It was always cold, but I was lucky because I had to deliver the papers in my apartment. It was this huge complex actually that ran about a kilometre, two stories snaking in a zig zag for probably over a thousand meters.
I had this basket on wheels that I put the Edmonton journals in. I had to deliver a stack that filled the container.
"It's not that cold" I'd say to myself as I stepped into the lobby of each unite. There were spaces that led from the hallways through to doors that led to the outside across into the next unite.
It was warm in the buildings, but it was dark. I can remember the smells. I was twelve and I remember watching an episode of one of those spooky nineties shows. A Friday the thirteenth. There was a kid, who was living in a house with a dying grandparent. People were nursing the person. The kid watched.
I don't remember the premise, but I remember that once the body of the dying person was gone something else stayed.
No one noticed but the kid.
I remember those hallways and I remember a certain space where I felt the energy of that dying sprit, what ever it was. A grandmother, an old face, dead, Scary, and smelly.
It was my fist job, I got it when I was twelve and it was hard in retrospect. Up at 5 am every day to deliver paper and go to school. Looking back it shows my ambition.
I worked hard enough to make enough money to pay for my guitar.
I delivered the media to your house feeling haunted by the feeling of your dead gran mother.
This is my fare.... fuck so cool.
I love this blog and everything it's allowing me to feel.