In early July, after a series of high adventures that got me from Chicago, to Louisville, and then up to Erie, PA, I had a hankering to head out for Niagara Falls, NY, and then into Canada, and somehow I got my mom to drive me. I can’t imagine what I said to get her to agree, nor can I imagine the pain and worry I put her through, but kids aren’t famous for caring about their parents, and I wasn’t going to be stopped anyway. It might have given her some comfort to know that I at least got to Niagara Falls safely, but I’m sure it was cold comfort. I could kick myself now, but then – the road beckoned.
I’d visited Niagara with the family on other occasions, and had no real interest in its day or night life, so after a quick good-bye to my mom, and a quicker look at the falling water I decided to head out to the big city of Toronto. I figured about three hours hitchhiking time which would get me into town with enough daylight to spare to find a place to sleep that night. I put out my thumb and hit the jackpot with a kindred soul named Paul who not only offered a ride straight in, but a place to spend the night. His plan for the day was to pick up his buddies, and a case of Molson’s, and drink the afternoon away. I thought that was a pretty good plan, and we set out to execute it.
We got to town, his friends were waiting, the beer was just down the street, and we spent the rest of the day drinking and driving. Paul seemed to be good at it, and into my fifth or sixth beer I couldn’t have cared less.
We did such a good job on the first case we decided to pick up another and drink it at the commune Paul called home.
As we got to work on our excellent project Paul’s housemates, another guy and two gals, joined us. Somebody put on some rock and roll, the party moved into a higher gear, I started putting the moves on one of the girls, and we ended up in her bedroom – more of a storage room/cubby, but perfectly adequate for what we had in mind. Before we got too far along the door banged open - it was the other girl. “What are you doing with my sister!?” It was a rhetorical question. “Leave her alone! She’s too young for you!” I had no idea they were sisters, and not the foggiest how old she was, but our private party came to an end with younger sister in tears, and me back in the kitchen smoking some pot. I was too loaded to stand, so I took a chair in the middle of the room feeling no harm was done and we’d party on. Older sister came out in a rage. She plopped herself onto my lap and started in with, “You want to get laid? Why don’t you try someone your own age? Maybe you’d like to spend some time with me?” She was filled to the brim with anger and alcohol, and I was filled with alcohol and embarrassment, I gave her a push off my lap, but it was a little too much and she ended up sprawled on the kitchen floor. The party turned very quickly, but thank god these were Canadian peace lovers. Instead of murdering me, which is what I thought was going to happen, Paul stepped in and ushered me to the front room where he grabbed my backpack and led me out the door with, “I’m sorry, we just can’t have violence here.” Oddly apologetic, but I was banished to late night Toronto nevertheless. I had no idea where I was, and barely able to walk a straight line.
I shouldered my pack, picked a direction, and before long found myself in a lovely European sort of park. But something was strange. It was late, and all the park benches were occupied by single men. Heads were turning in my direction. I finally got it, I had literally stumbled onto a Toronto hotspot that felt like a candy store and I was the candy. Again, god-bless the Canadians for their good manners. None of the gentlemen came on too strongly, and I navigated my way down the path and out of the park without incident.
I don’t know how long I was on the street, and still had no idea where I was, but I stumbled on to another park, this time blessedly empty, and decided to cash it in for the night.
It was a flat and open space that didn’t offer much in the way of seclusion, but it was relatively dark, and bordered by a hedgerow.. I scrunched up as close as possible to the hedge, used my pack as a pillow, and for safety’s sake unsheathed my Buck Knife. I fell asleep, or more like passed-out, half sitting up, with the knife grasped in my right hand. It was my first test in sleeping with one eye open. You can’t sleep with one eye open. Even if you could you wouldn’t see anything. If nothing else, it was a lesson in metaphor.
“Hey!”
Oh, shit. “Huh, what?”
“You want some breakfast?”
That was unexpected, but through my hung-over, half-drunk blur I could see the guy standing over me. He was older, clean, and smiling. Oh, Canada.
“Yeah, I would.”
He extended his hand, “Lemme help you up.”
Considering I was sprawled with a knife in my lap it was a brave offer, but considering the state I was in I don’t think I presented much of a threat. When I stood up the knife fell onto the ground - so much for armed and dangerous.
“C’mon.”
I sheathed the knife, stashed it in my pack, and followed him out of the park. Wherever we were, it was wake-up time, and the diner about a half block away was doing a good business. We got a table, and the coffee started coming.
“Smoke?”
Pall Malls. Not my brand, but I was out.
“Can I buy you a pack?”
“Sure.”
“Name’s Jack, by the way.”
“Hi Jack, Richard.”
I was a little surprised at the guy’s friendliness but didn’t question it. I was getting used to the random favors of the road. I took him up on the offer, got my own brand of smokes, and enjoyed breakfast. Hung-over as I was I still went the whole route with pancakes, eggs, and ham on the side.
“I’ve got to do something, but then we can pick up some bootleg and have a few. Wanna come along?”
Of course I did, but “Why bootleg?”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Oh.”
I was inhabiting a Kris Kristofferson song without even knowing it.
“Here’s the deal. I’m going to go check out this flophouse, and I want you to stand outside and let me know if someone’s coming in.”
At that moment, two and two not equaling anything, I said, “OK.”
It was a short walk to the flop, two floors of apartments, or rooms, and my partner left me out front and went in to do his business. About fifteen minutes later he came sprinting out holding a gym bag.
“Not much, let’s go!”
Two and two was still way beyond my reach, “OK, let’s go.”
We hustled down the street, around the corner, and down a few more blocks.
“This is my place. Come on.”
It was a big, old-fashioned boarding house, with a wrap around front porch. We walked up the stairs, into a dark foyer, and up to the second floor. Jack unlocked the door to his room. It was clean and comfortable looking, with a large brass bed, a sink, dresser, and easy chair. The window led out to a flat roof, and there was a lot of sunlight filtering in. We sat down on the bed and he handed me the gym bag.
“Have a look.”
I unzipped the bag, and he was right, “Not much,” a t-shirt, a pair of sneakers, and a can of spray-on deodorant. Not exactly what I’d call loot, but 2 + 2 finally added up to petty theft.
“Let’s have a drink. I keep a stash just in case, you know?”
He pulled an unlabeled bottle out of his dresser and handed it to me. There were about four swallows left in it. I looked at it like it was a urine sample.
“Sherry.”
“Oh, OK.” I took a pull and my sinuses ignited, swallowed and my head caught fire, it was as close to drinking kerosene as I ever hope to get, but I kept it down.
“Whoa!”
“Yeah, it takes a little getting used to,” and he polished it off. “Look, you stay here, grab some sleep, and I’ll get us some more. Got any money?”
“Couple bucks.”
“Gimme a buck and I’ll be right back.”
“OK.” It was my day for “OK’s.”
Jack left, and thedoor latched and locked behind him. As I sat back down on the bed shouting started from the hallway with a new voice leading off:
“You son-of-a-bitch, where’s my money!”
“Fuck you, asshole!”
Scuffling, a thud, a pause, and the new voice muttered a subdued, “God damn it.” And that was the end of it. I waited, heard nothing, slumped back on the bed, and was out before I knew it. When I woke up the light had changed, and was looking like late afternoon. I got up, climbed out the window to the flat roof, and decided it was time to go.
I felt like I owed Jack something. For what, I don’t know. He’d been kind, even though he’d enlisted me is some petty theft – and I do mean petty. The slate was probably clean, but I didn’t feel like I could get away without leaving something behind. If only for the space of a Sunday morning we’d been partners in crime. I’d packed a floppy jungle hat that I’d picked up at an army surplus store and that seemed like a good, useful thing to leave so I dug it out and left it on his pillow.
I opened the door as quietly as possible, stepped into the hallway, and there was “new voice,” hanging in his doorway, holding a baseball bat.
“Where’s Jack?”
“Don’t know. I’m leavin’, bye, ” and I was out of there.
I hit the street, and after a little wandering around came across a flyer for a rock festival that was going on somewhere near by. It seemed like something to do…
Friday, April 4, 2008
