Working in Montreal

I run a small dépanneur on Rue Saint-Denis. It’s the kind of place people enter with half a thought and leave with a coffee, a lottery ticket, and a weather comment. My day starts at 5:30 a.m. The baker drops off croissants; I stack them beside the gum and the cheap lighters. I don’t try to make the shop fancy. The fridge hums, the door chime sticks sometimes, and the window has a smudge that never fully disappears even after Windex. It’s fine. People come because it’s close and because I remember their habits. The guy from the garage wants two creams in his coffee. The nurse from the clinic buys grape Gatorade, never orange. A student from UQAM counts coins and apologizes; I wave it off. Mornings are bilingual by instinct. “Bonjour—morning—ça va?” If I pick wrong, they switch me back gently. By noon, the delivery truck blocks the bike lane and I get the head shakes from cyclists. Afternoon brings the scratch-off regulars. They talk more to the tickets than to me. Around five, I watch parents herd kids toward the metro, mittens clipped to sleeves. My shop smells like coffee, detergent, and a little like old cardboard. I don’t pretend it’s more than it is. It pays the rent, it keeps me moving, and it gives me a steady view of a small piece of Montreal passing by. When I lock up, there’s always a receipt on the floor I missed. I pick it up, turn the sign to “fermée,” and that’s the day.

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