WEEK     JOB: CATTAIL PICKER

LOCATION: MONTREAL, QUEBEC

I WAS KNEE-DEEP in sludge, the sun beating down, flies swarming and sweat dripping off my forehead. The muddy swamp water that slowly penetrated my supposedly waterproof coveralls made a memorable stench. The novelty of working in a swamp had quickly worn off, and the end of each workday couldn’t come soon enough. At first I was intrigued to learn the practical use of cattails, but after spending the last few days slogging through mud, cutting the long stalks at the root and then peeling off the exterior layers to reach the soft center, I decided that I couldn’t care less.

It was weeks like these when I was thankful that each job lasted only five days. I was working with a distribution company that collects wild products (such as cattails, peppermint, and specialty tea leaves), then processes them and sells them to high-end restaurants and specialty boutiques in downtown Montreal.

At 5:30 A.M. I had crawled out of bed to start the workday. Now, twelve hours later, after another sweltering hot day in the bush, I was starving, exhausted, and ready to call it a day. Yet one delivery in town still remained.

My boss, Jean-Philippe, was inside the restaurant talking with the owner. I was sitting in the car with my feet up on the dash, too tired to be impatient, when my phone rang. I flipped it open and was relieved to see that it was Ian.

Ian and I originally met in elementary school but didn’t become friends until years later, in junior high. I invited him over for a game of Ping-Pong after he had so confidently boasted of his superiority during one of our classes together. I ended up winning every match, even neglecting to use a paddle in the last one. We started hanging out more often, until sometime in high school, after spending countless evenings in Ian’s basement talking about girls, life, the future, and how we were going to climb the social ladder at school, we realized we’d become best friends.

For many years, people would say how similar we were from spending so much time together. We used the same phrases, had the same tendencies, even told the same jokes. We called it “Sean and Ian’s grab bag”—either of us could pull a joke from it. We always laughed the hardest. Not so much at the joke but because we knew we’d used it so many times before.

One that we still inevitably use is the routine at a restaurant when the check arrives. It’s almost become tradition. If I am the first to snatch it off the table, then Ian stays quiet with a smirk on his face and waits for the punch line. With the check in hand, I confidently lean back and review it, gesturing that I’m going to take care of it. Then in an overly noble tone I say, “Don’t worry, guys, put your wallets away, it’s no problem.” Then I quickly toss the check toward Ian and add, “Ian’s got it.”

At which point Ian might choose to take out his wallet, purposefully flip through his cards, then swiftly pull out his library card, toss it onto the table, and say, “This should take care of it.”

Throughout high school, for every project or presentation that was assigned, Ian and I would always ask to make a video. Ian was the camera guy. I and other friends would act out the scenes, then we’d edit the footage together. Ian had the idea that we should start our own production company when we got older. I had no idea what that meant. I remember he explained it to me one day. “They make movies,” he said. Sounded cool to me. But I really just wanted to work with Ian.

“Hey, man, how’s it going?” I said, slouching further in the car seat.

“Good. What are you up to?”

“Just sitting in a car, waiting for my boss, after spending the last twelve hours in a swamp picking cattails. You know, the usual.”

“Ha. Nice.”

“Yup.”

“What are cattails anyway?” he asked.

“Ha, ahh, man … meh,” I mumbled my disapproval.

“That good, huh?”

There is nobody who knows me better than Ian. A single remark, a vague observation, a certain smile, an incoherent thought, or a particular tone of mumble taps a catalogue of archived conversations and Ian knows exactly what I mean, the context, and the feeling behind it. We have so much material to reference that an outside observer can’t possibly comprehend the layers beneath our words. At times this ease of interaction reduces our conversations to little more than one-word banter.

Ian has a Zen-like calm that is not easily shaken and an uncanny way of simplifying everything to where the correct choice becomes obvious—a helpful balance to my indecisiveness.

Sometimes we appear more like brothers, or like a bickering old married couple.

It’s more than the typical “I can always count on him to be there,” or “I could trust him with anything” stuff. It’s deeper. Kind of like Frodo and Sam, without the awkward sexual overtones.

In short, I’m incredibly grateful to share a friendship like we do.

“So, I quit my job today,” Ian said casually.

Immediately I thought, Great, now you can come out on the road with me.

I know he expected me to say it. I’m positive the same thought crossed his mind. We’d talked about it before and how cool it’d be if he came on the road to film the different jobs. But Ian had just gotten married two months earlier, and now he’d lost his only source of income; my idea represented a vague memory of when we both were unattached and free to take off on a moment’s notice. But things had changed.

I knew his wife, Karen, wouldn’t be thrilled with the idea, and so I fought the urge to bring it up. I simply listened to him explain why he’d quit and waited to see if he was thinking what I was thinking.

Ian had worked for an Internet reservation-system company, and he’d felt there was no need to be at the office when he could do the same job, and do it better, from home. He asked if he could work at home one day each week. His boss wasn’t willing to be flexible. So Ian quit. They lost a great employee, but it was the best thing for Ian. He could start freelancing, work from home, and if I could be tactful enough, he might even come on the road with me.

“So, what that means is … maybe I could come out on the road for a couple weeks,” he said tentatively.

He’d opened the door.

“Dude, you’ve got to. It’d be so sweet,” I said, energized by the possibility.

I’d been posting pictures and blogging on the website, but it had been difficult to accurately relate my experience and what I was learning. With Ian on the road, he’d be able to film the jobs, the interviews with my employers, and capture the overall experience. Not to mention I knew it would be great to have my best friend on the road. Our one last hurrah.

A couple of days later, and after what I’m sure was some entertaining early-married-life dialogue, Ian had convinced Karen that he’d be home in two weeks. And so it was decided. Ian would come out on the road with me to film two one-week jobs.