I think the Winnipeg General Strike would be a ripe setting for stories. It was an interesting time and there doesn't seem as though a lot has been done with it. Of course, that's the sort of thing that would require Research and Planning, so this is just kind of a brief flirtation with the topic.

Enjoy!

---

Lunch Hour In The Exchange

I settle down onto the bench, stretch my legs out in front of me and lean my head back. I close my eyes for a moment and take a long, deep breath. Around me, swirls the cacophony of lunchtime in the Exchange: Red River students sprawled out behind me on the lawn of Old Market Square (not too many yet, high tide will be during the Fringe Festival in August), a few pigeons hunting for leftovers, traffic sounds mostly a ways away on Main Street, a distant siren. This was my fourth lunch on the bench since we finally threw off the last clutching grasp of winter. Early May is my favourite time of the year. It's warmed up enough that you don't need a jacket anymore, and lunch on a bench in the Exchange becomes a pleasure, not just an act of defiance against the climate. Most everything has turned green, the sweltering days of late Summer are far off, and the mosquitos haven't yet begun their annual invasion. Two weeks ago everything was covered in snow and I was still bundled up in my parka. Spring in Winnipeg lasts about two and a half hours, usually in the morning of the third Tuesday in April.

I open my eyes and loll my head to the right. I can see a few people from my office walking to the pub. A beer at lunch would be great but I can't tear myself from my bench. I am held prisoner by the fantastic weather. I see Ed walking up, though, his cap tugged down low against the sun, carrying that old-fashioned tin lunchbox of his.

"Morning, Ed," I say, and shuffle down to make room for him.

"Watch broken? Afternoon now," It's our little joke, our greeting. He settles onto the bench with a sigh.

"Busy today?"

"Three tours came through my building. These heritage walking tours are all the rage these days. Keeps me hopping."

"I bet."

"Imagine, wanting to tromp around in some old warehouse." Ed shakes his head.

"The old buildings have character, personality. You don't find that in new buildings."

Ed snorts and opens his lunchbox. He sets the thermos between us on the bench and uncaps it. A bit of steam rises. Next, he pulls out his sandwich. I love Ed's sandwiches; every day they come wrapped in pink butcher's paper. He tears open the masking tape holding the bundle together and spreads out the paper on his lap. I catch a whiff of bologna and mustard.

"Fried bologna again today?" Another one of our little shared jokes.

He's taken a bite, nods while chewing and then swallows and says, "Same thing each day. It's my lot in life. I'd offer you some, but -" Ed shrugs.

"I know. It's fine. I've got my own."

I untie the knot in the plastic Safeway bag I've brought my own lunch in. My sandwich is wrapped in aluminum foil. Frozen slices of tofu - cooking them from frozen provides a texture vaguely reminiscent of chicken - battered in egg whites and breadcrumbs with some cayenne pepper mixed in. Lightly fry the breaded tofu until it browns, lettuce and barbeque sauce in the sandwich, too. I've tried to explain the concept of tofu to Ed in the past, but it's completely alien to him. Can't teach an old dog new tricks, he says. Same with trying to explain what the Internet is.

A couple of girls from Red River College walk by with coffees. They're wearing only tanktops, no sweater, no jacket. It's a bit too cool out to get away with that and their nipples are prominent through their shirts.

Ed coughs on his sandwich and says, "You see that? In my day, a girl dressed like that and she'd be arrested. Sent off to the convent. Or the looney bin."

"Times have changed, Ed. Women can vote now, too," I tease.

Ed snorts again. "I've always been a supporter of the suffrage movement. Women have better heads on their shoulders than man. We're too quick to get into pissing contests."

We eat our sandwiches quietly for a while, I sip from my bottle of water and Ed pours himself coffee from his thermos into the lid, which doubles as a cup.

When he's finished, Ed folds up the paper his sandwich had been wrapped in, and puts it into his lunchbox, which he then places on the ground between his feet. I just crumple up the plastic bag and drop it in the garbage can beside the bench.

"This place hasn't really changed much," Ed observes. "Except for how people dress."

"The buildings in the Exchange are all designated as heritage buildings. They can't tear them down even if they want to."

"They used to say everyone would be running around in flying cars by now."

I often forget that Ed is a fair bit older than he looks.

"That used to be the Winnipeg Tribune building," he says, pointing behind us, across Old Market Square.

"You told me you worked there, didn't you Ed?"

He nods, eyes closed like he was falling asleep.

"Typesetter. I learned the trade from my dad. That's how things worked back then."

He turns over his hands and I see they are covered in dried black ink, the whorls on his fingertips completely obscured.

"Are you in some kind of trouble, Ed? You look like you were fingerprinted."

He chuckles and then responds, "No sir, although I've had my run-ins with the police."

I think about this for a bit, and then say, "Were you involved in the Strike, Ed?"

Ed nods again. "Everyone was. The whole city shut down. Something like thirty thousand people all joined the picket lines eventually."

"So even the papers shut down?"

"Nope. Not right away, anyhow. The managers ran it for while. They weren't too happy with us, though. 'BOLSHEVIK INVASION' the headlines read. Communists, they called us. I figure they were just pissed off about having to do an honest day's work."

"Just for going on strike?"

"Well, we spooked 'em good. It wasn't too long after the revolution in Russia. I guess they figured the same thing was going to happen over here. There were stories about the strike all across Canada. Even down in New York, I heard."

"It lasted two months?"

Ed rubs his chin, thinking. "That sounds about right. Then things started getting tense. We'd gotten into rows with the police and a bunch of the union leaders had been arrested. Some of them got deported, too. There was a riot, started right behind where we're sitting, and a young fella was killed. After that we started to worry they'd call in the army. Things petered out after that."

I twist around to look behind us. There are a dozen kids laying or sitting on the grass, reading, talking, laughing. One couple making out. I just can't picture it: every working-age adult in the city walking off their jobs in protest. What would happen these days?

"Did you believe in it, Ed? The cause?"

He shrugs, eyes still closed, and says, "I never understood the politics of it, to be honest. My dad had drummed a work ethic into me. Said we were lucky to just have a job. But it didn't really matter. There was a momentum that summer. Once things had got going, I think it had to play out. You just kinda got swept up in it."

I look at my watch and see my lunch is just about up. I guess if it hadn't been for the early labour movement, I might not even be getting lunch breaks.

"I have to get back to the office soon, Ed. Thanks for the conversation."

I stand up and he opens his eyes.

"You get a chance to do that thing for me, yet?"

"Not yet. But soon."

"Thanks."

He closes his eyes, tugs his cap down, and folds his arms over his chest, looking for all the world like he's going to grab a nap.

"See you soon, Ed."

He nods.

At the corner of Bannatyne and King, I bump into Anne from my office.

"You always take your lunch there?" she asks.

"I like sitting outside while the weather's nice."

"Sitting by yourself on a bench, people are going to start to think you're weird."

I smile and fall into step beside her. I suppose it is a little strange, having lunch with a ghost. But Ed has a lot more interesting stories than my coworkers. With them, the talk is always about projects at work or office politics. Ed has more charm than the lot of them put together. And anyhow, I feel bad for the guy; being stuck walking to that square every single day to sit on a bench. I'm sure there are worse haunting gigs around, but it must get lonely.

Back at my desk, I open up Google and search for the names of some of the older cemeteries in town. I promised Ed I'd go and take a photograph of his tombstone sometime. It seems a little morbid to me, but I suppose I might be curious, too.

6 responses to "Week #15 - Lunch Hour In The Exchange "

Erinn, first commenter extraordinaire wrote: Sunday, 16 Mar 2008 19:23 Your talk of when spring starts in Winnipeg was so disheartening that I could barely read the rest of the story...tsk tsk. I'm pleased that your protagonist prefers the company of ghosts to real people. I think we'd get along. Also, is it not "pigeon"? (rather than "pidgeon")

Ginny! wrote: Sunday, 16 Mar 2008 22:08 Interesting. I guess the clue was that Ed was a lot older than he looked, but I didn't pick up on it at all. The Strike sounds interesting. You should research it extensively and then edumacate me on it. ^_^

Karen wrote: Sunday, 16 Mar 2008 22:24 Wow. I loved it. I happen to adore when people talk to ghosts and no one really calls them crazy. Quite brilliant, I'm not going to lie. And I'm quite looking forward to the third Tuesday in April.

Debs wrote: Tuesday, 18 Mar 2008 00:04 Cool, that was a nice twist! "A Fine and Private Place" by Peter Beagle has themes along similar lines, you might enjoy it :)

D.J. wrote: Tuesday, 25 Mar 2008 16:42 Interesting ... though honestly, I don't know if the twist at the end was necessary. The story was great before that. And Research & Planning are sometimes the best part! :D

Kim wrote: Thursday, 03 Apr 2008 20:48 So far Dana, my favorite short stories are the ones when you really get into your characters. Isn't that the definer between mainstream fiction and literary fiction?? This is definitely literary fic. The ghost worked well for me too because he's a regular spook and not some poltergeist wacko. Good job!

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