“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.
