Sundays with cube vans, cheap sunglasses and Hollywood

As we turn onto the street that leads up to our house, I notice a strange looking van parked on the opposite side of the street, facing us. Its not such a strange looking van, but its what is in the van: two men in black suits and cheap sunglasses, just sitting there. Why would two men be in suits in a cube van on a Saturday? I wonder what they are doing. Vacuum salesmen? Maybe they're door-to-door insurance salesmen, or a new type of plumbing company that hopes to set itself apart from the competition by having their plumbers dress up in suits. Possibly.

I settle with “vacuum-insurance salesmen”, who are going door-to-door soliciting insurance to people with really expensive vacuums, just in case they are ever stolen: grand theft vacuum insurance, to be professional about it. Or for people looking to have liability insurance, should a terrible vacuum accident occur where the neighbor's Great Dane is sucked up accidentally. They go to each door with their fancy brief cases, hand out glossy color pamphlets that graph the exponential increase in vacuum related lawsuits with projections that “next year it's likely to be in the billions of dollars in the United States alone.” Probably.

The day turns to evening, finished off with rented movies and late night television. Scooby-Doo was a bad choice for our first movie, Charles disapproving of the way American dogs were portrayed as “foolhardy, graceless and unintelligent.” This was washed down with a lot of root beer soda, and a another comedy where the supporting actress was extremely attractive and falls in love with the dorky protagonist guy.

Sunday comes and I'm quite groggy despite the ten hours of sleep. It isn't until 3pm that I shed my pajamas and hit the shower. Most of the day is spent thinking about how I wish today wasn't Sunday, not because I don't like Sunday, it's just I'm not too excited for Monday.

Who is? Work sucks. No matter how much you enjoy your job or find fulfillment in it, you'd rather not be there. That's why we are there: to work long and hard, so we don't have to work there one day.

I've worked at Boxlander Inc. for two years... no wait, three years... we make boxes as the name might suggest. It's really hard to make this sound exciting to your friends: “Yeah, we make all kinds of rectangular milled products. Its challenging, it involves a lot of science and project management...” By this time new-girl-I-just-met-at-party is looking into her drink, then looking for exit-friends to engage with. I've started opting for a more vague description: “We do... stuff.” It might keep their attention, and I don't have to come right out and tell them I make cardboard boxes for a living. Or I'll even go for an anecdotal story about how stupid or insane one of my coworkers is, or the fact that we are less than a block from the women's prison.

I don't mind working here, seeing as I do have to work somewhere, however I was pretty sure I was going to be a fighter pilot in grade three and I'm a little despondent somedays. It's great, just last week we had this large order for four feet high, black corrugated lined cardboard boxes with four external handles (or 'lifties' as we call them in the industry) and dual safety latching mechanisms, each. This was seriously expensive and labor intensive. We even had to... oh, your looking at your glass, I'll stop.

The part I hate most about my job isn't the stress, it's Gary, my boss. An overweight thirty-something with long greasy black hair caked into a ponytail. By no means is he qualified for the position he holds, which seems to be buying 'collectibles' off ebay and picking his nose. Fortunate for him, he has me as a scapegoat to brush all blame and work onto.

The thing I hate most about Gary is that he gets away with all of this, and is oblivious to the fact that he's a big dork. He continually rants and raves about 'phenomenal' jazz music he's discovered, which usually sounds department store friendly, and equates to a trio of senior citizens playing the same three jazz bars, maybe changing the tempo a few times (Or “getting crazy”, as Gary would say).

And the mopping around Sunday continues.

The phone rings. “Hello.” The voice on the other end sounds polished, a trained telemarketer who'll probably want to talk to the man of the house, and he does. An offer for me? I'm about to hang-up when he mentions “being on television”. He has my interest, and in the next five minutes he delivers an offer I can't refuse: for free, me and a guest, get tickets to be in a live studio audience for the filming of a brand new product launch. This is great. Free tickets, live studio audience, and get this, we get a prize for participating and our names will be entered in a draw for a family vacation (somewhere warm sounding, but I forget the name). I'm ecstatic, I can't wait to tell Charles. Ok, this Thursday, six o'clock sharp, write down the directions and my ticket confirmation number, and thank the gentlemen on the other line “so much”.

I can't wait, this is great. I wonder if this will be an acting break for me into Hollywood? I'll be in the studio audience, looking interested and intelligent, Hollywood scout spots me (which I'm sure all of these have, in fact maybe that's all this is: a giant Hollywood scouting clinic.), I get flown to Hollywood, ground breaking movie debut, an Oscar and a nice car. I'll be on the cover of lots of magazines, being the guy who isn't too handsome like those other guys, or too strong like that other guy; just plain-old average boy next door.

I might go for a run, I need to be in tiptop shape for this Thursday. Should I shave, or should I go for the rustic tough, yet sensitive look? What to wear? Probably should get a real haircut too, or maybe the 'rough look' is what they're looking for. I got to tell Charles, I run over, “Guess what!”

“Huh?” he grunts back.

“This Thursday we have free tickets to go to the filming of a product launch for TV!” I continue, giving him all the details, repeating most things five times, showing him the paper I wrote everything down for proof.

“Sounds like an Infomercial,” he interrupts.

“What? No.” The blood is rushing from my head. He's right, it is just an infomercial, it all makes sense. I feel so stupid, and sad that my Hollywood debut won't be coming this Thursday. Screw the run, I head to the freezer and scoop myself a big bowl of ice cream, and flop down on the couch beside Charles. “What's on?”