Keep It To Yourself

I didn’t know if he was dead or not. I couldn’t even tell if the people standing around him could tell. He was slumped on the grass outside the house across the road, not moving at all. I was standing on the steps that led to my basement, an armful of washed laundry to carry.

“Mister, mister!?” one lady was tentatively tapping the man’s shoulder, trying to wake him. He didn’t move. “Oh my God, oh my God…” A handful of people were around him, and as someone new came along the sidewalk, they would stop and get swept up into the situation as well. People always think this sort of business is their business.

I was standing across the road, now feeling my heart racing as I contemplated dropping the laundry and sticking my nose in, too. Nobody seemed to be following First Aid procedure — something I remember being taught a handful of times in school: check the airways, put in recovery position, etc. I wanted to go over and help. Instead, I took my laundry inside.

I watched the scene unfold from my bedroom window upstairs. More passers-by became involved, the ambulance was called for, and one man placed the back of his hand on the unconscious man’s neck to check for a pulse. Still, he lay crumpled on the ground. I wanted to go and help, but I didn’t want to get involved.

Eventually the wail of the sirens were heard down the street. It was a hot day in Toronto. I watched by the window pane, fingertips on the ledge, silently willing the paramedics to walk faster, dammit. They took out a stretcher trolley and a big orange blanket. For a moment I was terrified that they’d place the man on the stretcher and completely cover him head to toe with the blanket, like a dead person. But instead they propped part of the stretcher up a bit and once they’d lifted him up, wrapped the blanket around him. They disappeared into the ambulance, which sat for several minutes before driving off.

That night I didn’t sleep very well — only getting about 1 hour of shuteye before having to wake up at 5am to go to work. I wasn’t entirely consumed by the small drama across the road, but it did cross my mind several times. I wondered what would have happened if I had intervened and put my first aid to good use. I wondered if I should brush up on it. I figure that every person will have at least one scenario in their lives where they would benefit from someone knowing emergency first aid.

So I kind-of-but-totally-didn’t sleep that night, and then it was back to The Cafe.

Everyone at work is so cool and nice. Some of my favourite people include a girl who also works as a film critic, waiting to hear back about her media accreditation for the Toronto International Film Festival this year. Adorably, when telling guests about our brunch service which will be starting in a month or so’s time, she refers to it as “TIFF season,” instead of “September.”

There’s also a sous chef who looks suspiciously like my high-school crush. We have maybe exchanged a total of about five sentences between us. He comes over to our turf sometimes and asks for a double latte. Most of the time I pass him in the kitchen I am thinking murder thoughts about him and his stupid baby face and limpid pools for eyes which never seem to do so much as flicker over me. Hate that guy.

There’s a giant of a man who is the head bartender. He’s about six-foot-goodness-knows-what with a shaved head and an ear piercing. He could probably crush limes with his biceps. He owns four huskies and that is why he is the best.

The head sommelier is a small man with wavy brown hair that’s tucked behind his ears. His black-rimmed glasses rest upon his pointed nose and he wears waistcoats, which makes him sort-of look like a classy Hobbit. He sometimes comes over and hovers by the coffee machine, and is always clever and delightful to talk to.

Then there’s the people who pop in every so often. There’s Uncle Shaun, who is sort-of the uncle of all the baristas, as he’s the provider of the espresso beans we use. He comes in every so often to taste the coffee and give us excellent pointers about how to precisely pull and pour a cappuccino (he came round today — it is a real science). There’s a tall man always dressed in a beautiful suit who comes in to help with restaurant logistics — he has these bright blue eyes and looks like he’s just walked out of Don Draper’s office. He came round and asked for an espresso, sipping it as the Italians do, standing up at the bar. Out of all the customers that come in, my favourite definitely has to be Jake. Jake is a three-legged golden retriever, who sits outside while his owner orders a double americano. There’s something about three-legged dogs which I find so endearing — their seemingly optimistic, bouncy, rocking horse walk — they always just seem so happy to be here.

As for the managers of The Cafe, they’re all these relatively young, French men. The general manager is someone who I honestly cannot imagine in any other attire than a suit. If I were to picture him swimming, he would be immersed in chlorinated water in a suit. If he was springing out of bed in the morning, he would have slept in his suit. He has that sort of teacher vibe about him almost: you can’t really picture him anywhere else but the school.

He’s courteous and no-nonsense, which is why he was the worst person in the entire establishment for me to embarrass myself in front of.

The Cafe was starting to hustle with the beginning of dinner service — I was helping close up the bakery and get the coffee station clean for the evening, which involved a lot of going back and forth from the kitchen, walking up and down a long corridor round the back.

“Hows everything going?” one of my co-workers asked several steps ahead of me. We were both headed back from the kitchen, powering down the corridor that linked the dining rooms. Our manager was just ahead, coming in our direction.

“It’s going great,” I began, raising an eyebrow as I felt a weird sensation around my chest. That was odd. My co-worker began to turn out to the main room and I continued down the corridor, coming up to walk past the manager. Still feeling that something wasn’t quite right, I looked down at my shirt, to see that it had popped open, and I had been inadvertently flashing my bra to the guy who hired me. My eyes just about fell out of my head as I frantically grasped the fabric and pinched it together, eyes now locked on a distant, distant point far beyond the manager, who I hoped to God hadn’t noticed. He almost definitely had, though.

“YEP. EVERYTHING IS GOING GREAT,” I repeated to my coworker, quickly scuttling off to the back room of the bakery to fasten myself up again. I was mortified.

Needless to say, that’s not how one goes about getting extra tips at the restaurant. The only tip I received was to keep my blouse shut! Ho ho ho! No-one told me that, actually. I spent the rest of the evening suspiciously eyeing my top button. Now during the day I manage to smile and say hello to Pierre as he appears in his suit-skin at eight in the mornings, before promptly turning my head away and making a weird, eye-bulging expression of pure embarrassment.