Chapter One: Roll Call
Looking down at my watch: 8:50 a.m. Good, I’m a few minutes early. Mom always said, “Put your best foot forward. Always be respectful. And always be early, but not too early, you don’t want to look too eager, just respectful of others’ time.”
It was an open hiring event for several positions with an Electrical Contracting company advertised in the classified ads of The Province. The ad stated they were looking for Electrician Journeymen but also had openings for an Electrician Apprentice. I just completed my pre-apprenticeship, and this was my first interview with an approved, sponsored employer.
I took the elevator to the third floor and entered the waiting area. A clerk at the desk took my name and told me to have a seat. They would call my name when ready.
There were about thirty others in the waiting area. A couple were students from my program, but most were older men, probably after the Journeyman spots. With only a few guys from school, I figured my chances were pretty good. My grades were top of the class, but are grades the only thing they look for?
“Jim Addams, Room 1. Brad Atkins, Room 2. Frank Crabtree, Room 3, please.” An older gentleman announced from an open door in an adjacent hallway.
They’re going alphabetical with the interviews. Good, I’ll probably get in before the afternoon.
About twenty minutes later, the gentleman came back and called three more names. Elliot was the last surname he called. The first three guys called in didn’t come back through that hallway, so maybe they exit a different way.
It took a little longer for the recruiter to come and call for three more names. Evans was the last name called. Still in the ‘E’s. ‘G’s aren’t too far along.
Looking at my watch, it was now 10:15 a.m., and we were already on the third round of interviews. At 10:40, they called three more: Ewells, Fassbender, and Fields.
At 11:15 a.m., the recruiter came out and called three more names. Bruce Franck, Ryan Halls, Dale Iverson.
They missed my name. Just like school.
Grade 8 homeroom. I’ll never forget it.
Mr. Rush, the homeroom teacher, called roll on the first day of school. Junior high was a big thing for us; we were all excited to get the day going. Roll call was called in order, followed by the usual “Here” by the student. If no one answered, Mr. Rush would just look up, state the name again, and mark the student absent.
He passed over my name. When he called for Harry Graves, I knew he missed me. I put up my hand, but he didn’t look up from the roll. At the end of the call, I went right up to his desk and told him he’d missed my name.
He looked at his list and asked me my name. “Colin Grant,” I said.
He looked back down. “I marked you absent, you didn’t reply.”
“No, you didn’t call my name,” I said emphatically.
“I’m sure I did. So you must just have been late for homeroom,” he said. He then changed my roll from absent to late and gave me a late slip. I argued that I was right in front, first row center, and that he had to see I wasn’t late, but he just repeated, “No, you must have been late. Three late slips in a month is detention.”
From that day forward, I entered the room and stood right at his desk and said, “I’m here—early.” He didn’t argue, but I could see he was irritated with me.
The recruiter came out a few minutes later and said, “We will be breaking for lunch. Please return at 1:30 p.m.”
I stood and said, “Excuse me, sir, but I think you missed my name earlier.”
He stopped, turned, and asked my name.
“Colin Grant,” I told him. “You’ve been calling names alphabetically, right?”
“Yes, let me look. Hmm, Colin Grant, you said?”
“Yes.”
“I have only one Colin on the list. Last name Prance.” He turned to the remaining people and asked, “Is there a Colin Prance here?”
No one responded. “Hmm. There must have been a clerical mistake here. I’ll get you in first thing after lunch.”
I was polite and thanked him, but I think he could see I was irritated with the error.
I left the building to find somewhere to eat before returning for the interviews. Great. Typical Vancouver autumn, raining again. It’s just a drizzle, but there hasn’t been a blue sky in two weeks.
As I was walking, a guy ran past, bumped into me, almost knocking me down. Like usual, I’m the one who ends up saying sorry, but he didn’t even flinch. He just kept running as if heading for a target, like a cheetah focused on prey and finding the opportunity to strike. Nothing gets in its way.
“Just like Dodgeball.”
The only time I’d get hit is by a person on my team with a ball, choosing their target, but they’d run me over as they prepared to throw. Like they don’t even see me. Every time. I hated that game.
Coach loved it for some reason. At least once a week we had to play. He always decided the teams instead of letting the team leader choose. It didn’t matter to me. I was always chosen last for any team, even if the coach decided.
The balls in the center circle of the basketball court. Teams on either side. Coach readies, the whistle blows. The dash is on.
First, the easy targets—the geeks and nerds—are picked off. Then comes the pride targets, getting rid of the jock, the cheerleader, the popular ones. Then the leftovers are picked off: the ones in band, or Glee club. Finally, the teacher’s pets. They’d get pounced on by the opponents.
But me. They’d almost call a win and then realize that I was still live. Then every standing opponent would target me for the win. But before I’d fall, I’d take their captain with me.
I slowed my walk and watched where the runner was going. I realized he was Bruce Franck from the interview, and he was also a student at BC Vocational School.
On a bench halfway down the block was a girl sitting on the decorative concrete planters at the Marine Building, dressed in a ladies’ trench-style raincoat. But underneath, I could clearly see the white collar with the three pink stripes—a waitress uniform from the Woolworth’s food counter. They were the only ones that had that specific collar for their servers.
I walked past them slowly, but tried not to be noticed.
“I got it,” Bruce said, excited.
“You got the apprenticeship position?” she asked.
“Yes, the guy said only one apprenticeship available this year. Next one is slotted for April.”
The noon whistle blows.
The ball’s in my hands now. I’m the last one standing. I see my target.
***
Sleep didn’t come tonight.
Faces all blurred, shifting, half-formed flickered through my mind’s eye pushing sleep aside. Some I recognized from school. Classmates.
That’s a rich word for bullies.
Others were kinder, or at least less cruel. They didn’t mock, they just… didn’t see me. Not by turning away, but by never turning toward. That kind of erasure hurts worse than a left hook to the jaw.
And then there were the clear faces. The ones that only noticed me after I spoke, when my voice forced them to acknowledge I existed. Just long enough to break through their right cross of indifference.
Tonight, those faces flipped past like pages in a flipbook — a blur of motion. All except one. One face stayed in focus.
Her face.
The girl in the Woolworth’s uniform.
When I finally gave up on sleep, I went to make coffee. Holding the glass pot under the tap, I saw her reflection a round Pyrex carafe in her hands, pouring coffee into my cup.
I set the pot down.
Maybe I’d let her make it instead.
There were three Woolworth’s in Vancouver. The closest one was near the building where I’d had my interview. I decided to start there.
The bus was crowded, but I barely noticed the people. They barely noticed me. Just movement and murmurs.
I had an aisle seat. Alone with my thoughts on a bus full of people until an older man started to sit on me.
Literally on me.
He flinched, apologized, said he hadn’t seen me there.
I smiled, told him not to worry, and gave him my seat.
But inside I wanted to break his legs. How could you not see me?
A full bus, people standing, and you think the seat’s empty?
Still, he smiled, thanked me, and I nodded, pretending it was fine.
The bus dropped me two blocks from Woolworth’s.
It was the biggest of the three. I approached the automatic doors.
They didn’t open.
I stepped back, tried again. Nothing.
Checked my watch — 9:45. Open.
I stepped back farther, swung my arms as I approached, trying to trigger the sensor. Still closed.
Finally, I pushed through the big rotating door in the center. As it turned, a man walked toward the automatic doors beside me. They slid open immediately.
It saw him.
Inside, I went straight to the café and sat at a booth. Three waitresses working, but none were her.
I waited. And waited. No one came. There was no Please Wait to Be Seated sign, no reason for the silence.
When a waitress finally passed near my table, I waved. She blinked, as if seeing me appear from thin air, then smiled politely and brought a coffee. I ordered bacon and eggs.
When she came back, I asked, “There’s someone who works here I think I know. I was in yesterday, around ten. Thought I saw her.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Her name’s Lori, I think. Haven’t seen her in years.”
She nodded. “Yeah, Lori works here. She’s off today though.”
“Oh, I’ll come back another time, say hi.”
“She’s usually on from ten to seven. Wednesdays and Sundays off.”
I thanked her and finished my breakfast. I left a decent tip.
Wasting time, I decided to walk home from Woolworth’s, heading down Granville Street. The sidewalks were alive with motion—people threading between shops, rushing for early lunches or first drinks. Everyone had somewhere to be, and no one cared who they brushed past.
That suited me. With the exception of avoiding collision, I didn’t care to notice them either.
I was halfway down the block when I froze.
A blind man was approaching, guided by a German shepherd.
I love dogs. They don’t love me.
As they drew closer, I shifted toward the storefronts, trying to stay out of sight. Even well-trained dogs, I’ve learned, can’t be trusted around me.
It was my seventh birthday. My parents had brought home a black Lab pup. I named him Spike.
Instant bond. We were inseparable: boy and dog, best friends.
Until that summer afternoon.
We were playing fetch in the backyard. Spike always made me chase him before he’d drop the ball. Fetch by his rules, not mine. I threw one last time, the ball arcing toward the driveway. Spike tore after it.
That’s when I saw the other dog—a Doberman, standing still, watching us.
Spike froze mid-run. The ball dropped from his mouth. Both dogs began growling, low and synchronized. Not at each other.
At me.
I spoke softly, the way Dad had taught me. “Easy, Spike. Come on, boy.”
His growl deepened, teeth flashing white. The Doberman barked in quick, frantic bursts.
I took a step back. Spike lunged.
Mom said later she’d heard the barking, then a scream. She ran from the kitchen just in time to see my best friend clamp onto my leg.
Four stitches. A rabies test. Negative.
After that, we kept Spike outside on a long lead. He never snapped at Mom or Dad, only at me. The moment I came near, his lips would curl, his eyes go hard.
They said they found him a farm. I was old enough to know better.
Ever since then, every dog—big, small, leashed, wild—reacts the same way. They see me and something primal turns in them. Not fear. Not hatred. Something deeper.
The guide dog and his master were close now. I tried to sidestep into a doorway, but the street was too crowded.
The shepherd’s head turned toward me. Its body stiffened. A quiet, disciplined growl rolled from its throat.
Just a professional dog doing its job, I told myself.
Good training. That’s all.
On my next birthday, my parents tried again. This time, a cat.
That didn’t end well either.
***
Time is not your friend when you live alone.
Sure, you can busy yourself with chores or little projects and trick the minutes into moving. School helped—deadlines, homework, studying. Structure. You could lose whole evenings without realizing time was slogging past at its own mocking pace.
I made dinner. Pork chops and macaroni and cheese.
There went an hour.
I watched TV. All in the Family, then Maude.
Archie barking “Stifle yourself, Edith,” and Maude’s “God’ll get you for that, Walter,” didn’t make the clock move any faster, but they killed another hour.
Time knows when you’re waiting for something.
It stretches itself out like a cat by the fire—long, lazy, taunting.
The second hand of my wall clock grew louder, slower.
Each tick felt like a smirk, a reminder that all I could see—no matter where I looked—was her face.
TV didn’t help.
Nothing helped.
I needed her now, and that was impossible. All I could do was wait for her shift tomorrow at Woolworth’s. Time knew that too. It dragged itself like a wounded thing, taking me down with it.
I needed a drink.
I walked down Main Street until I reached the Biltmore Hotel. Their tavern reeked of stale beer and cigarettes, but anything was better than listening to that clock mock me.
A waiter—early thirties, with that worn-out look of a guy who let the sixties sock it to him a little too hard—noticed me right away.
Or maybe he noticed the twenty-dollar bill I set on the table.
“What’ll it be?” he asked.
“A glass of beer.”
The place was busy and loud. People leaning into their drinks, elbows deep in foam and heartbreak. Some were laughing. Others wore faces like they’d buried a best friend. Probably just a rough day at work.
But they all had one thing in common:
They were seen.
By their friends, by their dates, even by the servers.
I ordered another beer. Then a third. I had to wave the waiter down for both.
It was the twenty he saw, not me.
Time didn’t move any faster, and the drinks didn’t blur her from my mind.
If anything, they sharpened her.
By the bottom of the third glass, I knew I wasn’t going into Woolworth’s tomorrow.
I didn’t need to.
I could just watch and wait.
See her leave.
Follow her.
Mark my time on my terms.
Tick.
Tick.