Burning Hunger

By Patrick Connors

Photo by Paul Edward Costa

Andrew King has a burning hunger. It keeps him from falling asleep during the long Queen street car ride westward to work, and from tuning out the lady who sits beside him to tell her story.

“My daughter is a witch. Oh, oh migawsh, can you believe that’s really a thing? She wear a, what you call, a pinta...penta-...”

“A pentagram,” Andrew says, conjuring up images of old heavy metal videos.

“Pentagram, that’s it, dear. She wears a pentagram around her neck, like gypsy. Like this, you see? She says it means nothing, but I am not stupid woman, I know better!

“Anyways, she dating this boy, nice Christian boy, named Dolinsky. “Dolinsky! Have you ever heard a Christian boy named Dolinsky?”

“No, I haven’t,” Andrew admits.

“Anyways, I think this boy thinks he can change my daughter. Or maybe he have something else to hide, if you know what I mean.”

“I honestly don’t,” Andrew shrugs.

“Oh, such a nice young man like you doesn’t need to listen to...Here’s my stop, anyways! Thank you putting up the ramblings of a lonely woman. I sure hope you not a writer. Have a nice day, now!”

“Thank you very much. You too.”

Andrew shakes his head, almost unsure if the conversation really happened, or if he perhaps imagined it during his typical morning reverie. He hopes it did happen, because he does like to listen. It keeps him from feeling like he is self-absorbed, pre-occupied with his burning hunger.

His burning hunger gets him through the morning greetings and other rituals, and the desire to turn them into a Monty Python skit. It gets him through his constitutional in the bathroom he fears may be rife with some malady. It keeps his hand from shaking too much as he gets his first coffee. It gets him through the clotted cream – not English style, merely left out too long the previous day –and the open sugar jar, granules clumped and dotted a dull brown.

It gets him through the tired one-one-one with the even more tired assistant manager, who has been having the same day for many years. It gets him through his first contact with the internal customer who grunts and groans and moans through a bad hangover, then ends the conversation proclaiming, “What a night I had last night!” It gets him through the second contact with the external customer who wants to know why things didn’t go right the first time.

It almost gets Andrew through his glimpse of her for whom his heart aches and has always ached in some ancient way which will never end: he goes over to talk to her, and now knows what was meant by whomever coined the curious phrase, ‘My heart was in my mouth.’

“G... mornin’, Gloria.”

“Good Morning, Andrew. You look nice today. How are you?”

Suddenly, he doesn’t know, but manages to say, “Um, fine,” and, “Have a nice day,” before going back to the break room to regroup.

He takes a deep breath, realizes who he is, reminded of his burning hunger. It gets Andrew through the drudgery of his work, which doesn’t challenge him, doesn’t force him to use his abilities, doesn’t appeal to his passion, which he accepts because it more than pays the bills, and that is, after all, what grown-ups do.

His burning hunger gets him through to lunchtime. Oh, how he loves to eat!

Sweet, sour, salty, spicy, it’s all good to him. No food is too exotic for Andrew. Today, though, it’s comfort food at a diner with his old friend Jeff, a courier who meets him on his rounds.

“Married life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Andrew. I mean, Shelley is great, and I love the girls, but it’s a great big hassle, you know what I mean?”

“Why is it impossible in the 21st century to get a club sandwich with mayonnaise already on it?”

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Marriage is a great big hassle,” Andrew paraphrases with frustration, as well as the underlying hope he will experience such difficulty himself.

From there he smiles and nods a lot, gets mayonnaise for his sandwich, gravy for his French fries, and another glass of iced tea. Andrew loves Jeff almost like a brother, but it seems like they have this conversation every time they meet. Sometimes it gets hard not to be cynical, to not anticipate the appropriate time to say, “Things will be different when...”

But Andrew likes Jeff’s company, and it keeps his mind off his burning hunger. * It gets him through the afternoon, the involuntary food coma, the inevitable confrontation with the bafflingly embittered co-worker, the insufferable afternoon meeting, which would be so much easier to fake interest in with the aid of fresh morning coffee.

Then, almost at the end of the work day, core duties done; a collective sigh of relief. Everyone shares their after-work itinerary, which somehow melds into one.

“I’ve got to take Jimmy to soccer practice. I’ve got a date with Gus. Tammy has her dance recital. Poor Bobbie (or is it Bobby) has to go to the Doctor with rickets.”

...Jimmy has taken to dance with the Doctor...Gus has a date with Tamy...Bobbie and Bobby at the Robbie for soccer...I’ve got to go to the ricket recital...or, words to that effect, which seem to have no effect...yet do...

Truth be told, sometimes – well, most days – Andrew longs for such mundanities and the order of the routine they would provide; the proof of apparent normalcy. But not today.

Today, it’s off to The Rex for hockey talk with the two co-workers he gets along with this week. Hockey is the great ice-breaker between men - with the right sort it can be the whole conversation. Plus, it keeps him from wondering what they might be saying about him to anyone else.

“What the Leafs need,” the oldest one says with a sense of authority, “is a power forward with some upside.”

“What they need,” says the younger one, eager to prove himself right, “is a number one defenseman not on the downside.”

Andrew has waited as long as he could, but now it is time to say his piece. “What they need is, a goalie who can make a save in the shootout.” Then, to make sure the argument was won, “Three more beers and three shots please!”

“Yessir.”

“You are the man, Andrew!”

“You are the king,” an unfortunate play on words which nearly halted the banter. “Actually, I prefer to think of myself as a king among men,” was Andrew’s retort, met by garrulous yet mirthless laughter.

It is so much easier, though much less meaningful, when the names of “the boys” change every week. No expectations, no promises of future fealty or companionship required, no one has to remember anyone’s birthday.

Everyone can be themselves, as long as they are not truly themselves. A composite of the perception of who the other two might really be, the image of the guy at the office you all want to be, your funny younger brother, and the hero of your former high school’s football team. You can have the best hours of your week like this, and you can reliably have them every week. You can even almost let your guard down.

Until it is time to go back to the burning hunger. *

Andrew leaves The Rex when the band comes on, his burning hunger numbed if not sated by the alcohol and the company. He would have liked to listen to some jazz, just to hear something different, but he knew if he stayed at the bar for another hour or two, he would never make it to work the next morning.

He realizes he forgot to go to the washroom before leaving as soon as he steps into an icy puddle. However, he wants to make sure he gets the eastbound streetcar for the long ride home, and knows he would never catch the next one if he went back inside.

The streetcar is packed, although past rush hour, and Andrew stands in a crowd of excited couples, their evening just begun. At University, many get off, bumping Andrew’s elbow or kicking his leg without apology. They are replaced by young families going home from who knows where, although apparently the same place. These are louder and more excited and even less concerned about Andrew’s personal space than the previous crowd.

Andrew feels, even thinks, these people have planned to make him miserable, or at least remind him of his loneliness, a sadness which turns his burning hunger into even more inaction, more self-pity.

By

Yonge

Street the car is half empty, so Andrew sits down, leans his head against the window. Through Riverdale, through Leslieville, he looks at everyone and everything which passes by, but sees nothing. He dozes off near Coxwell, for a few moments of the peace he rarely experiences during the night. He sees and is part of a light so bright, so warm, he feels nurtured and loved, forgets his selfish self-hating bitterness, embraces the unknown blessings which are to come.

“Next stop, Neville Park Boulevard,” announces the falsely soothing automated voice. “Last stop, sunshine,” admonishes the street car driver. “Wakey-wakey.”

“S-sorry,” Andrew gets himself together.

“Are you okay, buddy?”

“Well, I’m home.”

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