Disintegration - Luke Chueh
Paramjeet put on thick itchy woollen socks and too much Old Spice to cover up other smells. His apartment smelt like cat piss and curry even though he didn’t have a cat or eat curry.
Paramjeet Bhatnagar, meaning ‘highest success,’ came from Haryana, India to Winnipeg in August and had not found a job the entire two months. This cold day Paramjeet was going to Wilson Lee Brown Accounting Services where he heard they have a good reputation of hiring newly arrived immigrants. He could tell just as sure as the shit he was taking.
The hem on Paramjeet’s pants was too short, making them look like they belonged to his bastard cousin who threw rocks at him as a child and used to tell his parents that he fingered the cat. His cousin was a high profile journalist now.
The only tie Paramjeet owned didn’t go with his too small suit. He put it over his unironed shirt anyway. His thick itchy woollen socks, hard to fit into his size-too-small shoes, bothered him constantly. The bottoms of his size-too-small shoes were worn and Paramjeet noticed that the shoelace on his right shoe could break at any moment. The haircut Paramjeet’s wife Bala gave him last night that was too short left irritating little hairs on his back.
Paramjeet pulled all five blankets off the bed to make it. The bedroom didn’t get warm because the window never did close when he opened it when he first moved in to air out the smell of cat piss and curry.
Esmeralda, or ‘Ezzie,’ that lady who lives in the hallway of 10110 Arnold Avenue, was sleeping. Paramjeet locked the door to apartment 69, which is supposed to be 66. Paramjeet made a mental note to speak with the landlord about the missing screw on the second six for the second time that week. It was Monday.
The bus schedule Paramjeet keeps on the side of his fridge read the number 47 to City Hall comes at 8:32. A glance at his watch with a broken second hand shows him that he is two minutes early.
The three other people waiting for the bus got on. The bus driver closed the door, waiting at the red light. Knocking at the door, Paramjeet was finally let on. He paid his fare hearing “I didn’t even see you.”
A child cried near the front of the bus. Paramjeet thought that the kid must be crying because he didn’t get to choose his parents; just like him. Paramjeet cried a lot as a kid. Or were these the child’s aunt and uncle? The boy’s father, or uncle said, “I’ll give you something to cry about.”
Paramjeet’s never did think his father liked him very much. He never did say so, but Paramjeet could tell. Fathers who like their children don’t make them sleep on the floor and throw rocks at them when they have malaria.
“You’ll never make it,” was all his father said to him before Paramjeet and Bala’s plane left for Canada.
A middle aged man was seated in the section reserved for handicapped individuals and mothers with small children. An Aboriginal woman came on with a stroller. The man wouldn’t move when asked. Instead he cursed the native woman and her small child. An African American lady came on the bus with her baby in a stroller at the stop in front of Safeway. There were two strollers in the aisle the entire bus ride. The bitter man did not move.
Paramjeet closed his eyes to think of his possible new job. His bastard cousin wouldn’t pick on him anymore, Bala could go grocery shopping and not shop from the reduced for quick sale racks, and he could purchase new shoes that were not a size too small.
Traffic was heavy for a holiday. Probably because of the event that was being held at the Forks. The bus was delayed. Riders bickered and yelled “back door!” A woman who talked to herself sat beside Paramjeet and spoke of how a man in Georgia married a goat; it wasn’t even his goat. She mumbled something about how she has four cavities but won’t go to the dentist because he’s actually a serial killer and wants to touch her in the chair.
Scanning the bus for a new seat, Paramjeet found one at the very back of the bus. “Hi, my name is Ernest, but you can call me Ernie,” said the older gentleman beside him who smelt like pickles.
“I don’t have any mirrors in my house, how about you? “ asked Ernie. Even by pretending to not speak English, Ernie kept rambling on about how he thought iPhones were actually robots who spied on people while they were going the bathroom.
Paramjeet got off the bus three and a half blocks before his destination. Tripping on his nearly broken shoelace, Paramjeet found a penny on the sidewalk. Like his father used to do, Paramjeet picked the penny up and put it in his right shoe that was too small for him. His feet were itchy and sweaty. He would buy new socks too when he got the new shoes.
Lucky penny in shoe, Paramjeet arrived in front of an impressive looking building. A large sign outside the building read Wilson Lee Brown Accounting Services in bold capital letters.
Paramjeet Bhatnagar, meaning ‘highest success,’ felt like he could kick a dog when he saw the building was not open. He had never heard of Louis Riel Day. They didn’t have it in India.
Letting himself fall on the bench at a bus stop, Paramjeet stared blankly at City Hall on the other side of Main Street for 27 minutes.
Paramjeet bent down to tie his shoelace, it snaps. Paramjeet allows three tears to fall down his cheeks. Images of his father swam in his head. ‘I’ll give you something to cry about.’ Tears dried, Paramjeet waited for the number 47 but it didn’t come.
Paramjeet started his 35 minute walk home. Two and a half blocks into the walk, he went to cross Donald Street to the Food Fare to pick up red peppers and onions for supper when he tripped. The number 47 didn’t even see him.
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