Sick Of Me

I have a newfound respect for my friends and kids. I’m sick of me. How the hell do they listen to me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not self loathing here. Im proud of myself. I work hard, I’m honest, I try my hardest to be a good person. I’m just kinda done thinking about me. I read some of my blogs from the last year and some made me laugh, others seemed pretty self absorbed.

The ones I enjoyed reading the most where about others. My family. My friends. My kids. My experiences. I am ok with the ones where I try to tell people what I think, but who really cares?

I mean, sometimes when I speak, I bore myself to tears, realize no one is listening, then mock myself in my head as my voice trails off…. blah, blah, blah. If some dolt blathers on in a crowd, and no one is there to hear it, did it make a sound? Who cares.

The worst is when I’m talking to my kids, trying to teach them something important. Like who the hell am I to teach anyone anything? I feel like a fraud.

So for the next while I’m going to practice writing about other people. Here is one.

Gilles

Gilles was sent straight from God. My brother/partner had just lost a finger after I dropped a wall on his hand. He was out for a few weeks. (should’ve been months) Having just started a home I needed a helper. I drove to Cash Corner and picked up the first man I saw. It was Gilles. Gilles was French Canadian, late 40s. He was wiry, weighed around 140lbs and was probably 5’8″

Gilles has spent a lot of time incarcerated in a federal prison. In his youth he had been in an altercation with the police. He always told me,

“If you want to learn respect, Go to Prison, There are consequences for every word you say.”

He worked so hard. So, so hard. He never complained and was always helping me in every way. He was an alcoholic, probably more. But he was one of my best friends. We’d often go and sit in a pub and chat after work.

He had no teeth. So I’d buy him Skor blizzards on a hot day to watch him spit out the hard pieces… haha. Mean, I know. He taught me some French that I only speak when I drink. He gave me the history of the Rock Machines bike club in Quebec City.

Together we built a few homes. We expanded the crew later, but those first few months he really saved me. He became a permanent fixture at Wolf Construction till the day he came in high, and tried to stab me with an Olfa knife. Later that night I got a call from the police. He had stolen a blank cheque and had tried to forge my signature. It wasn’t made out for a lot, just a few hundred bucks. In hind site it was less than he deserved. The funny thing was when I got there, it wasn’t him. It was Paul, his younger brother. Except this man that I knew as Paul, had ID that said Gilles, and the photo matched. So to this day, I don’t really know who I picked up on Cash corner that day.

But I know that I miss him.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris.