Nicholas's Cashier At Byward Market

The market wears the faces of the seasons. In the spring vendors set up their stands and sell maple syrup and maple sugar in decorative forms. The syrup is bottled in old wine bottles, gallon containers, small recycled corn syrup containers or anything else that comes to hand. And there's a bustling business done in starter-crops for backyard farmers - novices who want to dabble in dirt. They buy tomato plants, green pepper plants, onions, radishes and leeks. The more careful gardeners, those who have had experience don't buy cucumber plants, knowing how difficult these are to transplant.

In the summer months the street is a frenetic beehive. Vendors again set up stalls, larger stalls than the maple syrup people. These stalls often have a makeshift awning of some kind to keep the vendors and the produce dry through the summer rains. Early crops are sold then, and root crops left over from the previous autumn; until the lettuce and radishes and green onions come in, the offerings are sparse.

In the early autumn, Ottawa-Valley-grown tomatoes, bell peppers, cauliflower, onions, potatoes and corn make their appearance, as do cut flowers and greenhouse plants of every variety. A kaleidoscope of brilliant colour, a cornucopia of earth riches. Which abundance, of course, brings out the crowds and the tourists who come, not to buy, but to gawk and crowd the market streets,enhanced by the quaintness of it all.

Nicholas Schikle always felt annoyed about the crowds of fair-weather shoppers who made his own Saturday excursions to the market more hectic than he would like. Ideally, he wanted to savour everything, every last purchase, and to do that properly, a pleasant exchange between vendor and vendee was essential. Otherwise, he felt cheated. Otherwise he might as well shop at one of those supermarkets where everything was plastic and sterile, everyone anonymous. Where, he asked himself, as he waited for his passage to be eased up the street through the throngs, where were all these people in the miserable weather when the stall- and shopkeepers depended on some business to keep them going...?

He stopped about where he imagined the Biscuiteria would be. Nicholas is short, thin and sandy-haired. It's raining lightly and despite the crush, people are stupidly carrying umbrellas trying to keep dry while presenting a grave danger to passersby. He turns and squints at the blurred blue-and-white sign over the store. He's mildly astigmatic and forgot his glasses. Thrashing his way to the entrance of the store he hesitates, is finally pushed into the open doorway by an impatient shopper, a big woman who wants to get inside. The store is crowded; the fragrance of fresh bread, crusty rolls and delectable strudels rise to his nostrils. The clamour of the street noises almost recedes as he recalls other such stores, smaller, dingier, in his childhood.

Nicholas shifts his canvas shopping bag to free both arms and plucks down from some shelves beside the open door one black rye, one white with caraway. A woman dragging an unwilling child by the hand pushes her way past him, her handbag catching on the strap of his bag, pulling him further into the store. She looks back startled, her eyes flashing, ready to scream 'thief!', as he awkwardly attempts to disentangle himself.

Juggling his parcels, he waits for his turn at the cash register, relieved to see the short blond girl is there today, not the owner, a brusque man who always intimidates him. The memory of an incident that took place several weeks ago still rankles.

The breads are encased in plastic bags open at one end. Some are kept in large cardboard boxes on the floor. Once, Nicholas had chosen a bread and turned it over to discover a beetle crawling around inside the bag. Often enough he had seen people bring their dogs inside the store and the animals would snuffle the bags. Then, several weeks before, Nicholas had picked up a bread at the wrong end and the bread had dropped out of its bag onto the sawdust-covered floor. He'd turned to see whether anyone had noticed, then placed the bag back and selected another. Then he realized that any one of the breads he so carefully chose, pressing their plumb sides for freshness, could have been dropped by another customer, been put back, just as he had done.

"Why don't you tie the ends of the bread bags?" he asked the proprietor.

"That's how we get them from the baker."

"But then - they should tie the bags there!"

"They're still warm when we get them. Would you like your bread mouldy? that's what would happen if the bags were closed before they cooled." The man looked at him morosely and Nicholas imagined how much he was disliked by this man. He turned away with his two breads and flushed when he heard, as he attempted to push his way out of the store, the proprietor speaking to someone: "Pests! You just can't please some people!"

Should he call the Health Department, he wondered. But no, the man might know that it was him ... suspect him anyway, and then where would he get those breads?

Outside, he saw the drizzle had let up. the crowd seemed denser. On the way to his next stop he managed to squeeze next to a stand to buy green onions, a Chinese radish, some endive. "Merci", he said to the woman, counting his change in French. The only French word he knew, as it happened. He would have to do something about that, he told himself again.

Once more pressing through the throng, a burly young man thrust a newspaper before him, asking, "working class paper?" One of them was always there selling that paper. Once, he'd bought one. It read like a communist manifesto; hysterical denunciations of capitalists, the government, the straight press, the bourgeoisie. Interesting, how people could believe that tired dogma.

In another store, he plastic-bagged a chunk of feta cheese, then half-filled another bag with sauerkraut. Similar to, but not quite like the sauerkraut he remembered in Kitchener. He chose the mushrooms he wanted, dropped them into a paper bag - big caps, short stems. He remembered his anger at being told in another store that he couldn't do that, couldn't select his own.

"Which of the apples is better?", he asked the big Hungarian behind the counter, "the yellow or the red?" The man shrugged, lifting ginger eyebrows. "some like blonds, some like redheads. You hef to make up your own mind."

Nicholas always took his purchases to the man's cash register. He disliked going to the man's wife, a sour-faced, impatient woman with hard eyes. This woman had once mortified a customer who had attempted, unobtrusively to be served before his proper turn. "Ged oud!" she'd shrilled. "Oud of this store! We don' serve customers like you." Piercingly, so that all eyes in the store swivelled to scrutinize the poor wretch who'd hurried out without his selections.

He hadn't always shopped at that store. At one time he'd given most of his custom to the corner store. That store was long and wide, arranged so that four cash registers sat at the narrow end of the store next to the doors. There were two women he'd got to know well. One about the age Nicholas's mother would have been now, the other a few years older than Nicholas himself. They looked after him, one like a mother, the other like a ... sister.

"Those oranges are no good. Here, just a minute, I'll get you better ones", the older woman might say and then leave him waiting at the cash register while she quickly picked better ones. And if he splurged in the winter and bought a pint of imported strawberries, he'd always ask her first whether they were fresh. Often as not they weren't, and before she had adopted him he had occasionally taken home a box to find the top layer good and those underneath fuzzy with mould.

The younger woman shared recipes with him, told him how to prepare eggplant, how to grow his own beansprouts. He never bothered though, with the bean sprouts, preferring to buy them already sprouted. He knew she was married, she wore a wedding ring. She always wore several short gold chains around her neck, with religious medals on them. She was slim, with an olive complexion and dark straight hair, cut short.

"Going out tonight?", she'd tease him.

"If you go with me."

"Are you inviting my husband too, and our two children?" she'd ask teasingly, flashing her dark eyes.

The truth was Nicholas seldom went out on dates. He'd always been shy with girls other than his sister, his cousins. And here in Ottawa, his experience with the women who worked in his office had soured his expectations of women even further. A worse bunch of office misfits he'd never imagined. All they ever seemed to do was go on interminable coffee breaks.

They used a pool system there, like most government offices. Once he'd spoken to his Head, said, "Look, give me one of those girls ... I mean why not break up the pool and assign each of us our own helper? It's more practical, surely?" When what he'd really wanted to say was I'd soon get one of them to move when I want something done - what he was thinking was you're such a nice guy you just can't bring yourself to tell them to get off their backsides to get something done for a change. He didn't say any of those things to his Section Head,but they were what he was thinking. Nothing ever came of it, it just wasn't done like that.

Those two women who worked in the corner store were different, they worked hard, had a sense of integrity. And if the olive-skinned one hadn't been married, a mother of children, if she were available, he would have asked her out.

God knew, he was lonely enough. His apartment in Centretown could be called that only by the wildest stretch of a hopeful imagination. A combination kitchen-sitting room and a dingy bedroom, furnished. He had to keep anything edible in the battered refrigerator. Mice; he'd found their droppings around the floor and in cupboards, heard their scuttling at night.

Everything he owned, with the exception of his bicycle, two suits and his books, could fit comfortably in a medium-sized cardboard box. He was still paying back his student loan and sending money home to help Margarethe run the house, look after their father.

Yes, he was lonely. Yes, he would like to have the company of an attractive, intelligent woman. And he did believe there must be some intelligent, nubile women around, somewhere.

He used to fantasize about her, the younger one at the corner store. that he would take her out, they'd laugh together, go for long walks, tell one another all kinds of interesting and ridiculous things. Sometimes his thoughts turned feverish at night, in the dark, in his bed. He imagined her soft body beside his. Her hands, slim and impatient, stroking him. He wanted to think those things, yet he didn't want to. They left him frustrated, inept at dealing with realities.

Once, in the winter, he was at the store, the older woman looking after him and he'd asked about the younger one, where she was.

"Doris?" Oh, she didn't come in today, called in sick. Not her though, she never gets sick. Must be one of the children was." And so he learned her name was Doris, and smiled gratefully at the older grey-haired woman, white uniform folded neatly over her thin chest, bustling his groceries into a bag, telling him to have a good week.

Sometimes he'd deliberately go to the older woman's check-out so he could covertly watch Doris as she busied herself with another customer's order. It seemed to him that she smiled more warmly at him, was more talkative with him than with any of the other customers.

In the winter she always wore a fuzzy yellow sweater over her uniform. The yellow made her hair look darker, like a glistening cap over her neat head. Sometimes the intensity with which he regarded her dizzied him.

He'd told himself his obsession with this unavailable woman was unhealthy, unnatural. You've got to meet some girl in a normal way, he told himself, make some kind of normal contact.

"Where were you last Saturday?" she asked brightly the following week. "I missed you."

"I was away for the weekend", he lied clumsily, feeling a traitor because he'd gone to another market store. How stupid, he told himself, it means nothing to her. But her face - so concerned - smiling so kindly at him; perhaps he did mean something to her?

He worked hard at the laboratory all week and looked forward to his little market forays on Saturday mornings. That brief time in the corner store when he would exchange pleasantries with the two women, fed his imagination with situations revolving around Doris.

He liked his work. It was painstaking and often rewarding, and he was constantly learning. Learning the exciting difference between abstract knowledge and empirical findings. He had plant specimens from out West to keep him busy for at least six months, classifying and coding. He'd soon be going out on a field trip, looked forward to that.

Besides all his reading he was taking a correspondence course in Business Administration. No special reason, just that he wanted to order his life better. Already he found himself able to keep files in better order and he'd made some very keen suggestions to Burt Howard, his chief. Burt seemed interested, but that was typical of Burt - he'd heard nothing since. Typical of a government office, Ted Stevenson told him. Ted had been around for years, knew the ropes. He was also a great spinner of tales. Like who was sleeping with whom at the office, and who was available. As though Nicholas cared. He'd like to though - he'd like to be able to take advantage of some tips he got from Ted, follow up on some of those leads, but he couldn't get Doris out of his head.

At lunch time, walking on the Mall with Ted, he'd nod his head politely at the proper intervals, Ted's voice a buzzing monotone. Everything went right through Nicholas's head. What if, he thought, what if I told Ted I have this crazy feeling for a married woman I don't really know at all; some woman who works as a cashier in a little market store. Why, he'd think I'm crazy!

One Saturday morning Nicholas took his handful of pears, his tangerines, apples, lettuce, carrots and leeks to Doris's check-out. She glanced up absent-mindedly, the smile slow, but soon it spread, lighting her face as she recognized him. From the next counter the other one lifted her head, saw him and flicked her hand in a gay salute. His weekly acknowledgement; he belonged.

"Lovely day Doris, isn't it?" He spoke the ritual banality, waited to hear her soothing voice say anything, anything at all.

"Yes it is, it certainly is, Mr. Schickle. Did you notice the special on nectarines?" And she ran off to bring forward a quart basket to the counter for his inspection.

"I'll take them, they look great ... a special treat. What would I do without you?" He hoped his voice sounded bantering, jocular, light, although he felt quite serious.

"Oh, you!" She laughed. Then her mouth turned down slightly at the corners, her eyes looked conspiratorial. She whispered: "I asked them for a raise."

"You ... I beg your pardon?"

"Them", she repeated emphatically, lifting her chin in the direction of one of the men at the weighing scales. "We both did". And he knew she meant the motherly cashier as well.

"Well, I hope you get your raise. You certainly deserve it!"

"Would you believe it ... eight years she's been working here, six years for me, and we never got a raise! It's crazy - don't you think?"

"I do, absolutely!" Nicholas replied, taken aback. His opinion was being sought. "That's shocking! After all ... the cost of living ..."

"That's what I said", she pounced triumphantly on his words, repeating them. "That's what I told them. Enough is enough! A raise, I said, or I'll go ... and she did too, she told them the same thing."

"Oh well, they'd never let you go, you two" Nicholas said, weakly. "You'd be too hard to replace."

"Hah! You don't know them! I don't think they'll give us more."

She took his five and gave him change, then began to place his food into a large paper bag, shook her head and instead filled a plastic shopping bag and flashed another smile at him.

"Well ... what ... I mean you won't quit? Where'll you get another job?" He felt panicky. Maybe they'd leave, both of them. What'll that do to my Saturday mornings?

During the week his mind was nagged by the thought of Doris, the two women, leaving the corner store. He tried to analyze his behaviour, his concern with those two. It was definitely unhealthy, he told himself firmly. I've got to get a grip on myself, maybe if I talked with someone? And on Thursday, walking again on the Mall with Ted, he was about to break into one of Ted's monologues, tell him, when their attention was arrested by the jangle of a bell and they stopped to watch a procession.

Men's voices lifted in an unnatural falsetto: "Hare Krisha Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare, Rama Hare, Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare". Bizarre, the sight of the men, eight of them, walking a single file, the first one ringing the bell, holding it daintily in his huge hand, ringing in time to the chant. Several others banging tambourines solemnly. A spiritual ritual. All the men wore beneficent expressions, all had shaven heads, a thin braid springing from their bare pates. Long white robes, sandalled feet. They took long strides, but gravely, the procession stately, except for one man who seemed to be doing an irrepressible little dance of sacred joy. Nicholas felt attracted to them, felt an indescribable anguish, felt that they had individually and collectively discovered some great happiness, some peace that was eluding him. He wondered vaguely if everyone felt that way, watching the men, dedicated to that esoteric religion, despite the crude jokes.

Ted's eyes bulged after them, he mouthed "poor slobs!" Then he turned to Nicholas. "See that guy? See the size of that guy? Christ! Wouldn't old Frederick William have loved to nab that one."

"What ... what?"

"King of Prussia ... the father of Freddie the Great. I was never that good in history, but this guy was such an oddball I remembered him. He had this thing about giants ... you know, big guys like that one. Used to have his soldiers raid neighbouring states - go on forays, just like talent scouts and bring back any big guys they could find. He liked to dress them up in uniform. They formed his personal guard and he'd look at all those huge guys, enjoying them. A real wierdo. Did you see the size of that one? It would take a dozen guys to hold him down."

Ted thought they were freaks. How could he possibly tell someone with such a literal mind about his problems?

That Saturday he almost dreaded going to the corner store, but he caught a glimpse of both women at their usual places before he entered and heaved a sigh of relief. He mentally castigated himself for his childish dependence. Almost lightheaded, he chose a red pepper, a large purple eggplant, a Spanish onion. He would ask Doris, he told himself, how to prepare them for a Greek salad. He felt great, a treat was in order ... a bagful of luscious, skin-bursting cherries.

At the check-out, placing his chunk of Mozzererela lovingly on the counter, leaning forward to reach for the rest of his selections, Doris started, noticing him for the first time. the store was packed with shoppers. She leaned forward, solemn-faced.

"This is the last time."

"?"

"We're going." Her voice low, controlled. His reaction was slow, fuddled. He stood speechless, forgetting the rest of his vegetables.

"We're going", she repeated, impatient with his lack of response.

"No raise?"

"No." She laughed, a small bitter bark. "Would you believe?"

"No. No ... I don't believe it."

"You'll come sometimes and see us?"

"See you? Where?"

"There. Across the street. We got other jobs, both of us. At the butcher, across the street."

Nicholas recoiled. A butcher shop?

"I'm ... I don't think so. I'm a vegetarian."

She looked at him curiously. "No meat? You don't eat no meat?" She shrugged. "Anyway, wave. Give us a wave sometimes, when you go by."

"Yes ... I'll wave sometimes ... when I go by."

He dreamed that night of approaching a bier with a rigid, greenish body laid out naked on it. His mother, it was his mother. But as he approached, the face changed and became Doris's. Then as he stood over the body it turned to a red slab of meat with a cleaver thrust in it and he was holding the handle of the cleaver. He awoke in a sweat, hearing himself screaming.

Nicholas missed his usual trip to the market the following Saturday. He stayed off work for a few days. Just a slight fever, a general feeling of malaise. Flu probably, he told Burt Howard, when he called in sick.

The Saturday after, he steeled himself to go in the corner store as though no change had taken place. Well, it wasn't so bad he told himself. It's just a place to shop, after all. And really, it wasn't so dreadful at all. There were two replacement cashiers, one short and plump and one tall, stringy female; girls really. They looked like they should still be in school. Maybe they were temporary help. They looked like most of the cashiers in the supermarkets, efficient and distant. The one Nicholas went to wouldn't even meet his eyes. Her hair needed a wash, hung long and greasy. Nicholas averted his eyes and dug for his money, silently handed her a ten.

He heard the ring of the register, held out his hand for change. Heard her count the money into his waiting hand, then the girl packed his purchases into a paper bag and as she packed Nicholas looked at the money in his hand, checked again the amount rung up on the register. Incredible! She'd given him change for a twenty. His first impulse was to correct her, give it back. After the first twinge, it wasn't too difficult to repress the impulse.

Let them pay, he thought, glancing at one of the men beside the tomatoes, weighing produce for a customer. They discarded quality, let them pay.

He never did bother waving. Nicholas just simply did not cross over to the other side of the street where the butcher shop stood. The women ceased to exist. Doris was a slab of red meat in a nightmare.

c. 2009 Rita Rosenfeld