“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.
