Who in their right mind would buy hot food in hot weather?
A persons first job is often a somewhat important milestone for a person. It marks their first entrance into the corporate machine of the capitalism of the West. A first job signifies a persons metamorphosis from the sporadic lifestyle of a free man, to the structured, predictable routine of a white, blue, red, pink, gold, and black collar worker.
I have found myself with a job.
Well, I didn't find it. I got it through nepotism. But that part doesn't really matter. The point is, I was no longer unemployed.
If you're reading this, you most likely know what the Calgary Stampede is. If not, let me describe it. 10 days of cowboy cosplay and overpriced water. That's all you need to know for this post. Around the end of June, I was suddenly informed that I was going to work at The Colossal Onion during the Stampede. I had not applied to any job, but the catcalls of "unemployed" being thrown at me every day for the better part of 6 months, I just went along with it.
First day I get there, I walk into a large white tent. Only it isn't a tent, more like a canopy, as it lacks 3 of 4 walls. [Remember this.] By the one wall, there are 2 pallets, both stocked up with multiple bags of yellow onions, taller than me, but that isn't saying much.
Now, dear reader, you most likely have guessed by this point, but I really, really do not like onions.
I decided to give it a shot. This was my first job after all, and we all know beggars can't be choosers. A beefy man comes into the canopy. Shaved sides with a thin ponytail, has an accent I can't place. It could just be Ontarian. Immediately, I'm not fond of him. He looks quite uninviting and mean. His voice doesn't help. I'm asked to start peeling onions. I comply.
… That's it.
I peel onions from 1pm to 6pm. 5 hours. Though this may seem elementary to you, this was not my cup of tea. Of course, I couldn't just peel the onions. Remember the part about the canopy missing 3 walls? Well wouldn't you know, it also didn't have the most structurally sound roof. I also happened to be stationed at that very part of the canopy. It rained. And not just a sprinkling. I had to endure a torrential rainstorm while peeling onions. My clothes were soaked, my cowboy themed bootcut jeans were drenched, and my eyes were saturated with the smell of onions.
I was not a happy camper in the slightest and I knew I could not survive another day of that, let alone 10. Thankfully, nepotism came through again and I was able to be transferred from my onion hell to another place at the Stampede. I was now a worker at Chick'n Chips.
Chick'n Chips was galaxies better than the Colossal Onion. The work wasn't mind-numbing, I didn't reek of onions at the end of the day, and since it was a food truck, I didn't get soaked whenever it rained, which it did. But this also marks the beginning of me contracting what I'm going to call Canola Oil Psychosis [C.O.P.] I contracted C.O.P. from being in that food truck for hours everyday for 10 days, inhaling the Canola smoke from the 4 massive industrial fryers. As a former culinary arts student, I am no stranger to smoke, but not to this degree.
Some days at the chicken shop were slow. I would often find myself standing by the pneumatic potato chipper, setting it on and off just for the little gust of air it provided. I believe that the large clouds of hot oil fumes, along with the 30° C weather combined to send me into a state of C.O.P. To put into perspective just how bored I was, I was able to find time to write little memos on pieces of paper towel and napkins with a borrowed Bic pen. I wrote 6 entries in 1 day. Here is an excerpt:
"Am I in Limbo? At least they sometimes play Cadillac Ranch so I can boogie on occasion. The Ferris wheel and Giant spinning ride things are my only company..." - 11:49
As you can see, the fumes were clearly getting to me.
Despite my obvious mental decline à la Joe Biden, I was happy at the chicken shop. I was glad to be free from the slave labour of the onion place, and was sure I would never have to deal with it again. I guess it just wasn't in my stars...
One random day, the owner of both the chicken shop and onion place comes up to me and delivers some of the worst news of my life. I had to go back to the onion. I, being a people pleaser, comply without complaint, but on the inside, I was crying. My time back at the onion was brief but insufferable. The task hadn't changed from the first day I was there. It was even raining again. After about 30 minutes of peeling, I decide I couldn't take it anymore. I run back to the chicken shop [it's a 6 minute walk at least] and beg my "manager." I told them that if the shop got even a few customers to call me back here. They said yes, and I now had a glimmer of hope. I run back to the onion place and continue peeling, now with the possibility of parole. Those minutes waiting to see if my manager could come back were grueling. I was truly left in Limbo, losing hope by the onion.
Until I saw their cowboy hat. When I tell you, dear reader, that I beamed like I've never beamed before. I quickly packed up my things, put up my hood, and ran back to the chicken shop. I was ecstatic, with my face soaked in rain and a smile on my face, laughing like a maniac. That was the happiest I've been in a long time.
The rest of the Stampede went relatively well for me after that. Served some people, inhaled some fumes, gave some directions, served some British people, it was all smooth sailing. And when the 10 days had finally come to an end, I was quite happy with what I had done.
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Now when I look back at my time at both The Colossal Onion and Chick'n Chips, I realize it wasn't the most extravagant of work, but it was more than enough of an experience for me. I can proudly say, I will be returning next year. Not to the onion place, just to be clear. I don't plan on stepping foot in there ever again.
But hey, at least I got a band from it.
