Okay, we are back to wraps!  I must finish what I began.

As discussed, I showed up at Sven’s Wraps just before 9 am on my first day, even though the place opened at ten, the first indication that things were not going to be…conventional with this team.  Dianne was supposed to meet me there, although she hadn’t arrived yet.  Sven would maybe show up, maybe not.  I was to soon learn that, despite this business being his namesake, he didn’t find it necessary to actually come to work every day.  And when he did, he behaved as though he were a high-ranking pasha strolling grandly around his palace, occasionally telling the nearly-nonexistent customers that he was actually Sven himself, that this was his restaurant, and these wraps were his invention.   

The store had an old article about Sven that he had clearly carried around with him, proudly, for several years.  It was dated sometime in the late 90s, and the article (why do I feel Dianne had paid for it to be published?) talked about the “wrap man” of Vancouver who had a new health-food product that was slated to be the biggest thing in nutrition since olestra.  The page was laminated and displayed right in the large storefront window.  I wish I could say it was blown up to tabloid size and taped smack-dab in the centre, which I’m sure Sven would have been quite happy to do if someone hadn’t talked him out of it.  But alas, it wasn’t.  It was displayed in the lower-left corner of this window, which I’m sure had Sven grumbling.

I got there, opened it up with my key, and sort of poked around the place, trying to get an idea of what they were going for.  Oh, I also neglected to mention in my last post that, once our meeting had concluded the day before, Sven very kindly presented me with two boxes of his wraps, which you could either purchase fresh or frozen.  From the freezer he hauled out one box of chickpea-coconut (I despise coconut as a food, but love it as a scent), and wild Atlantic salmon (one of my favourite things in the world).  I had gone home and heated one of each for dinner, already dreading the experience since they had a texture like sandpaper, and not a blop of moisture had been released from them after coming out of my oven.  

I drenched the coconut atrocity in salsa, then tried dipping it in sweet chili sauce, then smothered it in some usually-infallible Tapatio hot sauce, and nothing could give it life.  The salmon roll was a disgrace to that beautiful fish whose life was sacrificed to a clueless, food-challenged megalomaniac.  Everything was dry, overcooked, pasty, mealy, unseasoned, and irredeemable.  The fact that his advertising insisted these wraps could be eaten “hot or cold” was just unthinkable; I’m not even sure the orphans in Darfur would have agreed to trying a chomp of these things.  

I couldn’t understand how this even took off anywhere, even during the early years of health food when consuming bran biscuits for a meal seemed like a solid notion. I didn’t believe in this product for a single second.  However, it was a job, and it had come up unexpectedly just when I needed one.  I have done editing and ghostwriting for projects that disgusted me with each click of the mouse, so this was just a job, and I could therefore at least check off one of these apparent necessities.  I didn’t really have set hours, so I could work for three, five, six hours per day if I wished.  

 For that first day, I sat at one of the tables and opened up my laptop and wondered what to do.  Start writing a promotional piece?  Was I getting paid for being here right at nine, even if nobody else was?

Dianne actually made her way into the shop about quarter after nine, huffing and puffing about traffic.  I asked if Sven would be coming by as well, figuring that since they lived together, she would know.  After all, they were business partners Dianne appeared to be funding his life, expenses, and this preposterous vanity project.  She said, “Maybe.”

She then asked if I wanted one of the mason jars of fresh juice.  I took one that was bright green, and it was surprisingly good: cucumber, mint, parsley, lemon, ginger..  The produce for these drinks was purchased at the wholesaler my friend worked at, and I would eventually come to learn that an extraordinary amount went to waste every week.  Sven would roll into the warehouse purchasing box after box of kale, citrus, herbs, vegetables, and fruit, as though he were stocking the refrigerated section of Costco.  Because there were so few customers who came into his shop, much of this fresh food would just rot in the walk-in and have to be tossed out, only to be replaced by more of the same.  Over and over.  It was ghastly, just infuriating.  

We sat and chatted about what I was to do, which was still entirely unclear.  In fact, the next several weeks turned out to be a head-spinning mess of lack of communication, dysfunction, no direction, and money basically being set on fire just to appease one deluded man.  I recently unearthed a letter that I composed to Dianne all those years ago after I had absolutely had more than I could take.  I never sent it, because it wasn’t worth it–and neither were they–but it sure felt great getting it all out on paper.  Here are some choice excerpts, which I had to write in numbered bullets because otherwise, it would have taken pages and pages.  I have omitted the introductory paragraphs (I probably even began this unsent missive with “Okay, Dianne, sit your fat ass down and listen up”) , and have just included the relevant points I wanted to convey to her.  

(This is long, by the way. If you need to scroll past, do so. But nothing will give you a better picture of the unbridled lunacy I was dealing with freshly after the fact. And mind the formatting; WordPress is dying for me to throw money at it for an upgrade that promises a smoother experience as a creator. I’m almost there, just have to sort out finances, but I’m about ready to stomp all over WordPress, pound back some strong shandys, and fistfight pylons in the street if I don’t figure this out):

1.) I was hired on with no discernible position or professional title.  From our initial meeting it went from “business builder” to “promotion” and that morphed into “communications,” which I’m still not sure was supposed to entail considering I wasn’t given any freedom to communicate with potential advertisers or customers.  I have a feeling that, given how enslaved you are to Sven, he insisted on bringing me into the fold based on his own impressions of me, no matter how struggling you are for money.  Nevertheless, I was taken on with absolutely no idea of what I should be doing, or how I should do it, but had faith you would get around to sitting down and outlining my tasks and how I could help the company go forward.

2. Following that, since I had to figure out on my own that I was responsible for social media, I was provided with ZERO advice or guidance as far as my position was concerned.  You have no mission statement, vision, business plan, action plan, or even a solitary idea of what and who you are all about.  You are not a restaurant, but not a cafe, (Sven says, “I want a funky sort of cafe, you know?”  You say immediately afterwards, “We aren’t some funky sort of cafe.”  On and on and on like this) but some kind of eatery, but a chain that isn’t yet a chain…what are you?  Do you even know?  Well, here’s your answer: you are an outlet for Sven’s rampant egotism and delusions.  The fact that the “store” is called Sven’s Wraps is telling in and of itself.  Who, in the grand scheme of things, is Sven?  Why should, and would, anyone care that they are buying tasteless health wraps from him?  Furthermore, it is painfully and ridiculously clear that the idea of renting out a retail space in one of the most expensive areas of the city–with no proper marketing or advertising–is complete madness, and is the end result of Sven’s indescribably control of you.  Sven loves your money, and loves the fact that you are so abundantly codependent that you will do his bidding no matter the cost.  And what a cost.  

3. Ongoing and endless and nonstop drama regarding your downright bizarre relationship.  From the day I was hired on, given how erratic and strange things seemed to be–as well as your own lack of reliability regarding outlining to me precisely what your expectations are, despite my many inquiries and requests regarding meetings and clarification, constantly backed up with apologies and excuses–I have been stressed-out and mostly very depressed.  I had faith that you knew what you were doing and I was just witnessing a small part of growing pains, but ultimately, nothing made sense and nobody indicated to me what they expected of me.  Nor did I understand who was in charge, who called the shots, or whom I should report to and communicate with.  I had one set of notions from you, and then a completely different set of notions from Sven.  And I am still unclear as to what either of you were talking about, because you have not thought anything through.  For the life of me, I still can’t describe to a single person what either of you think your business is about, or what you’re trying to do, apart from thinking his “wraps are going to be the new hamburger and people will be lining up for blocks to get some.”  That’s what he said.  A direct quote.  Absolutely mental.

4. Three weeks after being hired on–around Christmastime–since I hadn’t heard from you, I was under massive stress and questioning what I was doing and for whom (a sensation that stayed with me for the entirety of my time with you).  I gleaned that you were under duress because of your ailing mother, and your voicemail message on Boxing Day, in which you weren’t direct, but in which you said you “couldn’t lie anymore and that things were bad and you couldn’t meet with me”, only served to make me wonder what on earth was happening and where things stood with my job.  I went into the store that Saturday, December 27, to be met by Sven, who thusly took me on a tour of Granville Island’s Marketplace to show off where he’d started out, and to fill my ears with notions of business plans and marketing and how I could fulfill those notions.  I felt that, since his name was attached to the company, he was in a position to say these things to me and solidify where I stood, not having learned the truth about anything, including the fact that Sven speaks in confusing circles with no point (i.e. a bullshitter of the highest order).

5. After the aforementioned meeting with Sven, I finally felt clear about my spot in the company, and sent you that email (December 28, I think) about a business plan.  I was rewarded with an infuriated, high-volume phone call from Sven, who yelled at me that you were going through “a psychotic episode” and that you were “not to be communicated with” and that whatever we had spoken about was between him and me.  I was shocked, obviously, and very distraught.  I was in tears after this unexpected onslaught because of how abrupt and harsh and strange it was.  He then softened his tone and told me that he had a son who had been through psychosis, and that he was dealing with the same thing with you.  And–in a theme that was to be repeated in the future–I was “not to tell Dianne” about his conversations with me.  What was this?!

6. Not long after that, I received a phone call from you that lasted nearly two hours, in which you confessed to Sven’s unbelievable alcoholism and resulting behaviour.  You told me of his erraticism, his self-destruction, and even his propensity to let himself into the store after hours to take the $200 float in order to buy alcohol.  You also detailed the fact that he had gone on a massive bender/binge around Christmastime, and this is why you couldn’t deal with things (or, as he described it, you “had a psychotic episode” that had nothing to do with him).  I counseled you for nearly two hours about this, mildly frantic because I was finally beginning to understand the paralyzingly weird dynamic between you two, and because I had been given the impression that this would be my main job.  I got the impression that I had been hired on erroneously, because you kept saying “We want you to stay on, but this is the truth of the situation.”  However, I had been diligently working as a social media person for you for the previous three weeks, and believed I had finally successfully figured out and understood my job (on my own).  Also, this was my only job.  I was hired on believing that it was.  I recall asking you how often you’d need me around, and you said “Maybe six hours a day.”  I based my livelihood around this.

7. I never, to this day, have had you sit down with me and tell me exactly what my job was, what you wanted, how you wanted to come across, and what you wanted me to do.  I improvised all of this.  Attempts to meet with you were generally put aside or postponed for various reasons, many of these having to do with your mother.  While I understand that a sick family member is a legitimate reason for staying away from work, being a business owner who takes on a new recruit means that you have to spend just a bit of time going over their role and your expectations.  I requested this several times, and it never took place.  You cannot deny that I have spent a LOT of time trying to track you down and talk with you in person.  Additionally, I put forth so many ideas of how to promote the store, call attention to its existence–starting with SIGNAGE, the most basic of things–and none of this was accepted or even tried.  You had no problems telling me what you didn’t like (certain photos I took, how many Facebook posts I made), but how was I to know what you wanted, or how you wanted it?  Answer: I didn’t, and neither, apparently, do you.

8. Ongoing, nonstop drama.  All the time.  Constantly.  I don’t need to detail this, because you know what I am talking about.  Your battles with Sven in public (at your own establishment!) in front of your own employees were embarrassing and overt, to say the least.  There is absolutely no agreement between the two of you regarding what is going on, although what is going on is–as mentioned earlier–nothing more than a showcase for Sven to have a place with his name on it, play Solitaire on the back computer as he makes disparaging remarks to the girls working there (a claim that I can back up), and–perhaps the worst part–interrogate and alienate customers by asking what they do and if they will give him money to invest in the company.  

9.  I am picking up from the last point: Sven alienating customers.  Since I worked out of the store much of the time, the handful of times that he had to work there (thanks to employees who quit), I had to witness him being overbearing and obnoxious, asking various customers (the few that came in) what they did for a living, and then holding them hostage in a sense with an onslaught of his professional ambitions.  If someone was fairly successful financially, I watched him gift this person with free items, such as smoothies or food, thinking that this person would be so impressed with his failing business that they would just give him tons of money and watch things unfold.  Utterly sad and bizarre behaviour from a man who will NOT be the next Ray Kroc.  And let’s face it, he is hardly a mascot of health and wellness.  He is a 65-year old alcoholic who is delusional and dependent entirely on you for support.  Without you, he would be on the street.  

10. Listening to stories of Sveni’s paranoia has been abysmal.  He appears to think that he has stumbled upon the gluten-free equivalent of the Coca-Cola formula, and that anyone who tries to help him advance professionally–hell, in the words of your former manager, Kevin–is “trying to steal his idea.”  This is outrageous for so many reasons, I can’t even type them out.  The worst part of this is, you have bought into his madness.  Don’t you see what he’s doing?  What he has done?  You are in an abusive relationship with a guy who is one second from Skid Row (and that one second is “Dianne’s money”) who thinks he can open a store on Denman Street and people will just line up for his fucking wraps!  Which are barely edible, by the way, and everyone knows it.  Another priceless item of information I heard from one of your former employees is that you guys actually eat these things at home, fried in butter, and topped with cheese.  That says it all.  

Whew!  That’s the best I can do to really summarize my experience with these two weirdos.  Oh, and I did mention something about the amoral food waste…

11. Your food waste is appalling.  Hannah and I discussed this many times, and it is absolutely atrocious how much food goes to waste.  I told her that I knew of a great food bank called Quest that I lived near, and I could arrange something with them in terms of donating uneaten wraps and / or produce on the verge of expiry.  When Hannah mentioned this to Sven, he apparently said, “I don’t need to talk to Nadz about food banks; I’ve got my own ideas.”  And hey, let’s get to the truth of this guy…Sven is a patronizing, condescending, delusional human being who has alienated himself from everyone but you, and in turn–as abusers do to their victims–he has kept you isolated and weak.

The business was one of the most insane things I had ever witnessed in my life.  I can’t imagine the overhead to keep a fairly spacious piece of commercial real estate on Denman Street running, along with electricity bills and all other costs, but one afternoon in which I was there, trying to take photos of the ghoulish product and make them look sexy, there were more customers coming in during the day than I had ever seen during the previous few weeks.  I’m not sure what happened that day, but the store made a whopping $400, and Dianne thought it was a typo on the cashout.  Generally, there would be maybe four or five people who came in, curious to check out the new business, most of the time walking right back out again.  Dianne and Sven, mainly, had no idea what they were doing.

If a customer did come in, he or she would look at the displays of wraps with some trepidation (I could even see their thought balloons, which all said, GOSH, THESE LOOK JUST LIKE MICROWAVED URINAL CAKES!) and maybe one or two brave souls would purchase a Mexican Bean wrap, or the Kale Asiago.  A few bought the juices, which were really quite nice, but they just weren’t selling because this joint wasn’t on anyone’s radar in any way.  

I would discreetly watch a first-time customer as they took a seat at a table, picked up their plastic utensils, and started uncomfortably sawing away at the bland, colourless, impossibly thick, desert-dry wrap.  Then I would really pay attention as they lifted the fork to their mouths, popping in that first bite, and chewing with a facial expression that would always be one of forced composure as they struggled with the disappointment of how it tasted like an ancient newspaper; the irritation at having wasted their money; the disbelief over how terrible it was; and the acceptance that they would have to go elsewhere for lunch after this failed experiment.  They would choke it down, or sometimes, not even finish it.

Most people asked at the counter if there were any sauces to go with it, which is another thing Sven didn’t even take into consideration: those wraps were perfect.  They didn’t need condiments.  The girl working there would try to finagle something, such as the honey-mustard dressing that was used to dress the kale salad, or some soy sauce that was rattling around in the back, or some mayo.  Nothing decent to slather onto this piece of gyprock to help lubricate its way down these unwitting customers’ poor throats.  

And feedback?  Change the recipe?  Not on your life.  God help you if you mentioned to this Scandinavian slop-pusher that he might want to update or improve his product…God help you.  

A very well-known, very well-respected local caterer named the Lazy Gourmet had a representative come in one day, maybe trying to sniff out the new food slinger in town, and since Sven wasn’t around, she actually talked to me about perhaps working with him and finding out his recipe for the wraps themselves since gluten-free was still a very popular food option.  She gave me her card, and I was impressed: these guys have been in Vancouver for many, many years, and if someone of their stature and calibre were willing to even swap a few syllables with the gormless fool that was Sven, it was well worth pursuing.  This might be his breakthrough!  Forging a partnership with a company that actually knew good food could take him to the next level!

When I approached him later with this exciting information, Sven took the business card, unceremoniously dropped it into the giant garbage bin, and declared, “They will steal my ideas and claim them as their own.  No way.”

For three months, I attempted to freelance for these individuals, and still wasn’t sure what they wanted.  I worked their social media accounts, attempting to gain friends and connect with others in the industry and send out advertising blasts.  I would take skillful shots of sliced wraps with a bright juice on a woven mat, or next to a nice plant for a “natural” take on their unconsumable fare.  Dianne would take a look at some of the photos and sigh, “That’s…not really what we want to convey.”

They didn’t have one goddamn ding-dong clue as to what they wanted to convey.  Nor did I get guidance or direction.  They were two feckless dolts with more money, apparently, that they knew what to do with; well, Dianne did, but I think her finances were really tanking with each day that went by and no revenue was being generated.  

I tried to organize a grand opening, and Dianne said “I don’t think we need one.”  Sven would echo this, and then state firmly, “They know me around here.  It’ll just take time.”  

By this time, around February, I had moved to the West End, where I still am, just a mere few blocks from the business.  My rent for the one-bedroom maxi pad was just wonderfully inexpensive at the time in 2015, costing me $1135 per month including heat and hot water.  It wasn’t a month later that I had had enough of Sven, his wraps, his idiocy, Dianne’s codependency, and the fact that it seemed I had probably been given this nameless job because he thought I was cute.  He did seem to call me a “beautiful woman” much of the time, which is nice to hear once, but when it happens from the same alcoholic freakshow on a regular basis, it’s creepy and exasperating.

One day he came in after being gone for a few days, and Dianne whispered that he had gone on a total bender, taking her van (he had had his license suspended for Guess What) and driving to New West, abandoning it, then walking around causing all sorts of mayhem with bottle in hand, pants likely on the ground.  He was arrested and let go the next day, as is the norm in this city.  He looked utterly worse for wear, and the first thing he did was grab two juices and glug them both down, only stopping for air between the two drinks.  He winced as he did so.  He then behaved rudely, raising his voice at the girl who worked the counter (the third one in two months–Dianne had said, “I guess we just haven’t found the right person) and turning his hungover rage on me for an offense I didn’t even know was a problem.  Likely something to do with a suggestion I had made for the store.  

That was it for me.  I walked out, called Dianne to let her know I was completely fed up with this barmy nonsense, and she would pay me out for the week.  Great.  No more lunatic Viking, no more mentally-ill oil heiress.  Except now, I was still equipped to only do one thing: go back to teaching dad-blasted ESL, which meant poverty again.

Charles had to move in a month or two later.  I could not afford it.  Which will lead me to my next post, which will discuss how I have managed to live in the most expensive metropolis in the solar system on very little money.  

Til then,

TTFN!

Reach me at nadya@nadzvera.com

P.S, Sven’s little ego popsicle stand shut down about six months later. Ha.