WEEK     JOB: STOREKEEPER

LOCATION: WILBERFORCE, ONTARIO

AFTER I READ the first few sentences of the email, I knew I had to go.

Hello Sean! Bring your hardworking self to Wilberforce to Agnew’s General Store and experience the retail business in cottage country. A family-owned and -operated business since 1921, we’re five generations deep. In fact, until Grama passed away just last month, you could have easily found four generations standing side by side on any given day!

And it only got better from there.

There’s no end to the action around here. Just when you’ve finished helping Elsie find the butter and have Larry’s plumbing needs all figured out, Eileen’s Ice Cream shop needs an extra scooper. And when everyone is happily licking their cones, away you dash to load 30 bags of cow manure into someone’s little Mazda.

Enjoy talking to the different groups that gather to chat, linger over the giftware or ponder whether they need one half or three quarter inch screws for that new deck. Some people rush in to get steak for the BBQ and others spend hours strolling through the outdoor Garden Shed, but each one has a story to tell.

In addition to above mentioned daily action, you may also have the pleasure of:

wrapping produce
running the cash register
finding someone a toilet plunger
filling the milk case
watering the flowers
sampling the fudge (yep!)
dusting the giftware
talking to some cottagers
cutting a key
mixing some paint
grinding some hamburger
filling the coffee pot
dead heading the petunias
putting together a wheelbarrow
or pricing the eggs
(but no grass cutting, that’s Harley’s job)

By Friday you’ll know the difference between a Porterhouse and a T-Bone, you’ll wow your friends with your knowledge of cottage plumbing solutions and in the future, you’ll know exactly which flowers to put in that planter on the end of your dock!

I immediately wrote back and told them I’d love to come. It was only about 650 miles from Marathon, and I could extend the small-town high I was already on. But getting to Wilberforce was a lot more difficult than I thought it’d be.

Wilberforce is too small to have a bus station. The bus only services a few neighboring towns, but even these towns are too small to have a direct bus route. This turns a typically thirteen-hour direct car ride into a twenty-four-hour bus ride with a ridiculous number of transfers.

I hopped on an overnight bus that would take me four to five hours west of Wilberforce and decided that I’d hitchhike the rest of the way.

It was pitch-black, sometime after midnight, and most of the passengers were already asleep. I quietly made my way to the front of the bus. “Excuse me, sir,” I said to the bus driver. “In the morning, I’m wondering if you could drop me off just outside of town alongside the highway? I’d like to hitchhike from there.”

He turned to look at who would ask such a question. “Sure, I suppose so. That shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. “Do you have your bags on board with you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Okay, well, just make sure you come up here when we’re nearing town.”

“Thanks, I will,” I said, then headed back to my seat to try and get a couple hours of sleep. In the morning, adventure awaited me.

As we approached the town, I sat on the edge of my seat with my bags next to me, ready. The bus slowed down and pulled onto the gravel shoulder. I grabbed my things and headed for the front. Passengers slowly started to wake up and were no doubt wondering why we were stopped on the shoulder a few miles out of town.

“Thanks a lot!” I said, and waved at the bus driver.

I stepped off the bus into the early-morning sunlight. With my suitcase, computer bag, and backpack in hand, I watched the bus slowly pull off the gravel. The passengers sat snug in their seats with their faces pressed up to the window, looking confused.

I, on the other hand, was excited. I smiled and waved at the passengers. They stared back, their faces blank, as the bus pulled away.

That’s not the life for me, I thought, trying to convince myself that I’d made the right decision. I’m different. I’m adventurous, out to take my chances on the open road, to stick my thumb out and see what happens. Onward I go, seeking fun, excitement, and random encounters. How many rides will it take? Who will I meet? Somewhere, someone is on a road trip heading in my direction. When they set out on the road that day, they didn’t know that everything they did that morning—stop for gas, go for breakfast, take a photo at the tourist trap disguised as a giant wooden apple—would lead them to the perfect moment in which our paths would cross on this exact piece of pavement where they would see me standing, surmise my apparent harmlessness, and in a split second decide to hit the brakes, pull over, and pick me up. Now, that’s adventure.

And this was how adventure started.

After a while, the muscles in my cheeks became sore from smiling at each car that passed, my right arm became tired from holding it outstretched toward the road, and I wanted to sit down but I wasn’t sure how that would come across to prospective rides. I started to get a bit resentful as car after car passed with lots of room for extra passengers.

What was wrong with me? Didn’t I look safe enough? I’d pick me up.

Then there were those drivers who gave false hope—they’d honk their car horn, smile, wave, force me to stretch my already aching smile a bit further to convey just how safe and fun I was, and even though I immediately pegged them as the false-hope type, I’d still indulge in the hope that they just might stop this time. No doubt they’d think they were doing me a favor, offering me some energy, as if to say, “Hey, that’s fun, you’re adventurous, you’re hitchhiking, great!” Then they’d keep on driving, probably talking about me.

“Well, he looked nice. I hope someone picks him up.”

“Yeah, me too. Not us though.”

“At least we honked and waved at him. That must’ve heightened his spirits.”

“Sure did, honey. Aren’t we a fun couple?”

“Sure are. Road trip on!” Then they’d look at each other, smile, and high-five across the middle console.

And there’d be me, on the side of the road, standing next to my bags in the scorching midsummer sun wondering if I’d ever make it to my destination.

Then someone would stop. A newfound optimism and hope for humanity would fill me. I would grab my bags and jog toward the car. Can’t casually walk, must be a subtle jog to express that I’m grateful and appreciate that the driver’s time is valuable. I’d open the passenger door, say hello, and ask where I should put my bags to allow for a quick shallow judgment call, then hop in.

“Hey, thanks so much for stopping.”

“No problem. Where ya headin’?”

“To a small town about five hours east of here. It’s called Wilberforce.”

“Oh. Well, we’re actually on the west side of town right now. You’re on the wrong side of town, partner.”

After an adventurous walk past the bus depot to the other side of town, I stuck my thumb out once more. Again, nothing happened very fast. I couldn’t believe my closed-lip smile accompanied with a head tilt and slight eyebrow raise wasn’t working, not even with the added “Well, what can you do?” shrug. Nor was the shy “It’s my first time hitchhiking, pick me up for my mother’s sake” face proving all that effective. Maybe, I thought, I should let my hair down; a hippie driving an old VW van might drive by and feel obligated to stop. But I wasn’t sure how that would fare with an older crowd. Maybe I should keep my hair tied back and put on a hat so people wouldn’t see my hair at all.

Then, after a few more hours, someone stopped.

No jogging required this time—it was a police squad car. Great, exactly what I needed.

The cop stepped out of his car and walked toward me. He appeared stern, official, and purposeful, as police officers often do.

“Say, are you that guy doing a different job a week?” he asked.

“Yeah, actually, that’s me.”

“Thought I recognized the hair. Well, perhaps you’d have better luck if you made a large sign saying ONE-WEEK JOB GUY.”

“Uh, yes, Officer, great idea,” I said, unsure if I was in trouble or not.

“Well, I need to take your name down,” he said. “You know, in case you go missing.” He smiled to assure me he was kidding, though it came off more like foreshadowing in a murder mystery.

“Do people go missing around here often?” I asked, handing him my license.

“Just a precaution,” he said.

Luckily, on that highway hitchhiking was legal. He took down my information on his notepad, hopped into his patrol car, and pulled away.

Once I left the main highway, it was all small country roads. The scarcity of traffic made the last four hours into Wilberforce brutal. After six different rides, I was still over an hour away, it was getting late, and I’d been standing in the same spot for at least thirty minutes. I wasn’t too worried. The elderly man in his truck who had dropped me off there had given me his phone number in case I got stuck. He lived twenty minutes away and said he’d come pick me up to stay at his place if I needed to.

Traffic thinned out and it started to get dark. The sky was still blue, but the sun had already dipped below the thickly forested road, making the trees appear like shadows.

An hour and a half later, in the pitch-black, I started to feel a bit grim. I’d tried to call the old man’s phone number along with several variations of it, but the operator repeatedly told me the number could not be completed as dialed. I had no idea where I was. The only sounds were mosquitoes and crickets. The only break in the complete darkness was the occasional set of headlights.

I didn’t know what to do. I thought about trying to find some homes and knocking on doors, but I wasn’t sure which direction to head. As each car passed, I made the expression on my face more and more desperate. Another one quickly passed and didn’t look to be stopping. But as it crested a small hill a few hundred yards down the road, it stopped. All I could see were two red brake lights in the distance. The car paused, then suddenly went into reverse and sped backward down the country road. A change of heart. The car was loaded with stuff, but I didn’t care. I was going to find a way to fit in that car. It was two guys in their early twenties, Tony and Sylvester, summer-camp leaders who were heading back to work after a long weekend. As fate had it, they were traveling right through Wilberforce. My cheek muscles were sore from a long day, but I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face as I sat snug in the backseat, the car weaving through the darkness.

Fifteen minutes from town I called the owner of Agnew’s General Store, Mary, to tell her I was going to make it that night.

“There’s only one intersection in town,” she said. “There’s a bank, the old train station, and then our store with the ice cream shop across the street. I’ll meet you guys out front of the ice cream shop.”

“Ice cream?” I asked.

“I’ll bring the key,” she said.

Soon my fortunes had dramatically changed. An hour earlier, I’d been standing by myself at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere being eaten by mosquitoes in the pitch dark. Now, in the company of a few new friends, I grinned widely and clutched the biggest ice cream cone I’d ever seen. Adventure indeed.

True to the email, my week at Agnew’s General Store consisted of many random tasks—packing meat, cutting keys, scooping ice cream, mixing paint, helping cottagers with their groceries. Agnew’s slogan is perfect—“Everything from soup to nuts.” I only wish I was able to cut the grass … but that’s Harley’s job.