The Challenges of Living with Someone on Welfare

            It’s probably a coincidence but on Saturday upon waking I felt even more thickly covered in the afterbirth of sleep than I had been on the previous Saturday morning. I jumped out of bed when the alarm rang but I felt like I was walk sleeping, wash sleeping, dress sleeping, yoga sleeping and sing sleeping over the next two hours. The time went fast though because I was running on automatic.

            I went to the food bank at the usual time and stepped in line behind the grey shopping cart that had “Robbie” printed on it in magic marker. For the first few minutes there was no one smoking in the line-up and so I didn’t have to move away to avoid it. I was able to finish reading the first story in my dual language book of French short fiction.

The story was Micromegas by Voltaire and it was the 265-year-old tale of a traveller from Sirius that is so much larger than us that when he landed on the earth after jumping off a comet and sliding down the northern lights, he couldn’t detect our tiny presence with his naked eye. It was only after he broke his diamond necklace that, while retrieving the stones, one of them served as a magnifying lens through which he accidentally discovered a little ship filled with microscopic passengers. He figured out a means to communicate with them. Many of the passengers turned out to be philosophers with widely differing opinions about the nature of the universe. The only one that showed any good sense though was a follower of the English philosopher, John Locke. When one cleric made the claim that the entire universe exists to serve humanity of Earth he laughed so hard that the ship and its passengers fell off his fingernail and into the trouser pocket of his travelling companion.

I went downstairs to use the washroom and as I passed through the entryway I saw that quite a few people from the line-up were sitting in there. I guess the management have given up on kicking people out of there.

I started reading the second French story. This one was “La Messe de L’Athée” or “The Atheist’s Mass” by Honoré de Balzac. I only read a page and a half, so I don’t know what it’s really about yet. Voltaire used much simpler vocabulary than Balzac, so he was easier to translate.

Moe came, though not for the food bank. He was just passing by again. He told me that the bicycle in his back yard was going to be cleared away at the end of the month. I said that I’d try to come by before then, though the chance of the bike having compatible parts with mine are pretty slim.

The Ethiopian guy with the dog was further back in line and Moe went to chat with him and to play with the Pom-Chi (further evidence to help shatter the myth that Muslims don’t like dogs). Moe said that he had a present for the dog at his place and so he went home to get it. He came back with a bag of doggie biscuits in the shape of bones.

When Moe left again he reached out his hand to me, I thought for a fist bump, so I presented my fist but instead he took hold of my hand. That was strange because I remembered back in the winter at the previous food bank location someone had reached out to shake Moe’s hand but he’d refused, explaining that he didn’t do that kind of greeting.

Andrea Hatala, with her guitar on her back, walked up to talk with me. She asked if I’d seen her boyfriend, Heinz. Heinz Klein apparently runs a little jam or open stage or songwriters workshop at PARC on Saturdays. She said she was concerned because she hadn’t seen him in the poetry group at PARC the night before. I was a little surprised that she was that unaware of his whereabouts because I’d always assumed that they lived together, since they’ve been a couple for years. When I asked about that she explained that they are both on the Ontario Disability Support Program (ODSP) and so they would receive less money if they were officially living in a common-law relationship. They would get less money if living together caused the amount of rent they each pay to be less. Also if one of them were to come into some extra money that partner would be required to contribute to the support of the other and so the other’s benefits would be reduced. This system has caused some married or common-law couples that were living together before they went on ODSP to separate just so they could survive.

Andrea added that another reason they don’t live together is because they don’t want to become sick of one another. I nodded in agreement, saying, “One way to ruin a relationship is to move in together!” I told her that in France they have the option of temporary marriage contracts that a couple can renew for three months or three years or whatever they think they can handle. Andrea thought that was interesting. I checked my facts later though and found that what I told her was not exactly true. The Pacs (Parte Civil de Solidarité or Civil Solidarity Pact) is not a marriage contract but rather a civil union contract, which interestingly came into being as something for Gay unions but heterosexual couples liked the idea too and it can now be applied to any couple that live together. From what I’ve read, the paperwork does not even ask for the gender of the applicants. I think that couples need to have lived together for at least two years to apply for this status but there is also a separate, less formal status of cohabitation, which is usually between much younger couples.

Andrea wandered into PARC and a few minutes later I saw Heinz going in with his guitar.

The food bank opened about half an hour late. When I was allowed in, the people ahead of me took the elevator and so though it wasn’t my intention, I got ahead of them by taking the stairs. At the desk I was told, “You’re finally going to get a card!” So I got a laminated card with a six digit client identification number that they claimed would make things go faster, since they wouldn’t have to look up my birthday on the computer anymore. I’m sceptical.

I got number 23.

Angie’s meat and dairy section was back to the half-litre cartons of milk, but she gave me two. There were five eggs instead of four. I chose the frozen ground chicken over the hot dogs. I got a six-pack of small fruit bottom yogourt cups, a pack of soy cheese and a 300 ml bottle of orange juice.

Sylvia’s vegetable section had Swiss chard, one yellow zucchini or squash, one faded green zucchini, two aubergines (skinny eggplants), a green pepper, three carrots, six potatoes, a bag of frozen sweet peas and a small wedge of watermelon.

My guide through the shelves was an elderly woman with an eastern European accent who wore make-up. I had never seen this person before but she was one of those rare volunteers that insist that clients must not pick items themselves. I still don’t see the logic of that policy and it seems a bit insulting as well.

I took a box of multigrain Cheerios, the only bottle of Molisana pasta sauce with pomodoro and basilico, a carton of chicken broth, a bag of Mackie’s potato chips, a small bag of plantain chips which she stopped me from picking for myself. She gave me four lemon Larabars, three chocolate pastry bars, four and eight restaurant size servings of pancake syrup and honey. With the bread she insisted on using the tongs herself to give me two raisin buns, six bagels and one bran muffin, the top of which fell off in my bag.

 The shelves were once again pretty bare, with no canned beans, peanut butter, canned vegetables, soup or tuna. But the dairy situation wasn’t bad this time and there were more vegetables than usual. Except for onions I had all the ingredients for ratatouille.