Life in a Thrashing Machine | Page 3

of this town.
He was bothered by the atrocious music that was played over the mall's

public address. He couldn't understand how any sane person could
listen to a polka version of MY WAY, or Beethoven's FIFTH.
Vlad ducked into the record store and flipped through several records,
all naturally highly priced, as was everything else in this inflationary
economy.
He glanced over at the blonde, staunch-faced cashier then returned to
fingering through the albums of music that he probably wouldn't have
the chance to buy, in the near future. She would be fairly pretty, if she
only smiled sometimes, he thought to himself. However, he was of
mature-enough mind to realise that he alone was not the only one to
have problems in this world. Nevertheless, he did envy her job, which
he knew paid the minimum, but was also easy work.
Vlad didn't stay in the store for too long. He wanted to ensure that this
way was free and clear to walk at his own relaxed, yet quick pace, to
his desired destination. The main reason he went the King Street Mall,
was his insatiable need for a coffee, at his favourite coffee shop. He
was badly craving for a fine hot cupful, and he knew that his friend,
Henry, made the best in town.
He stepped onto the down escalator that took him to the lower floor of
Robinson's department store, to the restaurant concourse. At the bottom,
he stepped off and sauntered over to The Coffee Bar and sat down on
the bench table. He called over to his friend.
"Hi-ya, Henry! How's business, today?" he asked him.
"It'll pick-up, now that you're here!" he said. "So, what would you
like?"
Vlad looked over at the half dozen coffee pots with the blend names in
front of each one, and finally pointed to the third pot.
"I'll try the Peruvian Mocha." he said.
The old man poured him a cup of the Peruvian blend and mixed-in a

teaspoon of sugar, just the way that Vlad liked it. He's been nurturing
his coffee habit at The Coffee Bar since his return to Kitchener, after
his graduating the University of Toronto Music Faculty. It seemed
strange to him that he couldn't do without a coffee for more than an
hour at-a-time, and he figured, if he were going to ply himself with java,
he may as well ply himself with the tasty kind.
Henry was pleased to have Vlad as a customer and as a friend.
After a few weeks in town, Vlad became a regular customer and Henry
introduced himself. Since then, they spoke a great deal with one
another and they became close friends.
Henry was an understanding type of man. Having the kind of
experience that came with age, and the wisdom that came with quiet
observation, Henry understood Vlad and his problems. He had told
Vlad that he was sorry for not being able to offer him a job but he could
not fire his help, just to make room for him.
Vlad was aware that they had a fine friendship going and he realised
that Henry couldn't get him any work, so Vlad really didn't mind.
"Have you found any work, yet?" Henry asked him.
"I am looking." replied Vlad as he took a drink of the steaming coffee.
"Ah, that tastes great!"
"I wouldn't be in business if it didn't." Henry smiled at him and Vlad
shrugged.
Henry was an odd man. He was tall and fairly thin, yet his face had a
pudgy quality, and it was deeply etched with years of lines that outlined
his life to the precision of a road map.
Henry Olfusen had originally come to Canada, from Denmark, back in
the days when many Europeans thought that the whites in North
America were still fighting against the Indians. He came over on an old
steamer back in the 1930's, wanting to find a better life from the

hardships that he had encountered in his own country. Although
Canada was in the grip of a depression, as was much of the world,
Henry managed to make himself a sufficient living, but only after he
finally settled-down.
Vlad felt a streak of the green when he heard Henry's history. Sure, he
was happy for Henry finding his life, but he was also jealous that there
wasn't a Canada to which he could run-away. "Them's the breaks, for
being born here!" he thought to himself.
When Henry arrived from Copenhagen, he was the composite and
stereotyped Scandinavian cobbler. Anyone who was well-read could
swear that he had just stepped out of some story by Hans Christian
Andersen.
Having a way with the shoe trade still did not guarantee that he would
find himself a well-sustaining job.
His first few months in