Bell Canada Employees in Ottawa

The first time I saw ( my future girlfriend ) Lynne Sinclair, she frigging pissed me off. I was twenty two, working an overnight Security gig at the national Telephone Company in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. The midnight to eight shift sucks ass, man. Seriously. As the newest guy on a Security team of twelve, I was stuck doing it. Add to that the fact that I was beginning my second year as a Criminology student at Carleton University and you can see why I was not a happy camper. That morning, the elevators were malfunctioning. I put up the sign, in both English and French. Amazingly, a lot of the Telephone Company employees kept coming up to the Security desk, asking stupid questions. I felt like telling them where to stuff it, but I had rent and groceries to worry about so I held my tongue.

Lynne came in. Five-foot-seven, slim but somehow curvy, with alabaster skin, curly dark brown hair and pale blue eyes. Oh, and cute butt too. The first time I saw her I couldn't see all that because I was too busy telling myself silently that strangling Company employees would be bad for business. Even though there were bilingual signs in front of the elevators, this White woman who spoke English with the ridiculous French-Canadian accent from Quebec, had to gall to complain to me. I am not an elevator repairman. I'm just overnight Security at the Telephone Company in downtown Ottawa. The elevators malfunctioning are a technical problem for the building superintendent and management to handle, not the Security guy making eleven dollars and fifty cents per hour, you dig? Like a lot of Quebec women, Lynne had a temper. I told her in a flat tone that she could take the stairs. Grumpily she groaned and then took the stairs. I watched her shapely ass as she walked away, once again wishing I worked in Toronto, where Quebecers are scarce.

Unfortunately, it's my lot in life to always draw the short end of the stick. I'm the lowest paid of the Security Guards at the national Telephone Company in Ottawa, Ontario. I've been with the Security Company for six months, long enough to make union but not long enough apparently to merit a bump in pay. I also happen to be an international student at Carleton University, meaning that I pay three times what Canadian students pay. The average student at Carleton University pays five hundred dollars per class, plus tax. I'm paying fifteen hundred dollars per class, plus tax. All because I'm not from around here. I was born in the City of Cap-Haitien in North Haiti, but spent the past eleven years in the City of Brockton, Massachusetts. I lived in America long enough to become a naturalized U.S. Citizen, which doesn't mean squat if you're living in Canada.

Yeah, I wasn't having the best of mornings, or the best of months when I first met Lynne. However, while at the Telephone Company she would prove to be one of my closest pals. A Haitian guy raised in New England and an arrogant, self-important French-Canadian woman from Montreal, Quebec. What are the odds? Anyhow, the next time I saw Lynne, she seemed to be in a much better mood. She was heading to the Tim Horton's restaurant located nearby and asked me if I wanted anything. Truth be told, it was seven in the morning and my last meal was some Chinese food from Manchu Wok which I ate at the Saint Laurent Mall the night before. I hadn't eaten anything in twelve hours. I know that as a Security Guard, I'm not supposed to accept anything from clients because it might constitute a bribe but I was desperately hungry so I accepted Lynne's offer.

Five minutes later Lynne came back, around the same time that my Supervisor, a French guy named Guillaume, showed up. Guillaume saw me accepting a cup of coffee and an egg sandwich from Lynne, and he got mad as hell. I looked at Guillaume. He's only five-foot-five, a red-haired, chubby White guy in his fifties. As a six-foot-two, 250-pound Black man, I could crush him. However, I held my tongue because I wasn't trying to get fired. Being scolded by my Supervisor in front of a woman embarrassed me like you would not believe. I was this close to losing my temper and telling Guillaume to shut his filthy French mouth but Lynne beat me to the punch. The short White lady actually grabbed my Supervisor's arm, and told him he had no right to talk to me that way. Then she walked away, saying she'd mention his conduct to her manager. I stood there, fighting the urge to smile. Guillaume stared at me, wondering what just happened. How about that? The bastard tried to scold me and he's the one who got punished for it. Life is funny that way.

Guillaume sat in a chair, mumbling to himself aloud, wondering if he'd get fired. Since he was in a vulnerable state, I asked him for my work I.D. I've been working the overnight Security detail at the Telephone Company in downtown Ottawa for the past six months. Every employee working in the building, from the phone Company operators to the technicians and the cleaning crew, have their ID badges. I've been here longer than some of them, and I've yet to receive my badge. Every time I asked Guillaume for it he kept giving me the brush off. Well, the next morning, I got my ID card, along with an apology from Guillaume. I calmly looked at my ID. It was a nice picture of me. For once they actually got my name right, Stephen Vincent-Cherubim. I took the badge from Guillaume, smiled coldly at him and grinned behind his back as he went up to the tower. When Lynne came, I was all smiles. She stopped by the Security Guard, noticed my ID badge and, being tactile just like all Quebec people, she touched it. Smiling, she uttered my name the French way, and said it was a pretty name. I smiled and thanked her. Grinning, she wished me a good day then went into the elevator.

I watched Lynne walk away. She's so nice! Cute butt too. I was still smiling when Guillaume came in and went into the tower that was his usual post for the day. I was still smiling when I walked from the Telephone Company headquarters in downtown Ottawa to the Rideau Shopping Center. I went downstairs and took the number eighteen bus to Vanier. I got off on Donald Street and walked home. My three-bedroom apartment which I share with a roommate costs five hundred a month, plus utilities. That's why I have to work. I got home at nine in the morning and slept until one in the afternoon. Then I took the number nine bus to Hurdman Station, followed by the number four bus to Carleton University. I am taking three classes this semester. On top of having a job. I work five days a week, by the way. It's how I pay both rent and tuition. Yay for me!

That morning, I lay in bed, unable to sleep in spite of my being super tired after the overnight shift. I was thinking about Lynne. Hmmm. I woke up around noon, and went to Island Sun Restaurant, a Haitian-owned joint in Vanier. Guess who I ran into there? It was Lynne. What the fuck? She seemed doubly surprised to see me. Raising her eyebrows, she asked me what in hell I was doing there. I crossed my arms. I'm a Haitian brother in a Haitian restaurant! Lynne smiled, and told me that she discovered Haitian cuisine while living in Montreal-Nord, Quebec. And she'd been hooked ever since. I smiled. True that. A lot of Quebec people love Haitian food. I picked up my food, paid the twelve bucks to the cook and went to a table. Lynne picked up her tray of food, and asked me if she could join me. I nodded. I looked at her. A White woman devouring her plate of rice and beans, pork and chicken thighs. And she washed it down with some of our cook's homemade lemonade. Hmmm.

Lynne and I spent most of her ninety-minute break eating and talking. I learned that she'd been a patron of the Island Sun Restaurant for years. And she was an okay chick. I told her a bit about me. My early years in the City of Cap-Haitien, Haiti, and my sojourn to the City of Brockton, Massachusetts with my parents, Paul and Francoise. My years at Brockton Community College, where I studied Criminal Justice, and how I watched Boston and the rest of Massachusetts slowly succumb to the Recession, which was followed by crime, poverty and lawlessness. How I opted to study in Ottawa, Ontario, instead of fighting overwhelming odds in the socio-economic nightmare that much of New England had become. Lynne listened to me attentively as I spoke. Before we knew it, time was up and she had to get back to work. Before she left, she gave me her cell phone number. Then she took off. I watched her go, surprised by everything which took place in the past hour and a half. Did I really just open up to someone I barely knew? I guess so.

By and large, I don't open up much to folks. It's just not something I do. I think it might have cost me many chances at love. Women don't seem to like guys like me. Not usually. I'm friendly, and open, but at the same time deeply private. My last relationship didn't end well. I went out with this tall, fine-looking young Black woman named Evelyn. A grad student at Carleton University's Sociology Institute. I cared for her a lot and thought we could have something. Unfortunately, Evelyn has a lot of bitterness inside. Leftover from her relationship with a Black guy who left her for a White female. I've always loved Black women and never really gave interracial dating much thought. However, after many dating disasters involving some not-so nice sisters, I was beginning to wonder. Was there something wrong with them or with me? I'm a decent-looking, educated brother who respects the sisters and I want to find someone to build something with. Sisters say they want a brother like me all the time. Yet in real life, they avoid me like the plague. Maybe it's time for this brother to embrace something new?

That night, I called Lynne and we had a nice chat. I learned a bit more about her. She was six years older than me, and graduated from the University of Montreal with a Master's degree in Communications. However, she worked a twenty-dollar per hour job as an Operator at the Telephone Company because that's all she could find in the Recession. Oh, and she was divorced. Her ex-husband, an Irish guy named Todd something or other, left her for a Chinese woman named Ming or Ping or something. That night, Lynne and I talked until the wee hours of the morning. I reminded her that she had the seven A.M. to three P.M. shift to work the next morning and she told me she had plenty of sleep the afternoon before. I nodded. Thanks to her, my usually boring shift went by quick. And when she greeted me that morning, she looked fresh as a rose. I smiled at her, amazed. She's really something, isn't she?

I enjoy talking to Lynne, and I think she's cool. I wanted to ask her out. Should I? Well, I did via texting. It's my favorite mode of communication. Less painful than face to face or telephone communication. I asked Lynne if she wanted to accompany me to a Carleton University men's basketball game. Our Ravens were taking on the University of Toronto men's basketball team. To my surprise, Lynne said yes. I went home, slept and then went to class. We met on campus, and I had to be her guide because she'd never been to Carleton University before. I walked her from the University Center to the Field House using the extensive tunnel system. She was amazed at that, noting that Carleton was like a small town. We walked together among hundreds of students heading there with their friends. I escorted Lynne and we stopped by Tim Horton's restaurant to grab some coffee and sandwiches. There was a long line at Timmy's so when Lynne asked for a bathroom break, I nodded. I stood in line, waiting for her.

As I stood waiting in line, I smiled. It's my first time at a Carleton University basketball game, to tell you the truth. I mainly go to class or stay in the library. I rarely participate in campus events. No time, you know. As I stood in line at Timmy's, I noticed a young Black woman looking at me. Standing there with her arm linked with a chubby White guy, she stared at me defiantly. I shook my head. I hate it when sisters do that. They're always trying to show off their White boyfriends to every Black man they encounter. It's annoying as hell. Black men don't show off their non-Black girlfriends to Black women. That's because we're not petty and our relationships aren't for show. Black girls play this petty game a lot and it gets annoying real fast. I wish I could tell that Black chick that I didn't care what color of man she dated. If she likes the Pillsbury dough guy, that's fine by me.

Something pulled me out of my dark thoughts. It was the cashier gal handing me two cups of coffee and egg sandwiches. I paid with my Royal Bank of Canada debit card and thanked her. As I turned to leave, there stood Lynne. She smiled at me, took a cup of coffee and kissed me on the cheek. I stood there, smiling. The Black woman with the chubby White boyfriend stared daggers at us as we walked away. I knew what she saw. Lynne and I enjoying each other's company because we like each other. Our relationship is based on our fondness for each other and we don't care what people think. I'm not showing her off and she's not showing me off either. We're not in it for other people. We're REAL. I linked my arm with Lynne, and we went to the basketball game. My day has already gotten better.