“What are the odds?” I asked her. An obvious rhetorical question, but she answered anyway; “One in a million, maybe?” Apparently, she had missed the last ferry the previous day, by my fault, and decided to stay in the city and skip the family reunion. She hadn’t bothered calling me because she figured I would have been out of town already. I didn’t know her that well, and I couldn’t quite grasp whether she was mad at me or glad to have some company.  I soon learned she wasn’t exactly alone; an extraordinarily tall and bony Métis joined us at the table, a beer in each hand. “Making friends with strangers, Em?”

She introduced me as an old friend driving through town, and him as a new friend who’d lived there his whole life. They had met through common friends a few weeks prior and he was the reason she was at the Café that night. He was the house’s sacrificial slammer; the first to step on the stage, and the standard by which the night’s poets would be judged. I offered to share my Oppenheimer weed. “Nah, I’ll be on stage in a minute. If you wait for me I’ll buy you a beer though.” The MC called his name. He sprung from his chair, walked to the mic and exploded in rhythm and rhyme. He wasn’t singing or rapping. He was talking, punctuating every other word with an unlikely stress, speaking the tale of a young boy born on skid row. The boy grew older and the teenager lived on the streets, dealing and smoking crack, losing friends and loves to foreign enemies: the cops, jail, drugs, death. The man in the story knew how to write, he wanted to be an artist, so he moved a few blocks south and wrote and sang. He moved from the streets to a small apartment, to the Café where he could tell stories.

Zack - that was his name - thanked the crowd and walked off the stage. Beads of sweat were dripping down the side of his temples. We stepped out the door with Emily and lit up the grass. “Damn this is some serious nuclear shit you got here! Where’d you get it?” I told him a man named Blurry sold it to me on Cordova. Perhaps he knew him. “Ah! I haven’t been to the Downtown Eastside in years. It wasn’t my story. Don’t know him.” It was potent weed indeed. We shared the little I had three-way and we were all stoned out of our heads. We walked back in, drank a couple beers and sat back. The last man on stage was a short Black kid whose name I forgot. His flow was exceptional, but what struck me was his clothing. He was sporting a rather strange assortment of styles; a beige trilby, tortoise-shell aviators and a light brown suede suit with a matching leather waistcoat. A style you would really only have found in airports back in the day when people smoked long cigars on planes.

We left at closing time and Emily suggested I come over to her place for the night. “You’re sleeping on the couch, don’t get any ideas.” How nice of her. I spent the rest of the night sending emails to strangers, hoping I could do a little couch surfing in Seattle and Portland. I crossed the border instants before sunrise.

I met Emily in a coffee shop in downtown Vancouver. She really had to go, but I insisted she’d stay for a while. I’d driven 5,000 kilometres to get where I was, and she was there too; might as well have a quick talk. Em is of the really weird kind. We’d travelled once together, on a train between Xi’an and Beijing. I was with friends and she was by herself, and we were all sharing a cabin. We talked and played cards and drank some rice liquor before falling asleep on our little bunk beds. In the morning, before the train reached the station, Emily told me she had taken a picture of me while I was sleeping. It was funny, she thought. I thought it was awkward as hell.  What kind of creep takes pictures of strangers in their sleep? We exchanged numbers and never called each other, that is until I reached Calgary and needed to talk.

She downed her coffee in an instant. “I really should go. I hope you enjoy Vancouver though. Just steer clear of E. Hastings.” She left for the last ferry. I got some sleep, way less than I needed, but I didn’t care anymore. First thing in the morning, I’d drive to the Downtown Eastside. East Hastings, abode of the roaming and dispossessed. I always felt at home with those who don’t have one. Oppenheimer Park, a village of disinherited souls who have nothing to lose, looked like a refugee camp a few blocks away from the downtown bankers and their professional demeanours. What a sight! Underage crack-smoking prostitutes playing horseshoes with escaped convicts and propane-sniffing Indians. Some older hobos were cleaning up a Black man on a wheelchair with dirty wet towels. They looked friendly so I got closer.

“Nice little community you got here. The cops don’t ever bother you?”

“The cops and the locals don’t bother us. Boy, you’re not from here are you?”

“No. Actually, I’m here hoping I could score a dime and be on my way.” He pulled out a little plastic bag.

“A dime’s bigger than that, man.”

“Boy, there are plenty of good dimes of weed in this country. The trouble is they cost twenty bucks. What this country needs is a good ten-dollar dime.”

I’d never heard a street dealer quote depression-era journalists. Then again, I’d never heard anyone quote depression-era journalists. I knew I was getting ripped off, but I paid the man and left. “You’re still a kid and you’re still clean, you belong in Grandview. Tell them Old Blurry says hi.”

I set sail for Grandview and walked along The Drive for a while. Café Deux Soleils advertised live music and slam for five bucks. Being surrounded by sane people for a night wouldn’t hurt me. I walked back to the car to gather some pocket change, then came back and peeked through the window to take a final look at the crowd I’d be spending the night with. Just making sure I’d get my money’s worth. Emily was at a table, alone.

“So where are you guys from?”

“We left Quebec City about a week ago, we were driving west with friends.”

“Those damn bastards!” Let the girl talk, kid.

I was driving with coffee in one hand and the map on my lap. This wasn’t really planned; I’m not sure how to get to Calgary. As we drove through horizons of empty fields, she explained their situations. They had indeed left Quebec City as part of a small caravan, three or four cars packed to capacity with hippies and their summer dream to pick grapes in the Okanagan. Those two had tents and planned on camping along the way, but the rest wanted to share motel rooms and the luxury of a daily shower. “After a few nights of refusing to chip in for the motel bills, we were a dead weight to them. They left this morning without waking us up.” Bastards indeed. The wrong kind, too. “I suppose you guys were splitting gas, though?” I’m the right kind of bastard.

We drove all day on the deserted Trans-Canada Highway. The scenery never changed. The sun’s course gave us the illusion of a shorter trip, though. We talked for a bit, but aside from their recent misadventure their story was uninteresting. I didn’t mind the lack of entertainment and discussion. My head was heavy from the previous night’s drinks and the limited sleep I had gotten before the morning traffic woke me up. I kept my mind on the road and tried to ignore the absence of foreign substance in my blood.

The sun had just set when Calgary started showing up on roadside directions. I had never picked up hitchhikers before, so I had no idea of where our common trip would end. I had no intention of staying around those two bores much longer. “Where should I drop you off? We’ll be in town in less than an hour.” They didn’t seem to have planned this much more than I had. Rain started falling, pouring harder the closer we got to the city, and they didn’t feel like pitching their tent. “Well, I have to drop you off somewhere. There’s no room in this car for three people to sleep”. Preventive strike; I knew they were going to suggest something along those lines. “Listen, I don’t know where you’re going tomorrow, but I can drop you off at the airport. Just sleep on a bench and pretend you’re waiting for a delayed flight. With some luck, nobody’s gonna bother you.” They agreed.

They gave me fifty bucks for gas and I drove away. The next day was spent driving through the Rockies, a truly magnificent sight. Everything was huge, immense! The perfect transition, the last obstacle between me and the coast. I called a friend in Vancouver before the phone signal was cut off. She had to leave for Victoria to visit family, but I convinced her to wait for me. The slope downhill was steep, but I could breathe it already. The west coast. Air is combustible; the west coast air is flammable. I was burning inside.

We were greeted at the cabin by fireflies and Cass. She was Gabe’s friend, or girlfriend, it wasn’t clear. We stepped into the house and established our quarters in the living room, next to the front door. Past the room were a small kitchen, then a bedroom and a bathroom in the back; an unlikely shotgun shack among the bungalows of rural Illinois. We grilled some meat on the porch and ate outside. As we were eating, I took a good look at Cass, to know what was up. She looked pretty from the side, but had this unfortunate face when you’d look at her in the eye. Her chin was oddly narrow and led to disproportionally full cheeks. Her almond-shaped eyes, too wide apart and slightly slanted inwards, made her look like some kind of rodent; the mix between a rat and a squirrel, perhaps. Gabe could keep her. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.

It started raining and the food was gone, but Cass had some hash on her. We knifed it on the stove top burners in the kitchen and collapsed on the couch, the three of us. Then Gabe insisted on picking up the guitar. That kid probably couldn’t play a single chord if held at gunpoint. The fact that he was high as shit didn’t help; he started bashing violently at the instrument while emitting strange, chirpy noises. “What the fuck are you doing man? Put that down, this is terrible.” It truly was terrible, and Cass was of the same opinion. I knew because she said “Yeah shut it, I’m trying to sleep”, or something to that effect. “Let me play, it’s Wonderwall”. It definitely wasn’t. I suggested we finish the flask, hoping it’d shut him up for good. It didn’t take long for the oil and liquor to start working together. I fell asleep on the couch, Gabe and the squirrel in the bedroom. Poor kid.

I drove him to work on Monday morning and left on the 94 to Fargo, then the 29 north all the way to Winnipeg. There was a theatre festival in the Exchange District, so I bought tickets for a couple of shows, hoping to mingle with the locals and possibly score a couch or, even better, a bed for the night; a futile enterprise. Instead, I got drunk in the beer tent listening to some live hippy noise coming from the main stage. Nobody would hold a conversation for more than a few seconds; such unfriendly people. Or maybe it was me. Regardless, I parked the car on a quiet street and got some sleep. I drove out of town a few hours later in the hope of finding a place that served cheap breakfast. What am I doing here? Winnipeg, really? Where am I going? Passed the onramp, on the highway: hitchhikers.

“Can I drive you anywhere?”

There was a girl.

“We’re going to Calgary.”

“Calgary? It’s fourteen hours away.”

“We know.” The girl was doing the talking.

“Alright put your stuff back there”. I popped the trunk open.

I woke up and had breakfast with oversized early-risers before calling Gabe. I had met him during past travels, and he now had a job of some sort in the city. We hadn’t talked for years, but he seemed irrationally excited to hear my voice. He suggested I crash his couch that night. His job would take him to Milwaukee the following week, but his car was dead. In exchange for the hospitality, I’d drive north with him to his cabin for the weekend, and then I’d drop him off in Milwaukee. Sounded like a good deal, so I hit the road and made it to Chicago an hour later.

I stopped for gas in South Chicago before venturing further in the city, a sizeable mistake. The car wouldn’t start again. I asked the station clerk if he had jumper cables, and if he knew of a mechanic in the area… a car shouldn’t just stop working in the middle of summer. “Son, you picked the wrong place to breakdown.  It’s the ghetto here, niggers everywhere.” This is awkward, I thought. He was definitely Black. As were the customers in the station. To some extent, his statement was true. Though I wouldn’t have picked that specific wording, it was factual. He made it sound like a friendly warning and suggested I drive way north, past the Loop, to a specific Jiffy Lube and get them to check if the alternator was ok, so I did that. Driving through mid-day Chicago highway traffic with a stick transmission and the fear that the car could decide to stop working any minute was somewhat stressful, but I made it there safely and got the thing fixed.

Gabe sure didn’t feel like wasting time. His job was stressful, he said, so we started drinking from a flask before stepping through the door of his flat. “I got some weed here, take a few hits. I’ll take a quick shower and we leave”. We ended up in a shady dive on the lowest level of Wacker Drive; events got blurry. The sun was still up when we got there, that I know for sure. And it was dark when we left, but I definitely got a glimpse of dawn before blacking out. There is this thing about Americans and their drinks. I come from a place where the legal drinking age is merely a suggestion. By age 15, you’ve already got a good idea of how much you can drink before things get too wild to handle. But Americans, they have that underage prohibition thing working against them. When they hit 21, they feel the urge to make up for those lost years, and regardless of your tolerance for the stuff, they’ll drag you to their level and make you drink like a kid again.

“Fuck man, it’s morning afternoon already?” Gabe’s general definition of time was strange but accurate. We got up, washed our dried-out mouth with light lager and started packing for the cabin. We got in the car and the engine rolled fine. “Damn, forgot something”. He stormed in and out of the apartment in an instant and came back with a pint-sized metal bottle. “Ha! You forgot we’d get thirsty up there? Rum? Gin? Not tequila, please no.” “Chill man, it’s milk, for tomorrow morning.” His foresight and my lack thereof shook me.  Maybe I should start planning things more than a few hours in advance.

We sped through small towns smoking cheap cigars and listening to downbeat music as the sun set. He still had his flask, all was not lost.

“Are you brining back anything of value? You didn’t fill that part in the immigration form.” This customs agent sure knew how to make me feel like a cheap bastard. “No”, I didn’t bring anything back. Despite the fact that I had left this town six months ago to temporarily live at the end of the world, I didn’t bring anything back. Not for me, or anyone else. Thanks.

It was spring, and the idea of coming back was appalling. Not that Montreal’s a bummer; it’s quite the opposite, especially in the summer. The thing is, my savings account had run dry weeks prior, and I had busted what was left of my available credit on gin and tonic at the airport before my connecting flight. Needless to say, the effect had worn off. I picked up my bags and took a bus home, not knowing what I’d do for the following months. I skimmed the papers for a job the next morning and found out some Crescent Street guido-hole was looking for a busboy. They hired me on the spot that same day. The paycheck was irrelevant but the tips were good, so sooner than I expected I had gathered a reasonable stash of twenties. While cleaning up tables in the sun on a drunken afternoon (befriend the bartender), I decided it would be most reasonable to plan a decent roadtrip. All I’d need was to not drink or smoke that money I made, and some square time to plan all this. Saving money was easy enough. Problem was I had some generous friends in the city that kept my mind in a haze throughout the first weeks of summer. By the time I was ready to leave, the money was still there but I didn’t know as much as where I was going. I bought a beat car with half my stash and packed it with a guitar, a pocked-sized journal, an inadequately small amount of underwear, a few shirts and, just in case, a sweet three-piece suit I had gotten tailored for cheap in Hong Kong. There I was, following that east coast teenager dream of driving West.

Now this all may seem like a rather romantic endeavour. Little did I know that a westbound 1994 Civic with a tank-full of gas wouldn’t get me much further than a highway super-mall near Brock, Ontario. It was still early and I had nowhere else to go, so I fuelled up, bought a pack of smokes and decided I’d get to Chicago that night. “I got friends there”, I convinced myself. I can be quite persuasive.  Crossing the Sarnia customs wasn’t as complicated as I expected, considering my unkempt hair and the fact that I couldn’t clearly define my destination.

“Where you going?”

“Chicago, then west.”

“How long are you planning to stay in the United States?”

“A few weeks, I don’t know.”

“Have a nice stay.”

Stay? I slept in the car in a Wal-Mart parking lot just outside the city, hoping I could reach someone in Chicago in the morning.