I Got Half My Grade Twelve

One summer as a kid I worked for the caterer at a potash mining camp in Saskatchewan. Everything from maintaining the bunkhouses to working in the kitchen to running the tuck shop – what an exposure to real life!

As you might imagine, I met many an interesting character. None more so than the man I’ll call Bill. The said Bill was a local boy, having grown and spent his interesting life in Esterhazy, Saskatchewan. Like most of the locals, when the proposed potash mine was announced, Bill trundled down to the local employment office and made his pitch.

Now, you need to know two things about Bill. First, he was very, very clever. Second, notwithstanding this, he never got past Grade Six. Back in the ancient days when you were allowed to fail if you really wanted to, Bill’s truancy, hi-jinks, and general lack of interest in structure ensured that he got more than one chance to enjoy most grades in elementary school. He really didn’t care, he had better things to do, getting into mischief being foremost. By the time he came to work at the mine he was well acquainted with the local magistrate’s court, albeit always for silly misdemeanours.

So it was that when the mine came to Esterhazy and the employment office opened, Bill, with no evidence to show he had advanced past Grade Six, showed up, looked them in the eye, and announced, “I have half my Grade Twelve!”

“Well, sir, we’re sorry. We can’t show that you have Grade Twelve. Regretfully, we’ll have to record that you only have Grade Eleven.”

Bill glared at them in indignation. “That’s just not fair!”

“Sorry, sir, but rules are rules,” came the response.

Our friend left, snickering to himself, having been recorded as having Grade Eleven, and found a job commensurate, namely riding shotgun on the garbage truck.

Riding shotgun on the garbage truck entitled Bill to cafeteria privileges, but not including picking up a bag lunch for shift work. That was for the underground boys. This did not stop Bill from imploring for a bag lunch, each and every day.

So, as kitchen staff, we decided to teach Bill a lesson. We made him a special lunch, a very special lunch. Lard sandwiches on stale bread with horseradish and lots of hot sauce and pepper, last week’s cookies, and an orange from last year’s shipment. All nicely packed in a normal brown paper bag, with a tiny mark, set in the box of lunch bags to be dispensed as the boys came through.

When Bill came through the line and made his usual pitch for a bag lunch, we protested as always, then gave in, “Just this once”, and gave him the marked bag. He strode off in triumph.

What we heard later was that as soon as he was alone in the cab for just a few moments, he swapped the contents of the bag for the contents of his buddy’s lovingly packed lunch pail. We understand that words were had when his buddy got home that night, and next day words were had between the boys in the cab.

Now, I ask you: was Bill a dummy, or was he exceptionally bright? I lean toward the latter. In our world of certification and standardization, the Bills of the world get to ride shotgun in garbage trucks.

Are we doing this right?