Services Canada

The first alarm rings. 8:45 A.M. Daylight poured into the bedroom and I already knew that I was not going to do anything good with my day.

The second alarm rings. 9:08 A.M.

The first alarm is designed and methodical. I need to leave at 9:30 A.M.; I set the alarm to leave myself at least 45 minutes to prepare for the many challenges of my unchallenging day--dressing, washing, walking, reading, phone-checking, coffee-ing, breaking-the-fast, etc.

The second alarm is spontaneous. 9:08 A.M. Why eight minutes after nine? The only reason is chance. It was set by a drunken being who has nothing in common with the person who set the 8:45 AM alarm apart from 1) my body and 2) the necessary muscle memory to punch out my phone's passcode.

Ego, id. Whoever it may have been is ultimately of little importance: I was awake at least an hour before the first alarm, as always. Head spinning, room throbbing.

I will not do anything good with my day today.

I crank out an OOO email, fill out the recipients with the names that first come to mind and then CC the names that second come to mind. I don't even have the energy to attend a stand-up, which is all I really had planned today anyways. I check my email history to see when I last called out of work at the last minute. It's been almost three months. Feels reasonable. It's not like I have an office to be out of anyways.

10h45 - l'heure du rendez-vous at Service Canada. OK, OK. We have plenty of time. My head spins. The seconds stretch themselves into minutes. Suddenly, the hour and sixteen minutes that I had to get out the door have withered away into not-nearly-enough-time, into fragments of its former self, like a crisp twenty-dollar bill broken into loonies, quarters and nickels that lie cold and worthless in the palm of your hand. I'm not sure what happened. I'm singing in the shower. Ana Gabriel and Donna Summer. I sound white girl wasted on the former and operatic on the latter.

The bathroom congress of messiness is in session. Attendees include:

• 1) A quantity of hair that I didn't know I had all over the floor. I want it back.
• 2) Ambassadors from Mexico and Belgium (empty Corona and Stella Artois bottles).
• 3) A half-dead plant purchased in a moment of optimism, still in the temporary pot it came in at the store.
• 4) Piss. Don't ask.

My landlady wonders who this crazy little gay boy she allowed to rent her upstairs 4 1/2 to even is. Showering all day and singing full throttle at 10 AM. Nobody has a real job anymore. Everything in the world has changed except the fact that men have it all. She's mostly right.

I get to the Bixi station. 10h27 pile. Google's algorithm thinks I'll be four minutes late. Canada says Si vous êtes en retard, vous devrez peut-être prendre un autre rendez-vous, but I don't really believe them. I see a red Bixi and take it. Bon présage. Everything is going to be OK.

10h45 – I arrive at Service Canada, miraculously punctual. I exit the elevator, walk through the automatic glass doors and am welcomed by the uneasy-yet-almost-comforting aroma of Bureaucracy. The smell is indescribable, but comparable. Some olfactorily similar spaces are: hospital corridors, pediatrician waiting rooms, airports (after clearing security), and grocery stores late at night or early in the morning.

Yo soy mariée, pero séparée. Yo soy ici pour...

I am second in line. I watch the woman in front of me struggle through three manila folders, two Latin languages and countless sheets of paper to explain why in the world she's ended up here. It all sounds like a nightmare. I might be a lazy fuck but at least I have the cultural codes and able body to make this painful process a bit easier, I think to myself.

I am summoned by the Bureaucrat on the right side of the counter. I hand my passport over and explain that I am here to give my biometric data. He takes my passport and opens my file. Every detail about my life pops onto his screen for his unmitigated viewing pleasure as the Bureaucrat and corporeal representative of the Canadian state.

Êtes-vous fan des luttes ? Question inattendue.

Comment ?

Des luttes, vous savez, comme WWE, the Rock, etc. ?

Non, pas du tout. Pour quoi ?

Sean Michael, il y a un lutteur avec le même nom que vous. I am gripped by a bizarre feeling in my stomach as he says my second given name à voix haute, something that only my enraged mother or Bureaucrats do.

Ah ! je savais pas, je vais devoir le chercher plus tard.

I respond in a dry tone that says no matter what I'm saying I will certainly not be doing that. And that's fair enough.

J'aime aussi les lutteurs mexicains, vous connaissez ? Ils ont leurs masques tout colorés...

Ouais, ça a l'air intéressant. I nod with false enthusiasm. Am I lying to Canada if I'm lying to the Bureaucrat?

The Bureaucrat erases his smile. He takes out a highlighter and looks for me on the printed list of appointments in front of him. He finds my name and case number on his printed list and highlights them in bright yellow.

Vous pouvez vous asseoir. And just like that I will never speak to the Bureaucrat again.

I scrutinize the five-by-six grid of small black chairs for a seat with no neighbour to no avail. Everyone is optimally positioned to reduce unnecessary proximity to the beleaguered strangers that surround them. I laugh to myself. Despite likely being the most diverse group of fifteen people in the neighborhood they almost all have adopted a cold, Canadian impartiality to those around them. Impressive. Well selected, Canada.

In any case, I find myself forced to break the waiting room's antisocial equilibrium. I take a seat between two women in the front row, second from the right. It is the least confrontational option in this scenario–not choosing a neighbour based on anything but the proximity of the chair to myself and the relief of sitting down. For anyone who has lived as a man, it is a bit like how the middle urinal in a public bathroom becomes acceptable if things get busy enough.

10h58. I have been seated for nearly ten minutes and have yet to be called. I knew I would've been fine getting here late.

I am bored. I open Google and type Sean Michael. Might as well see what the Bureaucrat was going on about.

First result: Sean Michaels, né le 20 février 1958 à Brooklyn, est un réalisateur, producteur et acteur de films pornographiques américain. I laugh at the coincidence and how silly the French Wikipedia formal description sounds. I guess I do have a bit of a porn-y name. I am curious to see what his penis looks like and don’t mind defiling the sanctity of the Service Canada waiting room so I click on the first pornographic link on Google. My screen is instantly invaded by the run-of-the-mill obscene advertisements that fund our society’s internet porn addiction. I close the tab as I cannot be bothered to wade through the swarm of pop-ups. It’s not that serious. When is it ever?

Second result: Shawn Michaels, de son vrai nom Michael Shawn Hickenbottom est un catcheur et acteur américain principalement connu pour son travail à la World Wresting Federation/Entertainment... OK, so this is him. Utterly unentertaining, but what else am I doing waiting here? The porn actor left much more of an impression. 

Ah dios entonces no voy. Nos hablamos despues.

It looks like Sean Michaels just made up the name himself while the second guy switched his first name and his middle name. Could I be Michael Seans? We're getting desperate here. At least I'm doing something good with my day, I tell myself.

Pero tu sigues con la boca ! Ana.. Ana... ¡la boca! Nos hablamos despues.

I look around again at the waiting room. The line to speak with the Bureaucrats is suddenly quite long. Everyone is here. Mostly the disenfranchised, of course, hoping to renew a visa or Social Insurance Number or resolve one of the many administrative nightmares that inevitably arise during the immigration process. There are some obvious natives as well, driven to Service Canada to apply for a new passport or deal with some other extenuating circumstance. There are two ways to spot them. First, they are the only ones without folders. Second, instead of looking afraid or uncomfortable, they look impatient and irritated.

My folder is bright red, my favorite color. I try to look bored.

I see a girl in line. White as Martha Stewart, early/mid 20s. She is the only person in the entire room wearing a Covid facemask. She has a folder. American, for sure.

I'm wearing a wifebeater that exposes a lot of my chest and a button up with a silver chain and a hat that has a picture of a fox that says ZORRO on it. I wonder if I look as awkward and as out of place as the Covid-liberal American-in-Canada waiting in line does. I wonder if the Bureaucrats wonder what I'm doing here. Probably not. They have my file.

Sean Michael?

The Bureaucrat summons me to his cubicle. He clearly occupies a higher position in the bureaucratic hierarchy than the other Bureaucrat because he's wearing a button-down shirt and has his own cubicle.

Français ou English ?

English, please. I deserve to be linguistically accommodated after sitting in the waiting room for so patiently.

I place my fingers over the machine. It is made of glass and illuminated by a green light. I am photographed.

Any chance that I can see the picture? I am not sure why but I am feeling rather handsome in this moment.

Haha, of course.

He does not show me the photo. I doubt that he understood the question. No matter. I walk through the hall and the Dominican lady stares at me as I walk away. Maybe I do look out of place.

I exit the building swiftly and without saying goodbye. It's close to lunchtime and the line is much, much longer than when I went in.

11:45 AM. I walk away from the building and feel a sudden rumble in my stomach. I feel dizzy. I wonder how humanity could have possibly evolved in such a way that I am left with a visceral need to spray diarrhea on the sidewalk after already shitting my brains out all morning. I haven't even eaten breakfast.

I find a bench and sit down. I repeat my mantra aloud to try to calm myself in the face of inexistent danger.

Everything is fine, everything is OK. Everything is fine, everything is OK. Everything is fine, everything is...

I feel 25% better and muster up my courage to get a Bixi and go home. I arrive at the station. There is an uncharged electric bike and a regular, gray Bixi. I'm not certain I can contain my insides in for an uphill bike ride. Sometimes you take what you can get.

I hop on the bike anyway and start on my way home. I think I might die and wonder if I've already soiled my pants a little.