THANK YOU MY NEW FRIEND! IN RETURN FOR YOUR KINDNESS I WILL GIVE YOU A SAUSAGE AND A CARBONATED BEVERAGE OF YOUR CHOICE!

Prior to this day, I had never met anyone who spoke like an NPC from a Zelda game. Ivan finally released his death grip on my right hand, which had been rapidly turning blue and losing feeling. He expertly sliced up and cooked my hot dog and rapidly produced it along with a can of Dr. Pepper for my culinary enjoyment. During this time he filled me in on his background (emigrated from the Ukraine ten years ago, has been running the street meat stand all over the city since then), spoke proudly of his children (both in medical school – probably on financial aid) and his wife (also a street-meat vendor, go figure). He spoke around the bobbing cigarette in his lips like a pro, and his large, intense eyes never left mine for a second of the whole exchange. He also never lowered the volume of his voice. I decided that even though Ivan was probably functionally deaf and maybe a little too friendly for my liking, he was still a pretty cool guy. Then he dropped this bomb on me:

Ivan: SO I HAVE BEEN GETTING TO KNOW YOUR EMPLOYERS LATELY, HA HA HA!

I forgot to mention that Ivan laughed a lot, very loudly, and I'm willing to bet the cadence of his infectious-yet-frightening guffaw is a dead ringer for Rasputin.

Alex: Oh yeah? Which ones? We seem to go through a lot of managers around here.

Ivan: NO MY FRIEND! I REFER TO THE OVERSEERS OF YOUR COMPANY, WHO WORK IN THE BUILDING DIRECTLY BEHIND ME! HA HA HA!

Alex: Wait a minute. You're telling me that Head Office is right here? (pointing) Like, right there?

Ivan: (pointing to the next building in line) ACTUALLY, OVER THERE.

I froze in place, unsure how to proceed. Thanks to meeting Tony, my general outlook on the Horny Creek job was improving (if by "improving" I mean "fewer thoughts of suicide", which I do), but this news was unsettling to say the least. When I worked at Horny Creek up north years prior, an impending visit from the Head Office team meant days of feverish preparation – in other words, actual work. I had become quite complacent in my position at the warehouse, and didn't want to see my days of hanging out with Tony and ragging on customers curtailed by the presence of Horny Creek brass right across the street.

As if on cue, Lisa (the tiny Asian manager of the week) burst through the door of the warehouse, eyes open as wide as I'd ever seen in her people, screaming my name. I thanked Ivan and dashed back across the road, thinking some psychotic customer had invaded the "damaged rack" and was trying on the blood-covered boxer shorts. Breathless, I charged up to Lisa and demanded to know the cause for alarm. She grabbed my arm and dragged me inside.

Lisa: They're coming! They're coming?

Alex: …What? Who's coming? The army of the dead? The body snatchers? S-Club 7?

Lisa: The head office team, idiot!

Alex: Really? Which ones?

Lisa: ALL OF THEM!

Oh boy, here we go. Now, to be fair, I wasn't really as concerned as I later discovered I should have been. As I mentioned before I was used to periodic visits from head office bigwigs when I worked up north, so I assumed this would be a similar visit: a lot of snooty remarks about the state of the floor plan, a few patronizing "hints" on customer approach techniques, and a brief meeting / pep rally to halfheartedly attempt to improve morale, and that would be it. The whole ordeal could be sped along by an appropriate application of lips-to-ass, and head office would be on their way so I could get back to doing nothing. I said as much to Lisa, and she looked at me like I had just told her I was a card-carrying member of the Flat Earth Society.

Lisa: I know you worked at Horny North, so you don't understand what it's like to work for a store in the city. Up there, you got visits from – what, a district manager now and again?

Alex: Well, actually, I met the President of the company once.

Lisa: Which one?

Alex: Gary.

Lisa: Gary hasn't been President in years, probably not since you left Horny North. In fact, I think we've had three presidents since him.

We were talking about a three-year time span. The company had had three presidents in three years. The whole Mary/Shawna debacle was beginning to make more and more sense.

Alex: Okay, so what should I expect out of this visit?

Lisa: Ever heard of the Spanish Inquisition?

Alex: Well, yeah, but it can't be that bad.

Lisa: (stony glare)

Alex: When do they arrive?

Lisa: Whenever they want. And before you ask they'll probably be here the rest of the day. In fact they'll definitely be here the rest of the day.

Alex: How often do they tend to come by?

Lisa: At least four times a week. You should probably invest in a hip flask.

With that the front door swung open, and the people who were to command my destiny in the coming months tramped into my life with all the subtlety of a cadre of Hannibal's elephants. The Freak Parade continues.