Page 37 of You'll Love it Here

How is it possible for this place to constantly find new ways to blow using such limited resources? Is this building screaming out for a merciful death?

I drop Ernest off at my place and change into my dirty team-building shirt and the sweat shorts that give me a bad crease in the front before making my way to the basement.

The area where we keep the bins is somehow worse than I thought. It’s immediately apparent why the city guy refused to empty it, because it’s overflowing in a terrible way no one should have to deal with.

Sitting on top of a flattened Amazon box is a dirty jar of Supershops brand peanut butter. These animals. Sure, rinsing peanut butter out of a jar is a pain in the nip, but you don’t put the caked-on thing in recycling. I’m pretty sure I saw this exact jar on Divorced Dad’s counter during his inspection. I remember because there was a spoon sticking out of it and it left a small void in my chest. I take a picture of the offending jar for evidence and lift the dry cardboard box to find my next treasure: a Michael Fucking Bublé CD—still in its cellophane! The person could’ve done the right thing and put it in the library to live out its eternal days instead of tossing it. I take another picture and continue rifling, finding such gems as a wooden charcoal toothbrush and the ugliest pepper mill ever (I dare say it’s haunted/cursed/never experienced love). It’s shaped like a trout that is standing on its tail. (Are the little fins meant to be legs?)

I move on to the compost bin next, which smells worse thanNorm’s kitchen. There are several empty metal cans straight on top. I slide on the rubber gloves I use for washing dishes and pull them out, disturbing the odors. The urge to gag rises in my throat as my eyes start to water—and I can’t even wipe them with these disgusting, gloved hands. I choke back another gag as I drop the cans and gloves and all into the waste bin.

I never thought I’d miss working with clients like Bob Wolch, but today I’d kiss that piece of shit if it meant I could end this torment. Still, I wouldn’t suck his dick, so at least I’ve not bottomed out yet.

Right, this internal debate is not productive or pleasant. I take a few more pictures and write a caption for the Slack feed.

Mona Bucket, 12:48 p.m.:Recognize any of these? Well if they’re yours congrats you got us a ticket for improper sorting. You are part of the problem! Please be more mindful in the future! This isn’t the nineties anymore!

Just as I’m about to hit send, I remember Sami’s words. As tempting as it is to yell at these people for their low-level ineptitude, it won’t help today.

I delete the note and pictures and try again:

Mona Bucket, 12:50 p.m.:Friendly reminder the building town hall/mixer is this Thursday, June 3. Come ready with questions and suggestions for me and enjoy treats from Corner Coffee & Food! Looking forward to chatting with you all!

The diner has a similar ambience to the night Sami made dinner. A warmth that invites you in, but this time there’s a lingering sweetness in the air. The jukebox is playing the Tragically Hip’s greatest hits, which seems like the most crowd-pleasing album one could pick.

“Hey!” Sami calls out from behind the counter when I enter,door jingling. Tonight he’s not wearing his cap or apron, his hair is combed back, and his shirt has a collar. It’s a not unpleasant change. “You’re the first mixer guest.”

Which is true since the only other person in the place is a guy in his twenties who looks to be having a small breakdown over a bowl of French onion soup, AirPods in each ear.

Sami throws a cloth over his shoulder and smacks his hands together. “Can I get you a drink? Tea, juice, wine?”

“A white wine would be great.” I grin.

“Coming right up!” He opens the beaten-up glass Kokanee beer cooler that’s behind the counter.

“Mona!” Abu comes down the back staircase. Following behind him is a poised lady with curled hair dyed deep auburn (a typical Aunty move when things go grey). She’s wearing a respectable dress and her brows are perfectly groomed. As she comes to stand at Abu’s side, I notice they are exactly the same height. It’s not hard to guess this is Sami’s mom, but the dead giveaway is the round and deep-set brown eyes—they’re exactly the same as Sami’s. I immediately straighten as Abu mutters something under his breath to her. She turns to me with a sweet smile, her eyes crinkling with curiosity.

Sami hands me my wine before gesturing to the lady. “Mona, this is my mom, Ava. She sometimes bakes the pastries we serve, but understandably, she doesn’t always have the energy after dealing with Abu as a husband.”

Ava lets out a surprised, full-hearted chuckle at this before giving Sami a scolding air slap. She’s gazing at him lovingly, like he’s the king of the world.

“Nice to meet you,” I say as I extend my hand. Instead, she curls me into a warm side embrace. The scent of her floral perfume invades my senses.

Abu tells her, “She’s a very successful businesswoman.” The pride in his smile is too much for my current situation.

“Oh.” Ava puts her palm to her chest. “Your parents must be so proud. A beautiful, smart daughter.”

I hold my grin through gritted teeth. Abu’s whole face crinkles with joy. “Of course they are, her mom is from Iran!”

Ava’s smile warms a full ten degrees. I’m having a hard time reconciling that my mom, who regularly names her email subjects “HELLO ASSHOLE,” is from the same place as this calm and kind lady in front of me. Ava starts throwing a flurry of Farsi words my way before Sami cuts in—also in Farsi—likely advising that I don’t speak the language, unless you count what I said to him and his dad while wasted. Sami turns to me and says, “Mona’s mom is also in Calgary.”

I smile uncomfortably at this classy lady who is like the antithesis of my own mother. She seems to be waiting for me to add something to the conversation, but all I can get out is “Yes.” I find it’s best not to elaborate, as the community here is small and people’s experiences with my parents have been a mixed bag. Worst would be if she’d met my dad when he wasn’t sober.

“And what does your mother do?” Ava pries.

I swallow. “Oh, she, um, works at Lina’s salon on—”

“I know that place!” Ava interrupts with a joyous hand clap. I’m oddly taken aback by how shit it feels to have this place filled with nice people become tainted by my family once again. “What’s her name, Mona joon?”

I wonder if I can get away with saying “I normally call her Mom.”