Idle hands are the devil’s tools
October 03, 2011
At the tender age of 17, I was hospitalized for some time after being far outmatched by a car. As mangled as my body was, I’m told that my bike was an absolute write-off. Leaving only his windshield at the scene, this guy really rang my bell. In a coma for three days, when I woke up, my head was pounding, and it didn’t stop. For three weeks, I had a headache. As pretty as some of those nurses were, and they were, I was utterly unresponsive.
My family doctor later advised that there was some question as to how I had survived the ordeal, and for a time, whether I would. He guessed that my instincts from high school wrestling had taught me how to take a fall. I guess Master Po’s practice sessions (older brother, Brad, who was the provincial champion for his weight class) on a concrete basement floor, with me as the ‘fall’ guy, paid dividends after all.
The only thing worse than my pounding head was the food. Everything they say about hospital food is true. They wouldn’t let me leave the hospital, though, until the headaches stopped. When I finally figured that out, I lied, just to save myself from the food. When they tell you that more people die from a stay in the hospital than from what put them there, they’d be right in my judgement. For those of you not familiar with Harvey’s, they do make a hamburger, “a beautiful thing.” Cured my headache immediately.
I spent the rest of that Summer hobbling around, learning to walk again, by sight. You see, my sense of balance had taken a major hit with the skull fracture behind my right ear. As some of my friends will tell you, I’ve been out-of-balance ever since.
I tell you this story only so I could tell you this one. One of my closest friends, Morris, who is still among my closest friends, had a summer job at that Kitchener hospital. During my stay, he spent more of his shift visiting me than he did working. Rattled though my head was, it didn’t escape me that this was a good gig. Unionized pay, something in the area of $10 per hour while the rest of us were scrambling somewhere around $3.65… and without the stink of a fish and chips kitchen (my lot in life back then).
With Summer drawing to a close, and my pockets empty, I considered my options. First stop was to head back to St. Mary’s Hospital, looking for a job like the one Morris had. Got lucky and landed one in Housekeeping. This meant either mopping floors, or running the incinerator.
The incinerator was an interesting assignment, especially when the nurses disregarded instructions on where NOT to place sealed empty glass bottles. Think about that one for a moment. Already with one deaf ear, owing to the car accident, some of my incinerator experiences challenged the hearing of people from the other side of the hospital. This noted, the incinerator job was a busy one, trekking throughout the wards, collecting garbage into a rolling bin, then back to the incinerator to make my contribution to the hospital’s carbon footprint. Suited me just fine.
The floor mopping detail was another matter altogether. As I recall, the task was to dry mop and wet mop my assigned floor(s) including the corridor, the nurse’s station, and all ward rooms. No great challenge. On my first day of mop duty, I diligently pursued my task (as in, appropriate early-in-life Due Diligence, I should say). Working steadily, about two hours into the shift, I looked at my watch. Okay, I’m done the job. What now? Shrugging my shoulders, I marched back to the housekeeping office, looking for my next assignment. I was intercepted by the union steward before I got there. He grabbed my arm and pulled me aside, asking where I was going and why. When I told him, he went ballistic. “What do you think you’re doing, trying to destroy a good thing? Are you nuts or something?” “Well,” I answered. “What am I supposed to do with the rest of the day?” “Go mop the floors again,” he said, “if you can’t think of something to do… or go hide in the mop closet [two feet by four feet, and full of toxic fumes, to be sure]. Next time, don’t be in such a hurry. Take your time. This is a good thing. Don’t ruin it for the rest of us.”
I am reminded of the old saying, “Idle hands are the devil’s tools.” I asked for the incinerator assignment, wherever possible, after that.
Like others, in the absence of forward movement (the much anticipated drilling resumption news for Southern Arc), I find myself without much to do today. Boredom, more than anything, however, is my worst enemy. Can’t sit still for long, except when punching a keyboard. As I mentioned a couple of hours ago to my friend, Morris, “I’m tempted to just pack up for the day and go to the gym… or maybe I’ll write something.” With this short missive, you know my choice. No contest, really.
Not recommending. Not judging. Just thinking out loud. Doing (anything) is the answer to boring.
Now, it’s 1:51 p.m. The gym option is still out there, I guess.
Best,
Kevin