Back in the day, when niggaz played pong
This was the beginning of what I thought could be a book that I wrote in one Stacker-fueled morning. Disappointing. At the time I'd thought it was quite good.
........
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”
Upstate New York is really a beautiful place. If you take the Garden State Parkway North, it feeds almost directly in to I-87, a highway that runs all the way up New York and into Montreal. Do people even live up here? I’ve never really seen nature like this firsthand, except on this road. Jersey has some nice parts to it, sure, but if you’re on this road at sunset hours, on a slow curve around a mountain… how the fuck can I be driving around a mountain? Aren’t these things supposed to be huge? Thinking back, I must have passed six or seven already. Weird… mist seems to flow around the road from all directions, but I’m not entirely sure where it’s coming from. I can’t see any rivers at the moment, the haze just seems to float in from invisible crevices. On the stretches where the sun isn’t obscured by one of these massive, foliage-covered testimonials to the impact that force and time can have on land, the water in the air glows a warm orange. It feels like I’m driving headlong into an inviting fire at 90 mph. Perhaps I should slow down. The last thing I want right now is to get pulled over, speeding in a destitute and no doubt perverted section of what might as well have been Alabama for all I cared. An environment like this produces a disposition of violence and injustice in its natives, especially those that have any power. Fuck it. I have to get to the border, have to get there fast. I mean, Jesus, I’m seeing another car three, maybe for times an hour. Cops seem to be non-existent. I’ll increase speed and just pray. Two more hours and I should be out of this muck.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” Curse and smoke, curse and smoke, curse and smoke and hold the wheel, that’s all I’m capable of right now. I seem to have been doing both for hours on end. Alright, fine, I’ll stop cursing, since that’s probably not helping anything. How many packs have I gone through? Two? Three? I check the carton I purchased at the stop way back when this voyage had just come underway-seven packs still in there, the one on my dashboard has about half left, and I had a half a pack when I set off. Three packs in five hours? No wonder my throat hurts. The sun today didn’t help either though, I suppose. Jersey highways are hell in August, but I suppose it’s that way anywhere. Sometimes it seems like the light changes direction in mid-beam, and charges straight for my forehead, burrowing in through giving layer of skin, then extended high-powered hydraulic drilling systems normally reserved for oil mining to pierce my skull, and finally resting in my brain. Thank the dear lord I noticed those brutally overpriced sunglasses as I was buying cigarettes. One hundred and twenty dollars for shades… I would have been outraged if I encountered the same circumstance only a day ago, but now, it seems that money is all I really have. God it’s quiet. Is the radio on? No, it’s not. Has it been off this entire time? I’m simply not functioning properly, too many contingencies racing through my mind. Put the radio on, start singing along, take your mind off things. Country, country, country… is everything up here organized by mongrels? I should’ve just made my copies and been on my way.
This morning I woke up late for work, the way I do every Saturday. Saturday is the only day of the week that I work the 10-5 shift at a restaurant called Edgar’s Pub that doesn’t open until 11. They ask us to come in at 10 to set up in time, but the simple fact is that the only customer that shows up before noon is an homeless alcoholic who orders draft beers at a rate of one an hour and annoys the sweet-faced bartender with constant requests to turn the AC off. I must say, though, he doesn’t look homeless in the least. I probably should have put it together when I noticed him sleeping on the bench outside every Saturday for the couple of months, but the bartender, Tiffany, only revealed it to me recently, when I inquired of her as to why she doesn’t throw him out of the joint. It’s remarkable the things that you’d never know about a person from looking at them. I was still tired from the night before, I’m simply not accustomed to waking up before four p.m. Everything seems so much easier when there’s less light involved. I arrived around a quarter to 11, and after pumping a dollar into the jukebox and throwing on some classic tunes from Tarantino movies, settled into a chair at the bar for a cigarette and perhaps some flirting with Tiffany before I attempted any work. Morning employment requires some serious preparation and motivation on my part. If I’m not absolutely diehard comfortable by the time that my first table comes in, I run the risk of losing my grip on servitude in front of the elderly, disgusting beastwoman who is invariably my first irritating customer. In the restaurant business, there are plenty of these unhappy and demanding people, but she seems to be the worst, possibly because she’s in here so consistently. We call her the Flag Lady, due to the fact that she flies two American flags off the back of her 1989 Bonneville. She waddles in, sits without being actually seated, orders an unsweetened iced tea with no ice (proof that she’s not human, if you ask me), and then ponders over a way to make something as simple as a hot dog or a hamburger as complicated as possible.
“I want a hot dog, well done, not burnt but crispy, served on two pieces of whole wheat bread, with two slices of American cheese--torn into halves--placed on top, and sauerkraut, but don’t put it on the hot dog, bring it to me on the side in a little bowl so that I can add it myself because you people always put on too much.”
Riiiiight… well, allow me to make a counteroffer. How about I kick you full force in the cunt, and we call it even? Sure, it probably won’t taste good, but I doubt that you’ll be hungry for quite a while.
` Tiffany seemed distracted. Usually she’s all smiles, her mouth spreads so wide it looks like she has extra teeth. She’s a remarkable girl, one of two or three females who can genuinely make me laugh, and absolutely gorgeous. I’d probably marry her, even though I barely know her. I’m sure I could wait until I was thirty or so, when the qualities of humor and intelligence and a future have become truly desirable commodities in the sexual market, but I’m not entirely sure that I’m going to live that long. Don’t ask me why, I’m not sure myself, just a gut feeling.
My attempts to get her to open up to me about what’s bothering her, and hopefully establish some kind of rapport and trust extending past our existing relationship of her handing me drinks, were cut short when the phone rings. I answered, not realizing that it could be June, the manager of the wait staff, until the instant that I gave the friendly Edgar’s Pub greeting. As I delivered the address, the fear hit me, and my last few words trailed off into a somber, dissapointed tone.
“Good morning Randy, it’s me, June.”
“I assumed that it would be, June. How’re you doing?”
“Oh, just fine. I was wondering if you could do me a favor.” This is not the question that she meant to ask.
“Well… I suppose that I could, in theory. Is that all you wanted?”
“Um, no. So you wouldn’t have any problem with walking over to the convenience store and making some copies of the dinner specials, right?” Outside? Through that miserable sun? Damn your eyes.
“Sure, June, no problem. 30 copies per usual?” She agrees. I asked Tiffany to retrieve 3 dollars out of the till for me, since I have almost no money on me.
As I set off into the parking lot, to circle around to the Welsh Farms next door, I got lost in a moment of reflection and disappointment in myself. So, this would be my life, eh? No way, couldn’t do it. Actually working a job is simply out of the question for me. I’m just too weird, too lazy, too… good. Too fucking good for that kind of existence. People like me should make money just for being so cool. Strangers should walk up to us on the street and stop us, “Hey, man, I don’t mean to bother you, but, I’m sorry, you’re just The Shit. You’re so awesome, I mean… here, here, have a hundred dollars.”
“Well, thanks there, Coonass.”
“Coonass, ha ha ha, that’s hilarious, here’s another fifty.” The chumps of the world would be eating me up with a spoon.
At least, if the world were fair, that’s how things would work. But, it’s not, so there I was. I was going to college as well, a shitty excuse for a University, and even that bothered. I had always thought that college would be different from high school. That the teachers would know what they were talking about, that I wouldn’t be forced to do busywork like outlining chapters, that they would actually respect us enough to trust us to learn the material. But college appeared to be about as frustrating as high school had, and I still didn’t know where I was going in all of this. What I wanted to do, failing just getting money for free, was write. Any kind of art would do just as well, but writing was the only field that I had any real talent for. There were primarily two things keeping me from it-the risk involved and the fact that I didn’t have any real story. If you’re going to be a writer, you have to make it your occupation in every sense of the world. You have to sit down, and just write for a good eight hours a day, minimum. Not watch TV and write, not listen to music and write, just write. This makes any additional income fairly difficult. So if you’re going to make that kind of a leap, you had better either be independently wealthy, or ballsy as all get out. I was neither. Attempts that I made at writing in my free time always felt flat. A great novel requires a tremendous experience as its inspiration. Joseph Heller had a war, Hunter S. Thompson had a trunk full of drugs and a remarkable personality, but I didn’t have shit. I was a smart suburban smartass, and it didn’t make for any drama worth mentioning. But all this left my mind when I entered the store and saw one of the clerks, a man whose face I knew from numerous trips in here to buy smokes in the middle of a shift, opening the ATM machine.
In this particular generic version of a 7-11, the copier was set right next to the ATM. The man looked up, recognized me, in my green Edgar’s shirt, and greeted me warmly. My eyes trailed down to the stacks of twenty-dollar bills, eight of them, sitting on a cardboard box at his feet. I nodded and mumbled something, then plodded like a zombie over to the Xerox and slid the menu under the lid. Button 3, button 0, start button. A glance downward, still eight stacks. Memories of my years in high school, a hearty living made as a criminal. Pushing whatever kind of drugs I could find a good deal on, when I could find it. Thievery. God I was a good thief. Home Depot has this policy where you can return any items without a receipt for cash, up to 100 dollars. All you need is a driver’s license, and you can only do it once per driver’s license. I must have gone through half the car-possessing kids in my grade doing that, stealing some kind of light dimmer each time, and giving them a 20 dollar cut. Flash goes the light against the paper. Pop goes the door to the ATM. I stole everything, cigarettes, clothing, food, most all the necessities of life can be taken if you know how to do it properly and you’re patient. But this was a serious deal. This would mean a serious change in my life. Flash goes the light, pop goes one stack into the machine. There is no question over whether or not I would be caught. I had the shirt on, and my employers, naturally, had my name, address, social security, all that kind of stuff. But it would be so easy. Flash, pop. “If you’re going to do it, pussy,” I said to myself, “do it now, because you’re losing money with every passing second.”
Fuck it. I crash him once across the jaw, to disorient, before grabbing him by the back of the neck and shoving his head into the open machine. I throw my weight into the door, closing it on his temple, once, twice, thrice, and then throw him back across the floor. Quick, quick, grab the bundles, don’t bother looking in the machine, get the fuck out. I shove the bulky masses up underneath my shirt-I’d never felt money be so heavy before, and it was only a few pounds-and tighten the bottom elastic across my waist as I calmly, but quickly, walk out the door. Now I have to start talking to myself to make sure that I don’t fuck up. Glance at the street, but don’t look too much. Walking down the alleyway between the pub and the store I want to run, just break out and hurl myself, get out of this poisoned atmosphere, but I know enough not to. No one knows what I just did except for that unconscious body back there, so the only thing that can break me now is if I attract attention to myself. When I reach the back parking lot of Edgar’s, I pick up the pace a little bit, trotting over to my ’91 Honda. Out with the keys, open the door, and inside. I take one second of rest to breathe. Alright, that’s enough of that, I pop the glove compartment and start trying to shove the stacks in there, but it’s difficult to fit. Pull the stacks out again, grab all the shit that’s in there, and throw it on the passenger seat. Now, in an orderly fashion, place your money in evenly distributed rows. I manage to get it all in there, with just a little bit of forcing. Where the fuck are the keys? The keys are still in the door, dumbshit. Open door, get keys, start car. Breathe again, ‘cause you’re going to need it. Paused at the exit from the parking lot, waiting for a time to turn out, a Spring Lake police officer drives past in the direction I was intending to head and is stopped by a red light. Fuck me. Make the turn anyway, it’s in your best interest. I purr on out, and get behind him. If he’d seen me switching my blinker it might have aroused suspicion. Ah, what am I worrying about, there’s no chance this is where I’ll get nabbed. I see him glance at me in his rearview mirror. Relax, look around a little bit, stare at the red light, tap on the steering wheel as if you’re listening to something. Fuck, fuck, your seatbelt is off, put it on… oh, dear Lord, please don’t let this be my downfall. He looks away. I guess he’s satisfied that I’m following the law enough to not give me shit. What a good man. The light turns, he bears left, I continue straight. From there it’s just ten minutes to the parkway, all back roads of course. Normally, the thick traffic that one finds on a major state highway at noon would make me homicidal, but in this particular instance, I find comfort in it. Surrounded by cars on all sides, no one would bother to notice me in my popular model car. Have a cigarette there, big boy, you’re in the clear. You did it.
Part 2
What the fuck have I done? I mean, seriously, what kind of asshole was I? I just committed a serious felony that I knew, for sure, I could not truly get away with (“getting away” being defined as the commission of a crime executed so perfectly that it requires no alteration of your lifestyle in order to keep from being apprehended), for six packs of five thousand dollars each. That’s not a fortune. That’s not even a year’s salary, let alone enough to retire to a private island in international waters. I’m fucked, completely and utterly fucked, even if I don’t go to jail. Any serious life for me is over. Initially, I headed for the parkway simply because I knew it would be the fastest way out of the area, because there’s absolutely no way I can stay in that town, and it wouldn’t be bright to stay in the state. But the fact is, I didn’t know anyone in any other states. Amazing. I live in a suburb of several major cities in different states for eighteen years, and I can’t think of a single person that I know-really know-in any of them. I have to go somewhere, that much is certain, and I should really go to the place of someone I know. Using this money is going to be somewhat risky. I spent most of it early on, buying things for the trip-the gas, sunglasses, cigs, a couple of sandwiches, candy, a large bottle of Nyquil, as well as some No-doze (must be prepared to force myself to sleep or stay awake depending on the circumstances), and some extra sets of clothing for various weather conditions. After examining the bills, though, I realized that they were sequential, and that within a day or so, there would be a bulletin out to all banks and businesses. Luckily, they were twenties, that’s the only factor that might get me through this. Fifties or hundreds would be too conspicuous, make the entire affair greatly more complicated. Still headed north, only three more exits until I left Jersey, it occurred to me that I could go to Canada.
Yes, Canada, yes… I actually know someone in Canada, too, in Montreal. A friend of mine, Bob, had a childhood friend named Emma who moved up to the imitation French city when she was about ten. They stayed in touch, and during freshman year, he started taking vacations up there to see her over Christmas break. Well, not so much to see her, more to go to Montreal, but no reason to bicker. And last year, I went with him. It was really a great time. Up there, the drinking age is only eighteen, although practically, it’s more like fourteen, since they have that French influence. The children must have wine. Drugs are also pretty commonplace, with possession of marijuana for personal consumption being completely legal, and the laws regarding police freedom to search civilians being quite strict. A fine place for a vacation, but am I now to live there? Well, what other options do I have? Flying anywhere is right out-too conspicuous, too spur of the moment, no future thought-balls to that. A quick synopsis of my available knowledge reveals that yes, this is all I’ve got going for me. Two more exits before I hit New York. I had better stop here and call Bob, I’m going to need particulars.
Bob is asleep when I call, and I curse him in my mind. Then I curse myself, because truthfully, it’s my fault that my friends have such fucked up sleeping habits. I forced them into it by keeping them out all hours of the night. Explaining this situation to someone not fully awake is going to be a serious pain in my ass. Method of choice: eliminate particulars, emphasize urgency, and insist on blind cooperation.
“Listen, Bob, I don’t have much time, this is seriously fucking important. I need you awake, right now, and helping me.” I can practically hear his eyes open.
“Um… okay, what’s up?”
“I’m not going to get into it right now, but here’s what you need to know-I’ve committed a felony. The authorities KNOW that I’ve committed it, and thus, I’m leaving. I’m pretty sure that the only avenue I have is Canada, and I’m going to need to make contact with Emma for help. So what I need from you is directions, addresses, phone numbers, help, basically. I can assure you that I’m not going to be a burden on her. I have thirty grand sitting in my glove compartment. So, let’s get some pants on, get out of bed, and get the shit I need.”
“O… okay, okay. You’re not fucking with me, right?”
“I assure you that I’m not, Bob, this is the real deal.”
“Alright, well, hang on, I’m going to have to go fishing through my mother’s big pile of shit to find it. Just stay on.”
“No problem, Bob. I gots plenty of change.” He sets the phone down and plods off. I’m going to have to get Bob something nice when this is through. After a few minutes he returns.
“Got some paper?”
“Pad and pen right here, I anticipated.”
“Good. Now, where are you?” He proceeded to give me directions, the address of Emma, and her mother Carol, a sweet woman who I conversed with a little bit while I was up, and several phone numbers, cellies and homes, as well as directions to both of their jobs.
“Bob, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“Yeah, yeah, man, no problem… what… what did you do?”
“Robbed an ATM. I’ll be in touch soon enough and give you guys the whole story.”
“This is pretty fucked up, dude.”
“This is extremely fucked up. You have no idea. I guess… pray for me?” He laughed.
“Pray? Sure. You finding God all of a sudden?
“If this works out whatsoever, I just might have to. Bye, thanks.” I hung up. I shook the change around in my hand. Should I call my parents? What could I possibly say to them? No, that simply isn’t an option right now. Wow, my parents. I can’t go back home. My parents. There’s no possible lie I could think up that would make sense of this to them. My parents. What have I done?
Back in the car, push on. I stop off in a resort community called Lake George about 130 miles short of the border to clear my mind. I have to wonder what kind of freakish nazi reverend could create this kind of town. It’s straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting, but lame. It’s named Lake George because it has a lake, of course, and I park on the main drag that runs along it, as it looks like a good place to sit down for awhile. There are parking meters, but I wonder whether or not they’re checked this late in the day. I don’t see any signs regarding the hours they’re in effect. Checking the meters on the few cars nearby, I see they’re expired. Tolls have cleaned me out, change-wise, though, which is part of the reason why I stopped. I figure I’ll find someone to ask. Besides, I can afford a ticket. A leisurely stroll down to the water’s edge. The lake wraps around a towering mountain, probably named Mountain George, who knows. The sun is finally down by the horizon-it takes so long to set in July-on the right, and it’s reflection extends all the way down the water until it meets the beach, about a hundred yards to my right. I walk on down, and stand dead in front of the path of the sun. I have to take my sunglasses off, this feels to meaningful to mute. A long golden walkway painted out on the flat sea… it occurs to me that maybe this is what Christ saw when he took that fateful march, if he even did. For a second, I wonder if maybe what I did was a good idea. Perhaps this is just the impetus that I needed to catapult my life towards some kind of terrific destiny. I take off my shoes and socks, and hesitate for a second before I step off onto the surface, and my foot sinks through. Well, I’m not Jesus. That’s a disappointment. And now I’ve got a wet foot. Fuck. Face facts here, Randy. Nothing good is going to come of this. You’ve likely ruined any chance of a fulfilling life. Remember how you’ve been noticing your father’s health going downhill? Well, thanks to your brilliant instincts, you’re now stuck in a trap where if he died, you wouldn’t be able to go to his funeral. You may never see them again, you colossal fuckup. Good job. Go find somewhere to get change, and maybe a bite to eat already, and try not to commit a mass murder on your way.
It’s eight p.m. and everything seems to be closed. This is truly frightening. Obviously, something creepy and underhanded is going on behind closed doors. Perhaps this is one of those towns where prohibition is still in effect, or where public displays of affection are punished with stabbings to the balls, ass, and face. You’ll be lucky to get out of here with your asshole’s virginity, assuming that the locals don’t spot you as an eater and decide to fry you up for the rat children to feast on. A McDonald’s! Normality, hurray.
My first inclination that I was still not in Kansas (why would anyone want to be in Kansas) was when I noticed the distinctly French accent on the woman taking order, and the fact that she repeated it three times. It was really French though, it was just kind of retardish. As I wait for my food, I query of her as to whether or not they still check the meters at this time of day.
“Oh, we don’t have a parking lot here sir. You have to park on the street.” Now I have a problem. There are two distinct possibilities that could account for that response-either (a) she simply misheard, and I can fix all this with a restatement in clearer terms, or (b) this woman is one of them, a complete furbrain, and my only recourse is to shut up and stay out of any conversation with her in the hopes that it’s not communicable. I take a risk.
“Sorry, I guess I misspoke, you see, I did park on the street. I was just asking whether or not I should be working about getting a ticket for not paying the parking meter. I thought that they might stop checking them at a certain hour.” Not an ounce of comprehension appears on her bland face, her two pendulous jowls slack in confusion.
“We don’t have a drive-thru, you have to walk here.” How could she just fuck me like that? That was beautiful, it was absolutely perfect. I am now completely and utterly tortured, and there’s nothing I can do. I stand in silence, staring into her watery eyes as she brings me my food in a brown sack despite the fact that I asked it to be served for eating inside.
“Have a nice day, sir.” I pause for a moment, gripping the bag.
“Please do me a favor… consider stillbirth.” Leave, leave, leave, move your ass.
Walking back to my car, I’m slightly panicked about the implications of that exchange. Any minute now, I expect a gaggle of fourteen-year-olds in knickers and limp felt caps to leap out from behind a mailbox and challenge me to a 1920’s-style boxing match. My only recourse would be to snap all of their necks on the spot, after all, I can’t have them following me. Then I’d have to strip them naked and arrange their bodies in a gigantic orgy so as to create confusion when the town elders came to investigate on how the McFarlane boys did with that rustler. Fortunately, I make it to the car without incident. Driving back to the interstate, I get a creeping feeling that my recently purchased chicken sandwich is almost certainly dosed with some kind of tranquilizer, brain loosener, what have you. Out the window it goes, and the soda too. I forgot to get change. So that was her dodge! Obviously she could tell that I was a major criminal on the run to the border, and she was trying to slow me down, get me to do something stupid. I’ll just stop off to get some gas, since I could use it anyway, and obtain change there. Wait a minute… I-87 doesn’t even have tollbooths. Okay, okay, regroup, you’re hurtin’ bad, that much is obvious. You still need gas. Eye on the prize, bitchboy, eye on the prize. The fuel up goes without incident, and after a little trouble finding my way to the escape route, I’m back on the long haul again, my nerves recovering from that test of my testicular fortitude.
Soon enough, the border is mere miles away. I recall how easy it was going through the last time, the officer (I guess they must have some kind of title, although I don’t recall seeing any kind of badge or insignia) just asked us a few simple questions, and sent us on our way. That was at midnight, though. And winter. I think that he would have let a militia pass through without issue, just as long as he didn’t have to get out of his booth. The queue is about nine cars long, and the wait slays me. Be polite, smile, answer all the questions promptly but don’t pounce on them. Above all, act like it’s no trouble whatsoever. Finally, I get waved up. I decide to initiate the conversation.
“How’re you doing today, sir?”
“Doing just fine, thank you, and yourself?”
“Couldn’t be better. After winding through those mountains for a few hours, I can’t help but smile, ya know?”
“Beautiful, isn’t it? So, what’s your state of origin?”
“New Jersey.”
“And what’s your business here in Canada?”
“Going up to Montreal to visit a few friends, take a little vacation. Figure I’ll have them take me around the city for a few days, then maybe go camping.”
“Good plan you got there, be sure you don’t miss out on the opportunity to get out into nature. The woodlands here are just gorgeous in the summer.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Okay, could I just see your driver’s license and birth certificate.” I forgot about the birth certificate. You’re supposed to have a copy of it when you come through the border, to prove that you’re a resident. Shit. I pull out the driver’s license.
“Jeez, sir, I’m sorry, you know, my friends specifically told me to remember to bring up a birth certificate, they must have repeated it three or four times, and I still managed to forget it. Unbelievable, isn’t it? Sometimes the most important things just drift out of your mind.”
“Yeah… please pull up to that building over there, park your car, and go inside.” What happened to the friendly repartee?
“Is it anything serious, sir? I was hoping to make the city limits while there was still a little daylight left. Trying to actually get onto the island always gives me problems.”
“Oh no, it’s no big deal, they’re just going to run a check on your criminal record. I’m assuming that you haven’t been in trouble recently, right?”
“Of course not. A little bit of mischief back when I was a youngun’, but not in years.” Why couldn’t they have asked me to donate an organ instead?
“Well then you shouldn’t have any problems. Just head right in there.”
Don’t worry yourself now, Randy. They’re just checking your criminal record. That’s only things that you’ve been convicted of. They couldn’t have this information in your file even if they had managed to obtain it already, and, for some reason, told a clerk to get this into the computer ASAP. You just keep on believing that.
Inside there’s a black woman in her mid-twenties sitting at a desk behind the counter, filling out some kind of paperwork. I stroll up and set my driver’s license down on the counter. She looks up and me, and then goes back to filling in boxes. Obviously, she loathes me. “Fucking Americans…” she’s thinking, “bringing their drug-addicted, violent, uncultured, Garth Brooks-loving, inches and feet BULLSHIT into my beloved Canada. I’m gonna stick it to this motherfucker good.” After half a minute or so of standing there with my thumb in my ass, she gets up and comes over to me.
“I was told that you folks needed to check my criminal record?”
“Yes. This is your license?”
“Indeed it is.” Type, type, type.
“Social Security?”
“135-84-9509.” The computer clicks and whirls. I look around the room, checking for the huge red light and siren that must go off when a man known for and currently wanted for assault and robbery tries to gain access to the land of snow and mayonnaise. Seconds tick by… there’s probably some kind of Gestapo being assembled right now to rush me in a pincer attack, furiously clubbing at my knees and shins to throw me off balance and make the bar-arm chokehold easier to apply. They won’t stop in time, though, no need to with this kind of scum. Long after I’ve shat myself and gone limp, my corroded arteries will still be crushed tight, and see myself walking down rickety stairs into a bright red cavern.
“Okay then, you can go.”
“… really? That’s it?”
“Why? Do you want more?”
“No, not at all. Thank you very much. Have a nice day.”
“You, too.”
Stupid fucking Canadians.
........
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”
Upstate New York is really a beautiful place. If you take the Garden State Parkway North, it feeds almost directly in to I-87, a highway that runs all the way up New York and into Montreal. Do people even live up here? I’ve never really seen nature like this firsthand, except on this road. Jersey has some nice parts to it, sure, but if you’re on this road at sunset hours, on a slow curve around a mountain… how the fuck can I be driving around a mountain? Aren’t these things supposed to be huge? Thinking back, I must have passed six or seven already. Weird… mist seems to flow around the road from all directions, but I’m not entirely sure where it’s coming from. I can’t see any rivers at the moment, the haze just seems to float in from invisible crevices. On the stretches where the sun isn’t obscured by one of these massive, foliage-covered testimonials to the impact that force and time can have on land, the water in the air glows a warm orange. It feels like I’m driving headlong into an inviting fire at 90 mph. Perhaps I should slow down. The last thing I want right now is to get pulled over, speeding in a destitute and no doubt perverted section of what might as well have been Alabama for all I cared. An environment like this produces a disposition of violence and injustice in its natives, especially those that have any power. Fuck it. I have to get to the border, have to get there fast. I mean, Jesus, I’m seeing another car three, maybe for times an hour. Cops seem to be non-existent. I’ll increase speed and just pray. Two more hours and I should be out of this muck.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” Curse and smoke, curse and smoke, curse and smoke and hold the wheel, that’s all I’m capable of right now. I seem to have been doing both for hours on end. Alright, fine, I’ll stop cursing, since that’s probably not helping anything. How many packs have I gone through? Two? Three? I check the carton I purchased at the stop way back when this voyage had just come underway-seven packs still in there, the one on my dashboard has about half left, and I had a half a pack when I set off. Three packs in five hours? No wonder my throat hurts. The sun today didn’t help either though, I suppose. Jersey highways are hell in August, but I suppose it’s that way anywhere. Sometimes it seems like the light changes direction in mid-beam, and charges straight for my forehead, burrowing in through giving layer of skin, then extended high-powered hydraulic drilling systems normally reserved for oil mining to pierce my skull, and finally resting in my brain. Thank the dear lord I noticed those brutally overpriced sunglasses as I was buying cigarettes. One hundred and twenty dollars for shades… I would have been outraged if I encountered the same circumstance only a day ago, but now, it seems that money is all I really have. God it’s quiet. Is the radio on? No, it’s not. Has it been off this entire time? I’m simply not functioning properly, too many contingencies racing through my mind. Put the radio on, start singing along, take your mind off things. Country, country, country… is everything up here organized by mongrels? I should’ve just made my copies and been on my way.
This morning I woke up late for work, the way I do every Saturday. Saturday is the only day of the week that I work the 10-5 shift at a restaurant called Edgar’s Pub that doesn’t open until 11. They ask us to come in at 10 to set up in time, but the simple fact is that the only customer that shows up before noon is an homeless alcoholic who orders draft beers at a rate of one an hour and annoys the sweet-faced bartender with constant requests to turn the AC off. I must say, though, he doesn’t look homeless in the least. I probably should have put it together when I noticed him sleeping on the bench outside every Saturday for the couple of months, but the bartender, Tiffany, only revealed it to me recently, when I inquired of her as to why she doesn’t throw him out of the joint. It’s remarkable the things that you’d never know about a person from looking at them. I was still tired from the night before, I’m simply not accustomed to waking up before four p.m. Everything seems so much easier when there’s less light involved. I arrived around a quarter to 11, and after pumping a dollar into the jukebox and throwing on some classic tunes from Tarantino movies, settled into a chair at the bar for a cigarette and perhaps some flirting with Tiffany before I attempted any work. Morning employment requires some serious preparation and motivation on my part. If I’m not absolutely diehard comfortable by the time that my first table comes in, I run the risk of losing my grip on servitude in front of the elderly, disgusting beastwoman who is invariably my first irritating customer. In the restaurant business, there are plenty of these unhappy and demanding people, but she seems to be the worst, possibly because she’s in here so consistently. We call her the Flag Lady, due to the fact that she flies two American flags off the back of her 1989 Bonneville. She waddles in, sits without being actually seated, orders an unsweetened iced tea with no ice (proof that she’s not human, if you ask me), and then ponders over a way to make something as simple as a hot dog or a hamburger as complicated as possible.
“I want a hot dog, well done, not burnt but crispy, served on two pieces of whole wheat bread, with two slices of American cheese--torn into halves--placed on top, and sauerkraut, but don’t put it on the hot dog, bring it to me on the side in a little bowl so that I can add it myself because you people always put on too much.”
Riiiiight… well, allow me to make a counteroffer. How about I kick you full force in the cunt, and we call it even? Sure, it probably won’t taste good, but I doubt that you’ll be hungry for quite a while.
` Tiffany seemed distracted. Usually she’s all smiles, her mouth spreads so wide it looks like she has extra teeth. She’s a remarkable girl, one of two or three females who can genuinely make me laugh, and absolutely gorgeous. I’d probably marry her, even though I barely know her. I’m sure I could wait until I was thirty or so, when the qualities of humor and intelligence and a future have become truly desirable commodities in the sexual market, but I’m not entirely sure that I’m going to live that long. Don’t ask me why, I’m not sure myself, just a gut feeling.
My attempts to get her to open up to me about what’s bothering her, and hopefully establish some kind of rapport and trust extending past our existing relationship of her handing me drinks, were cut short when the phone rings. I answered, not realizing that it could be June, the manager of the wait staff, until the instant that I gave the friendly Edgar’s Pub greeting. As I delivered the address, the fear hit me, and my last few words trailed off into a somber, dissapointed tone.
“Good morning Randy, it’s me, June.”
“I assumed that it would be, June. How’re you doing?”
“Oh, just fine. I was wondering if you could do me a favor.” This is not the question that she meant to ask.
“Well… I suppose that I could, in theory. Is that all you wanted?”
“Um, no. So you wouldn’t have any problem with walking over to the convenience store and making some copies of the dinner specials, right?” Outside? Through that miserable sun? Damn your eyes.
“Sure, June, no problem. 30 copies per usual?” She agrees. I asked Tiffany to retrieve 3 dollars out of the till for me, since I have almost no money on me.
As I set off into the parking lot, to circle around to the Welsh Farms next door, I got lost in a moment of reflection and disappointment in myself. So, this would be my life, eh? No way, couldn’t do it. Actually working a job is simply out of the question for me. I’m just too weird, too lazy, too… good. Too fucking good for that kind of existence. People like me should make money just for being so cool. Strangers should walk up to us on the street and stop us, “Hey, man, I don’t mean to bother you, but, I’m sorry, you’re just The Shit. You’re so awesome, I mean… here, here, have a hundred dollars.”
“Well, thanks there, Coonass.”
“Coonass, ha ha ha, that’s hilarious, here’s another fifty.” The chumps of the world would be eating me up with a spoon.
At least, if the world were fair, that’s how things would work. But, it’s not, so there I was. I was going to college as well, a shitty excuse for a University, and even that bothered. I had always thought that college would be different from high school. That the teachers would know what they were talking about, that I wouldn’t be forced to do busywork like outlining chapters, that they would actually respect us enough to trust us to learn the material. But college appeared to be about as frustrating as high school had, and I still didn’t know where I was going in all of this. What I wanted to do, failing just getting money for free, was write. Any kind of art would do just as well, but writing was the only field that I had any real talent for. There were primarily two things keeping me from it-the risk involved and the fact that I didn’t have any real story. If you’re going to be a writer, you have to make it your occupation in every sense of the world. You have to sit down, and just write for a good eight hours a day, minimum. Not watch TV and write, not listen to music and write, just write. This makes any additional income fairly difficult. So if you’re going to make that kind of a leap, you had better either be independently wealthy, or ballsy as all get out. I was neither. Attempts that I made at writing in my free time always felt flat. A great novel requires a tremendous experience as its inspiration. Joseph Heller had a war, Hunter S. Thompson had a trunk full of drugs and a remarkable personality, but I didn’t have shit. I was a smart suburban smartass, and it didn’t make for any drama worth mentioning. But all this left my mind when I entered the store and saw one of the clerks, a man whose face I knew from numerous trips in here to buy smokes in the middle of a shift, opening the ATM machine.
In this particular generic version of a 7-11, the copier was set right next to the ATM. The man looked up, recognized me, in my green Edgar’s shirt, and greeted me warmly. My eyes trailed down to the stacks of twenty-dollar bills, eight of them, sitting on a cardboard box at his feet. I nodded and mumbled something, then plodded like a zombie over to the Xerox and slid the menu under the lid. Button 3, button 0, start button. A glance downward, still eight stacks. Memories of my years in high school, a hearty living made as a criminal. Pushing whatever kind of drugs I could find a good deal on, when I could find it. Thievery. God I was a good thief. Home Depot has this policy where you can return any items without a receipt for cash, up to 100 dollars. All you need is a driver’s license, and you can only do it once per driver’s license. I must have gone through half the car-possessing kids in my grade doing that, stealing some kind of light dimmer each time, and giving them a 20 dollar cut. Flash goes the light against the paper. Pop goes the door to the ATM. I stole everything, cigarettes, clothing, food, most all the necessities of life can be taken if you know how to do it properly and you’re patient. But this was a serious deal. This would mean a serious change in my life. Flash goes the light, pop goes one stack into the machine. There is no question over whether or not I would be caught. I had the shirt on, and my employers, naturally, had my name, address, social security, all that kind of stuff. But it would be so easy. Flash, pop. “If you’re going to do it, pussy,” I said to myself, “do it now, because you’re losing money with every passing second.”
Fuck it. I crash him once across the jaw, to disorient, before grabbing him by the back of the neck and shoving his head into the open machine. I throw my weight into the door, closing it on his temple, once, twice, thrice, and then throw him back across the floor. Quick, quick, grab the bundles, don’t bother looking in the machine, get the fuck out. I shove the bulky masses up underneath my shirt-I’d never felt money be so heavy before, and it was only a few pounds-and tighten the bottom elastic across my waist as I calmly, but quickly, walk out the door. Now I have to start talking to myself to make sure that I don’t fuck up. Glance at the street, but don’t look too much. Walking down the alleyway between the pub and the store I want to run, just break out and hurl myself, get out of this poisoned atmosphere, but I know enough not to. No one knows what I just did except for that unconscious body back there, so the only thing that can break me now is if I attract attention to myself. When I reach the back parking lot of Edgar’s, I pick up the pace a little bit, trotting over to my ’91 Honda. Out with the keys, open the door, and inside. I take one second of rest to breathe. Alright, that’s enough of that, I pop the glove compartment and start trying to shove the stacks in there, but it’s difficult to fit. Pull the stacks out again, grab all the shit that’s in there, and throw it on the passenger seat. Now, in an orderly fashion, place your money in evenly distributed rows. I manage to get it all in there, with just a little bit of forcing. Where the fuck are the keys? The keys are still in the door, dumbshit. Open door, get keys, start car. Breathe again, ‘cause you’re going to need it. Paused at the exit from the parking lot, waiting for a time to turn out, a Spring Lake police officer drives past in the direction I was intending to head and is stopped by a red light. Fuck me. Make the turn anyway, it’s in your best interest. I purr on out, and get behind him. If he’d seen me switching my blinker it might have aroused suspicion. Ah, what am I worrying about, there’s no chance this is where I’ll get nabbed. I see him glance at me in his rearview mirror. Relax, look around a little bit, stare at the red light, tap on the steering wheel as if you’re listening to something. Fuck, fuck, your seatbelt is off, put it on… oh, dear Lord, please don’t let this be my downfall. He looks away. I guess he’s satisfied that I’m following the law enough to not give me shit. What a good man. The light turns, he bears left, I continue straight. From there it’s just ten minutes to the parkway, all back roads of course. Normally, the thick traffic that one finds on a major state highway at noon would make me homicidal, but in this particular instance, I find comfort in it. Surrounded by cars on all sides, no one would bother to notice me in my popular model car. Have a cigarette there, big boy, you’re in the clear. You did it.
Part 2
What the fuck have I done? I mean, seriously, what kind of asshole was I? I just committed a serious felony that I knew, for sure, I could not truly get away with (“getting away” being defined as the commission of a crime executed so perfectly that it requires no alteration of your lifestyle in order to keep from being apprehended), for six packs of five thousand dollars each. That’s not a fortune. That’s not even a year’s salary, let alone enough to retire to a private island in international waters. I’m fucked, completely and utterly fucked, even if I don’t go to jail. Any serious life for me is over. Initially, I headed for the parkway simply because I knew it would be the fastest way out of the area, because there’s absolutely no way I can stay in that town, and it wouldn’t be bright to stay in the state. But the fact is, I didn’t know anyone in any other states. Amazing. I live in a suburb of several major cities in different states for eighteen years, and I can’t think of a single person that I know-really know-in any of them. I have to go somewhere, that much is certain, and I should really go to the place of someone I know. Using this money is going to be somewhat risky. I spent most of it early on, buying things for the trip-the gas, sunglasses, cigs, a couple of sandwiches, candy, a large bottle of Nyquil, as well as some No-doze (must be prepared to force myself to sleep or stay awake depending on the circumstances), and some extra sets of clothing for various weather conditions. After examining the bills, though, I realized that they were sequential, and that within a day or so, there would be a bulletin out to all banks and businesses. Luckily, they were twenties, that’s the only factor that might get me through this. Fifties or hundreds would be too conspicuous, make the entire affair greatly more complicated. Still headed north, only three more exits until I left Jersey, it occurred to me that I could go to Canada.
Yes, Canada, yes… I actually know someone in Canada, too, in Montreal. A friend of mine, Bob, had a childhood friend named Emma who moved up to the imitation French city when she was about ten. They stayed in touch, and during freshman year, he started taking vacations up there to see her over Christmas break. Well, not so much to see her, more to go to Montreal, but no reason to bicker. And last year, I went with him. It was really a great time. Up there, the drinking age is only eighteen, although practically, it’s more like fourteen, since they have that French influence. The children must have wine. Drugs are also pretty commonplace, with possession of marijuana for personal consumption being completely legal, and the laws regarding police freedom to search civilians being quite strict. A fine place for a vacation, but am I now to live there? Well, what other options do I have? Flying anywhere is right out-too conspicuous, too spur of the moment, no future thought-balls to that. A quick synopsis of my available knowledge reveals that yes, this is all I’ve got going for me. Two more exits before I hit New York. I had better stop here and call Bob, I’m going to need particulars.
Bob is asleep when I call, and I curse him in my mind. Then I curse myself, because truthfully, it’s my fault that my friends have such fucked up sleeping habits. I forced them into it by keeping them out all hours of the night. Explaining this situation to someone not fully awake is going to be a serious pain in my ass. Method of choice: eliminate particulars, emphasize urgency, and insist on blind cooperation.
“Listen, Bob, I don’t have much time, this is seriously fucking important. I need you awake, right now, and helping me.” I can practically hear his eyes open.
“Um… okay, what’s up?”
“I’m not going to get into it right now, but here’s what you need to know-I’ve committed a felony. The authorities KNOW that I’ve committed it, and thus, I’m leaving. I’m pretty sure that the only avenue I have is Canada, and I’m going to need to make contact with Emma for help. So what I need from you is directions, addresses, phone numbers, help, basically. I can assure you that I’m not going to be a burden on her. I have thirty grand sitting in my glove compartment. So, let’s get some pants on, get out of bed, and get the shit I need.”
“O… okay, okay. You’re not fucking with me, right?”
“I assure you that I’m not, Bob, this is the real deal.”
“Alright, well, hang on, I’m going to have to go fishing through my mother’s big pile of shit to find it. Just stay on.”
“No problem, Bob. I gots plenty of change.” He sets the phone down and plods off. I’m going to have to get Bob something nice when this is through. After a few minutes he returns.
“Got some paper?”
“Pad and pen right here, I anticipated.”
“Good. Now, where are you?” He proceeded to give me directions, the address of Emma, and her mother Carol, a sweet woman who I conversed with a little bit while I was up, and several phone numbers, cellies and homes, as well as directions to both of their jobs.
“Bob, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“Yeah, yeah, man, no problem… what… what did you do?”
“Robbed an ATM. I’ll be in touch soon enough and give you guys the whole story.”
“This is pretty fucked up, dude.”
“This is extremely fucked up. You have no idea. I guess… pray for me?” He laughed.
“Pray? Sure. You finding God all of a sudden?
“If this works out whatsoever, I just might have to. Bye, thanks.” I hung up. I shook the change around in my hand. Should I call my parents? What could I possibly say to them? No, that simply isn’t an option right now. Wow, my parents. I can’t go back home. My parents. There’s no possible lie I could think up that would make sense of this to them. My parents. What have I done?
Back in the car, push on. I stop off in a resort community called Lake George about 130 miles short of the border to clear my mind. I have to wonder what kind of freakish nazi reverend could create this kind of town. It’s straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting, but lame. It’s named Lake George because it has a lake, of course, and I park on the main drag that runs along it, as it looks like a good place to sit down for awhile. There are parking meters, but I wonder whether or not they’re checked this late in the day. I don’t see any signs regarding the hours they’re in effect. Checking the meters on the few cars nearby, I see they’re expired. Tolls have cleaned me out, change-wise, though, which is part of the reason why I stopped. I figure I’ll find someone to ask. Besides, I can afford a ticket. A leisurely stroll down to the water’s edge. The lake wraps around a towering mountain, probably named Mountain George, who knows. The sun is finally down by the horizon-it takes so long to set in July-on the right, and it’s reflection extends all the way down the water until it meets the beach, about a hundred yards to my right. I walk on down, and stand dead in front of the path of the sun. I have to take my sunglasses off, this feels to meaningful to mute. A long golden walkway painted out on the flat sea… it occurs to me that maybe this is what Christ saw when he took that fateful march, if he even did. For a second, I wonder if maybe what I did was a good idea. Perhaps this is just the impetus that I needed to catapult my life towards some kind of terrific destiny. I take off my shoes and socks, and hesitate for a second before I step off onto the surface, and my foot sinks through. Well, I’m not Jesus. That’s a disappointment. And now I’ve got a wet foot. Fuck. Face facts here, Randy. Nothing good is going to come of this. You’ve likely ruined any chance of a fulfilling life. Remember how you’ve been noticing your father’s health going downhill? Well, thanks to your brilliant instincts, you’re now stuck in a trap where if he died, you wouldn’t be able to go to his funeral. You may never see them again, you colossal fuckup. Good job. Go find somewhere to get change, and maybe a bite to eat already, and try not to commit a mass murder on your way.
It’s eight p.m. and everything seems to be closed. This is truly frightening. Obviously, something creepy and underhanded is going on behind closed doors. Perhaps this is one of those towns where prohibition is still in effect, or where public displays of affection are punished with stabbings to the balls, ass, and face. You’ll be lucky to get out of here with your asshole’s virginity, assuming that the locals don’t spot you as an eater and decide to fry you up for the rat children to feast on. A McDonald’s! Normality, hurray.
My first inclination that I was still not in Kansas (why would anyone want to be in Kansas) was when I noticed the distinctly French accent on the woman taking order, and the fact that she repeated it three times. It was really French though, it was just kind of retardish. As I wait for my food, I query of her as to whether or not they still check the meters at this time of day.
“Oh, we don’t have a parking lot here sir. You have to park on the street.” Now I have a problem. There are two distinct possibilities that could account for that response-either (a) she simply misheard, and I can fix all this with a restatement in clearer terms, or (b) this woman is one of them, a complete furbrain, and my only recourse is to shut up and stay out of any conversation with her in the hopes that it’s not communicable. I take a risk.
“Sorry, I guess I misspoke, you see, I did park on the street. I was just asking whether or not I should be working about getting a ticket for not paying the parking meter. I thought that they might stop checking them at a certain hour.” Not an ounce of comprehension appears on her bland face, her two pendulous jowls slack in confusion.
“We don’t have a drive-thru, you have to walk here.” How could she just fuck me like that? That was beautiful, it was absolutely perfect. I am now completely and utterly tortured, and there’s nothing I can do. I stand in silence, staring into her watery eyes as she brings me my food in a brown sack despite the fact that I asked it to be served for eating inside.
“Have a nice day, sir.” I pause for a moment, gripping the bag.
“Please do me a favor… consider stillbirth.” Leave, leave, leave, move your ass.
Walking back to my car, I’m slightly panicked about the implications of that exchange. Any minute now, I expect a gaggle of fourteen-year-olds in knickers and limp felt caps to leap out from behind a mailbox and challenge me to a 1920’s-style boxing match. My only recourse would be to snap all of their necks on the spot, after all, I can’t have them following me. Then I’d have to strip them naked and arrange their bodies in a gigantic orgy so as to create confusion when the town elders came to investigate on how the McFarlane boys did with that rustler. Fortunately, I make it to the car without incident. Driving back to the interstate, I get a creeping feeling that my recently purchased chicken sandwich is almost certainly dosed with some kind of tranquilizer, brain loosener, what have you. Out the window it goes, and the soda too. I forgot to get change. So that was her dodge! Obviously she could tell that I was a major criminal on the run to the border, and she was trying to slow me down, get me to do something stupid. I’ll just stop off to get some gas, since I could use it anyway, and obtain change there. Wait a minute… I-87 doesn’t even have tollbooths. Okay, okay, regroup, you’re hurtin’ bad, that much is obvious. You still need gas. Eye on the prize, bitchboy, eye on the prize. The fuel up goes without incident, and after a little trouble finding my way to the escape route, I’m back on the long haul again, my nerves recovering from that test of my testicular fortitude.
Soon enough, the border is mere miles away. I recall how easy it was going through the last time, the officer (I guess they must have some kind of title, although I don’t recall seeing any kind of badge or insignia) just asked us a few simple questions, and sent us on our way. That was at midnight, though. And winter. I think that he would have let a militia pass through without issue, just as long as he didn’t have to get out of his booth. The queue is about nine cars long, and the wait slays me. Be polite, smile, answer all the questions promptly but don’t pounce on them. Above all, act like it’s no trouble whatsoever. Finally, I get waved up. I decide to initiate the conversation.
“How’re you doing today, sir?”
“Doing just fine, thank you, and yourself?”
“Couldn’t be better. After winding through those mountains for a few hours, I can’t help but smile, ya know?”
“Beautiful, isn’t it? So, what’s your state of origin?”
“New Jersey.”
“And what’s your business here in Canada?”
“Going up to Montreal to visit a few friends, take a little vacation. Figure I’ll have them take me around the city for a few days, then maybe go camping.”
“Good plan you got there, be sure you don’t miss out on the opportunity to get out into nature. The woodlands here are just gorgeous in the summer.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Okay, could I just see your driver’s license and birth certificate.” I forgot about the birth certificate. You’re supposed to have a copy of it when you come through the border, to prove that you’re a resident. Shit. I pull out the driver’s license.
“Jeez, sir, I’m sorry, you know, my friends specifically told me to remember to bring up a birth certificate, they must have repeated it three or four times, and I still managed to forget it. Unbelievable, isn’t it? Sometimes the most important things just drift out of your mind.”
“Yeah… please pull up to that building over there, park your car, and go inside.” What happened to the friendly repartee?
“Is it anything serious, sir? I was hoping to make the city limits while there was still a little daylight left. Trying to actually get onto the island always gives me problems.”
“Oh no, it’s no big deal, they’re just going to run a check on your criminal record. I’m assuming that you haven’t been in trouble recently, right?”
“Of course not. A little bit of mischief back when I was a youngun’, but not in years.” Why couldn’t they have asked me to donate an organ instead?
“Well then you shouldn’t have any problems. Just head right in there.”
Don’t worry yourself now, Randy. They’re just checking your criminal record. That’s only things that you’ve been convicted of. They couldn’t have this information in your file even if they had managed to obtain it already, and, for some reason, told a clerk to get this into the computer ASAP. You just keep on believing that.
Inside there’s a black woman in her mid-twenties sitting at a desk behind the counter, filling out some kind of paperwork. I stroll up and set my driver’s license down on the counter. She looks up and me, and then goes back to filling in boxes. Obviously, she loathes me. “Fucking Americans…” she’s thinking, “bringing their drug-addicted, violent, uncultured, Garth Brooks-loving, inches and feet BULLSHIT into my beloved Canada. I’m gonna stick it to this motherfucker good.” After half a minute or so of standing there with my thumb in my ass, she gets up and comes over to me.
“I was told that you folks needed to check my criminal record?”
“Yes. This is your license?”
“Indeed it is.” Type, type, type.
“Social Security?”
“135-84-9509.” The computer clicks and whirls. I look around the room, checking for the huge red light and siren that must go off when a man known for and currently wanted for assault and robbery tries to gain access to the land of snow and mayonnaise. Seconds tick by… there’s probably some kind of Gestapo being assembled right now to rush me in a pincer attack, furiously clubbing at my knees and shins to throw me off balance and make the bar-arm chokehold easier to apply. They won’t stop in time, though, no need to with this kind of scum. Long after I’ve shat myself and gone limp, my corroded arteries will still be crushed tight, and see myself walking down rickety stairs into a bright red cavern.
“Okay then, you can go.”
“… really? That’s it?”
“Why? Do you want more?”
“No, not at all. Thank you very much. Have a nice day.”
“You, too.”
Stupid fucking Canadians.