Synopsis continued

That morning we awoke to a freezing house. Well, it wasn't frozen, but the thermostat said 10 degrees. Still pretending that we were camping, we managed to get ready for the day. Nicole went to work and I went to the Northern Store.

The Northern Store is the only store in town. It's like any other grocery store trying to branch out beyond food. There are about four aisles of food, but like Superstore on the east coast, they also sell hardware, camping gear, electronics and clothing. It almost has the feel of a general store. It is geographically and sometimes socially the center of the community.

As far as food goes you can get almost anything, as long as it comes in a package or is frozen. But it's basic stuff. They don't stock any cheese beyond cheddar or mozzarella. You can't get sun dried tomatoes, or even black olives. There is NO fresh meat. The produce section is one small fridge display, paired with a table for potatoes, bananas, and onions. About the most exotic thing I've seen is cantaloupe.

What they lack in fresh and exotic food, they make up with processed goods.

I suppose you can get lots of processed food back home, but I rarely pay attention to it because I avoid it like the plague. It's my own personal theory that the mono- sodium-hydroxoid-glucomate type ingredients are what will lead you to an early grave. But after a week in Tulita, those frozen chicken meals, fish sticks, and TV dinners are starting to look pretty tasty.

Ten A.M. Tuesday Morning. The store opens. I walk in and meet Nick, my soon-to-be boss. I ask him if he's still looking for an employee, and he says yes. We go to his office. He tells me about the company and it's benefits. They dangle the carrot of cheap housing and cheaper food to east coasters and Saskatchewanians looking for work. I bite. By that afternoon I'm shelving Pepsi and loading mr.noodles from a warehouse onto a truck.

It's not as bad as it sounds. I haven't sold my soul to some mindless job. First: I enjoy the work. It's more than just stocking shelves. I haven't been near a cash register yet. Instead they're grooming me for a supervisor position. I'm already doing orders and paperwork. Nick went from stockboy to store manager in two years. There's no reason why I can't do the same.

Second: it's this, or sit at home, do the occasional freelance story, and read. If I'm here, I might as well make a bit of money.

It is only "a bit" of money. I started at ten an hour. After the first week, I spoke with some higher-ups and negotiated a salary. Still not great money, but I'll be able to pay rent and eat well while Nicole banks most of her very large cheque. We've done the math. In six months we will be out of debt. In two years we will have enough for a significant down payment on a house. If we stick around for three or five years, we will be able to buy a house with cash.

We still don't have the housing or food benefits yet. But they should be coming along in a few months time. Until then I'll be spending six days a week busting my hump at the store.