Story Date : Spring of 2015

I was feeling confident concerning the repair I had lined up for that evening. And for some other reason, I felt that the whole city was my god dam oyster as I drove into old Montreal. How cocky is that ? Quite cocky indeed, - much too cocky. This was not the late 80's when I had the right to be as boisterous as I felt, this was 2015 and I was over 50 heading to a service call on a 29 year old solid-state pinball machine.

But I do know this city well, I grew up here and feel deeply connected to it. I know its' streets, I have slept on them. I know the smells, I have reveled and wrapped myself in their aroma, but most of all, I know this city's beat because I too have had enough time to develop a soul.

However a question lingered as I walked along what was once called St.James street some 40 odd years ago or so.

I began to wonder exactly where and when I had lost track of what was happening. Maybe it happened when I was living in Toronto during my mid 30's and had no internet connection to speak of. What I have lost track of is that I no longer know what people between 20 and 30 deem valuable and why. It seemed to be more complicated than what I valued at that age, and has consequently made straight up communication more difficult to achieve between our respective groups. I guess that being older and thinking that this city is still young, much like the way I still felt is my finest folly. This city is old, almost 375 years, and has been "through the mill" as I have in many ways, but on a relatively smaller scale and now I think that we may finally both be on a dangerous decline. I could be wrong, but then again, it is difficult to tell from this angle.

The people of the city looking on together.

My cockiness had to do with booking a service call on an older routed solid state pinball that I was sure  I could "nail down" in the first hour. I had evaluated the problem as an easy fix after having it described to me over the phone by this new client. I confidently quoted the usual repair cost and accepted the job understanding it from a perspective that is out of date. Ignoring the history and context of what something electronic like this has been through is a big mistake, along with not knowing how many other people have previously messed with the machine. The technical surprises were plentiful on this 29 year old pin, and so was my perception when I first met this young client, also 29 years old, an energetic shaker & mover of a so called creative information age "think tank" web based business which did something or other. The pinball machine stood in a vast and open common office space amidst an entourage of young hipsters who would have been born in the early 90's and who now were seeing the world as their oyster.  Fair enough, I know the score. I can't eat oysters anymore, can't digest purines as well as I use to and have learned to live with that as well having had my fill.

Upon arriving, I was once again greeted by the young & fashionable receptionist at the front desk. She felt that she knew me well enough by now to call me the pinball doctor since this was my fourth visit and I was definitely losing money by now. She continued to speak to me in her flirting manner making me think that her consciousness must be floating somewhere between a youtube life advice video about how to approach older men and some office porno clip. A youthful moment of making everything out as extra-ordinary & recordable, - hey, I get it, information is the new commodity, that is what they are selling upstairs isn't it, yet nobody seemed to be doing any real work as I understood the verb. My elevator escort continued to make small talk that made very little sense to me. I tried to respond effectively, but that in turn left her at a loss for words, but only for a moment. So by the time we finally got to the third floor, I felt a welcomed sense of relief. I stepped out behind her as she turned her head back to speak again while I pretended that her curves didn't swerve as she said that this old pinball must be "needing some more love" if I was back here and at it again. Well, love was a loaded word to me and I would never use it when referring to an object unless I wanted to appear as a total fuzz head. But apparently, I misunderstood this new context it was being used in and also its' latest meaning. She was "right on the money" in how she used it and I was out to lunch. You can show love to objects now, it is OK apparently. I smiled and agreed that this pinball machine has lacked maintenance throughout its stay in this wired and up to date 150 year old limestone office building still standing proud, and for many more decades to come after these offices are long gone.

Upstairs I was greeted by Keeley, a good looking slender cyberborg with a phony but agreeable smile. A young woman who I think would be a more interesting person to talk to if she showed signs that she was thinking for herself. Maybe it was out of nervousness that she mechanically began asking a bunch of questions about the work I do as we made our way across the space. She continued to ask questions and not acknowledging the answers I provided. She seemed to be so off center in carrying on a balanced conversation that I assumed that she was maybe mentally challenged and likely conveniently slotted by those three or four letter acronyms we now use to describe personality disorders. Where was her authentic self ? I looked into her shifting eyes to see if I could get a glimpse of it. Maybe it had left town via instagram while on the red bull express or via too many tweets? I was trying to participate in a conversation that was not actually happening. The meaning of the words we exchanged didn't ring the same way for either one of us. When I stopped responding to her comments and began just nodding my head at whatever she said, she automatically went back to her screen. I think that she was able to sense that I did not share the same type of pre-calculated conversational question & answer mode she was expecting and I have to give her credit for realizing this.

Meanwhile one of her co-workers wearing headphones was talking in an animated manner to her screen and oblivious to whether we were listening or not. Of course we all heard what she was saying. She spoke about the horror and/or mystery novels she was reading lately and the failed relationships in her life as if they were of the same importance. I tried to zone out as I began the repair, but she caught my ear again when she began talking about the scars on her body and how she can not wear a skirt in public anymore. She was actually talking to someone overseas on the web, and from what I concluded they had met on a forum a week or so before she was due to fly out to Germany on vacation. Apparently he could see the pinball machine being repaired in the background and asked the scared girl about it. She responded by saying that they also have a ping pong table in their office. The more I listened to the conversation while changing a plunger-link and pawl the more I understood that I was "out of it" as they say. I am a relic because I can not figure out for the life of me why it sounded like she was just looking to connect somehow & stand out as interesting to anybody or anything that would tell her that she was important, or at least wildly different. It was difficult to deduct if this was the first time that she had talked to this guy, but it certainly wasn't someone she knew well, and I guess that in the end they were basically exchanging portfolios in that new social media tone as they went on talking about very personal things. I guess the screen names and the physical distance can provide some safe leeway in picking more personal subjects of conversation. OK, cool, it is just me who is not with the times. Their conversation topics and tones seemed as common in nature to them as a traffic jam in Montreal is to me, and just as annoying. Nothing seemed important in their conversation, yet everything was made out to be.

I forced myself to focus on the repair so I could get out of there and back to my reality. So I called over Keeley and asked her to play the machine while I checked scoring and general operation. She did not exactly know how to keep the ball in play long enough for me to observe what I wanted to check, so I took a moment to explain some simple tactics. Never flip both flippers at once, learn to cradle the ball and take aim, stuff like that. After I showed her the basics of playing pinball, she began to enjoy the actual physical challenge it offered. We connected through the entertainment which the game provided and I began to explain some of the game specific objectives. She began to smile, nod and laugh more sincerely while appearing less contrived. She was forgetting herself by being playful and became someone I could be around for more than an hour. We shared a few laughs and that was as good as it was going to get. Once I was satisfied with the results of the repair, I wrote the bill by hand, gave it to her and packed my tools. I got the cheque which was left on her desk by her young boss who managed to spell my name wrong. I am sure it will be OK, they know me at the bank because I still physically go to my branch once in a while in order to make sure that they don't turn me into a debit card. I made my way out of what these young people call their place of business and have cleverly dubbed "the creative mind space".  I knew that I did not belong there anymore. As I put my tools in the trunk of my old (2000) Volvo and prepared to head west to my shop. Even that almost 100 year old Crane building where I kept a shop and loft was gradually being transformed from a heavy industrial foundry it was built as in 1919 to those now new age think tank "work" spaces apparently needed to move the crippled world forward.

Got in the drivers seat and took notes about what I had learned. I must have sat there for a while because I began to feel the need to stretch my legs, so I got out of the car and leaned on the hood. Within that steady stream of people flowing out of those limestone buildings and onto St.Jacques street I noticed an attractive young woman heading towards the Victoria metro station. It was Keeley. She saw me, stopped, and simply said, "hey". And without taking off her headphones asked if I was heading west and if so, could she get a ride. I paused, thought for a moment, looked in her youthful eyes and realizing that it was later than I thought. I told her that I was heading east and finally understood that I would have to begin adjusting to a new reality if I wanted to keep working around it. It didn't matter if it made little sense to me, I would keep a calculated distance from it in order to avoid causing any unnecessary grief. 

Robert A. Baraké (Rab)

Story Date : Spring of 2015

I was feeling confident concerning the repair I had lined up for that evening. And for some other reason, I felt that the whole city was my god dam oyster as I drove into old Montreal. How cocky is that ? Quite cocky indeed, - much too cocky. This was not the late 80's when I had the right to be as boisterous as I felt, this was 2015 and I was over 50 heading to a service call on a 29 year old solid-state pinball machine.

But I do know this city well, I grew up here and feel deeply connected to it. I know its' streets, I have slept on them. I know the smells, I have reveled and wrapped myself in their aroma, but most of all, I know this city's beat because I too have had enough time to develop a soul.

However a question lingered as I walked along what was once called St.James street some 40 odd years ago or so.

I began to wonder exactly where and when I had lost track of what was happening. Maybe it happened when I was living in Toronto during my mid 30's and had no internet connection to speak of. What I have lost track of is that I no longer know what people between 20 and 30 deem valuable and why. It seemed to be more complicated than what I valued at that age, and has consequently made straight up communication more difficult to achieve between our respective groups. I guess that being older and thinking that this city is still young, much like the way I still felt is my finest folly. This city is old, almost 375 years, and has been "through the mill" as I have in many ways, but on a relatively smaller scale and now I think that we may finally both be on a dangerous decline. I could be wrong, but then again, it is difficult to tell from this angle.

The people of the city looking on together.

My cockiness had to do with booking a service call on an older routed solid state pinball that I was sure  I could "nail down" in the first hour. I had evaluated the problem as an easy fix after having it described to me over the phone by this new client. I confidently quoted the usual repair cost and accepted the job understanding it from a perspective that is out of date. Ignoring the history and context of what something electronic like this has been through is a big mistake, along with not knowing how many other people have previously messed with the machine. The technical surprises were plentiful on this 29 year old pin, and so was my perception when I first met this young client, also 29 years old, an energetic shaker & mover of a so called creative information age "think tank" web based business which did something or other. The pinball machine stood in a vast and open common office space amidst an entourage of young hipsters who would have been born in the early 90's and who now were seeing the world as their oyster.  Fair enough, I know the score. I can't eat oysters anymore, can't digest purines as well as I use to and have learned to live with that as well having had my fill.

Upon arriving, I was once again greeted by the young & fashionable receptionist at the front desk. She felt that she knew me well enough by now to call me the pinball doctor since this was my fourth visit and I was definitely losing money by now. She continued to speak to me in her flirting manner making me think that her consciousness must be floating somewhere between a youtube life advice video about how to approach older men and some office porno clip. A youthful moment of making everything out as extra-ordinary & recordable, - hey, I get it, information is the new commodity, that is what they are selling upstairs isn't it, yet nobody seemed to be doing any real work as I understood the verb. My elevator escort continued to make small talk that made very little sense to me. I tried to respond effectively, but that in turn left her at a loss for words, but only for a moment. So by the time we finally got to the third floor, I felt a welcomed sense of relief. I stepped out behind her as she turned her head back to speak again while I pretended that her curves didn't swerve as she said that this old pinball must be "needing some more love" if I was back here and at it again. Well, love was a loaded word to me and I would never use it when referring to an object unless I wanted to appear as a total fuzz head. But apparently, I misunderstood this new context it was being used in and also its' latest meaning. She was "right on the money" in how she used it and I was out to lunch. You can show love to objects now, it is OK apparently. I smiled and agreed that this pinball machine has lacked maintenance throughout its stay in this wired and up to date 150 year old limestone office building still standing proud, and for many more decades to come after these offices are long gone.

Upstairs I was greeted by Keeley, a good looking slender cyberborg with a phony but agreeable smile. A young woman who I think would be a more interesting person to talk to if she showed signs that she was thinking for herself. Maybe it was out of nervousness that she mechanically began asking a bunch of questions about the work I do as we made our way across the space. She continued to ask questions and not acknowledging the answers I provided. She seemed to be so off center in carrying on a balanced conversation that I assumed that she was maybe mentally challenged and likely conveniently slotted by those three or four letter acronyms we now use to describe personality disorders. Where was her authentic self ? I looked into her shifting eyes to see if I could get a glimpse of it. Maybe it had left town via instagram while on the red bull express or via too many tweets? I was trying to participate in a conversation that was not actually happening. The meaning of the words we exchanged didn't ring the same way for either one of us. When I stopped responding to her comments and began just nodding my head at whatever she said, she automatically went back to her screen. I think that she was able to sense that I did not share the same type of pre-calculated conversational question & answer mode she was expecting and I have to give her credit for realizing this.

Meanwhile one of her co-workers wearing headphones was talking in an animated manner to her screen and oblivious to whether we were listening or not. Of course we all heard what she was saying. She spoke about the horror and/or mystery novels she was reading lately and the failed relationships in her life as if they were of the same importance. I tried to zone out as I began the repair, but she caught my ear again when she began talking about the scars on her body and how she can not wear a skirt in public anymore. She was actually talking to someone overseas on the web, and from what I concluded they had met on a forum a week or so before she was due to fly out to Germany on vacation. Apparently he could see the pinball machine being repaired in the background and asked the scared girl about it. She responded by saying that they also have a ping pong table in their office. The more I listened to the conversation while changing a plunger-link and pawl the more I understood that I was "out of it" as they say. I am a relic because I can not figure out for the life of me why it sounded like she was just looking to connect somehow & stand out as interesting to anybody or anything that would tell her that she was important, or at least wildly different. It was difficult to deduct if this was the first time that she had talked to this guy, but it certainly wasn't someone she knew well, and I guess that in the end they were basically exchanging portfolios in that new social media tone as they went on talking about very personal things. I guess the screen names and the physical distance can provide some safe leeway in picking more personal subjects of conversation. OK, cool, it is just me who is not with the times. Their conversation topics and tones seemed as common in nature to them as a traffic jam in Montreal is to me, and just as annoying. Nothing seemed important in their conversation, yet everything was made out to be.

I forced myself to focus on the repair so I could get out of there and back to my reality. So I called over Keeley and asked her to play the machine while I checked scoring and general operation. She did not exactly know how to keep the ball in play long enough for me to observe what I wanted to check, so I took a moment to explain some simple tactics. Never flip both flippers at once, learn to cradle the ball and take aim, stuff like that. After I showed her the basics of playing pinball, she began to enjoy the actual physical challenge it offered. We connected through the entertainment which the game provided and I began to explain some of the game specific objectives. She began to smile, nod and laugh more sincerely while appearing less contrived. She was forgetting herself by being playful and became someone I could be around for more than an hour. We shared a few laughs and that was as good as it was going to get. Once I was satisfied with the results of the repair, I wrote the bill by hand, gave it to her and packed my tools. I got the cheque which was left on her desk by her young boss who managed to spell my name wrong. I am sure it will be OK, they know me at the bank because I still physically go to my branch once in a while in order to make sure that they don't turn me into a debit card. I made my way out of what these young people call their place of business and have cleverly dubbed "the creative mind space".  I knew that I did not belong there anymore. As I put my tools in the trunk of my old (2000) Volvo and prepared to head west to my shop. Even that almost 100 year old Crane building where I kept a shop and loft was gradually being transformed from a heavy industrial foundry it was built as in 1919 to those now new age think tank "work" spaces apparently needed to move the crippled world forward.

Got in the drivers seat and took notes about what I had learned. I must have sat there for a while because I began to feel the need to stretch my legs, so I got out of the car and leaned on the hood. Within that steady stream of people flowing out of those limestone buildings and onto St.Jacques street I noticed an attractive young woman heading towards the Victoria metro station. It was Keeley. She saw me, stopped, and simply said, "hey". And without taking off her headphones asked if I was heading west and if so, could she get a ride. I paused, thought for a moment, looked in her youthful eyes and realizing that it was later than I thought. I told her that I was heading east and finally understood that I would have to begin adjusting to a new reality if I wanted to keep working around it. It didn't matter if it made little sense to me, I would keep a calculated distance from it in order to avoid causing any unnecessary grief. 

Robert A. Baraké (Rab)