The Final Evening

Lonely places had once seemed stranger;

now desolation's been deemed devoid of danger.

The only demons that roam these streets

are the ones lost within our heads. 

No street signs are designed to lead your mind the right way.

Stick out your thumb,

pray that your morals have enough fuel to get you out of this rut.

With Hades out of the picture, it was Fernweh's turn to spring for a motel. No matter how angry Fernweh can get with his friends, he will always live by a strong set of morals - and his friends and their safety are always at the top of the list. Through the years of our friendship, I've not seen a man sacrifice so much of his comfort for his friends; Fernweh would tear the clothes from his back to blanket a shivering soul.

His pops had sent him a couple hundred bucks for "expenses to leave Montrèal" which so far had consisted of heroin, beer, and a bus ride. Anyone who's been addicted to drugs knows the guilt associated with blowing their parents' money on substances, so I'm sure it was more than a relief when we found a nearby motel on my GPS and he had something more reaosnable to spend his money on.

After half an hour of fiddling around on my phone in a nearly failed attempt to figure out which obscure town we'd neded up in, we found ourselves. The town (whose name never earned a spot in our memory) didn't have much of a map - just a few scattered streets. Downtown was naught but a figment, but a motel lay about two miles from where we were.

Fernweh graced me by sharing the last of his down with me in the bathroom. In a hilarious attempt to be inconspicuous, the two of us crowded into the single bathroom stall. When a third patron came in to drain the main vein, Fernweh - not wanting his feet to be seen - tried to stealthily slide himself up onto the toilet seat but succeeded in bailing into the toilet itself. The ensuing splash and our spluttering laughter undoubtedly piqued our guest's curiosity, but he finished his pee without question. We finished our drugs (singing a silent epitaph to the last toke as the smoke became part of the void) and joined the Great Stupid Squanch back at our table. Through half-shut eyes, we watched as the heavens dumped barrel after barrel of rain onto the desolate French highway. The road wept tears of oil that streamed across the tarmac and into the wilted grass that bent under the rain's weight.

As soon as the sun risked breaking through the cloud cover, we made our escape, hustling down the highway towards the motel that we hoped still existed.

Depleted of drugs, Fernweh had grown angry again - he realized now that nothing he said to me would calm him. He distracted himself by leading our hopeful trio towards salvation. I felt guilty - I was appreciative of his generosity, but I couldn't vocalize it. Fernweh finds my heroin voice to take on a tone that makes even my thanks sound like an insult.

Our hope began to fail as we lost sight of the town behind us and saw only an endless expanse ahead; there weren't even any bridges in sight were we to need shelter for the night. It was the prairies all over again - minus the incessant thunderclaps and lightning forks that preyed on lonely travelers.

Finally, we saw a bump on the horizon. A small dark splotch... could it be? We held our hopes low - no point in getting worked up over nothing. A streetsign, maybe. An abandoned tractor. At least a tractor could shelter us if need be...

We towed ourselves down the road for another twenty minutes and found the mysterious apparition to be more than illusion - we were approaching a building. We'd found our motel.

We checked in, Fernweh spent the last of his money on beer at the gas station across the road, and quickly we began drinking to forget the fact that we were still together. Had we been a more amiable crew, we could have spent the night reminiscing on the times we'd spent together, but grumbling about spending a week being drunk, wet and pissed off wouldn't have made the night better. Nay, instead we drank to pass the time faster, for in the morning, we would no longer be a group. Fernweh was to hitchhike by himself, I was to hitchhike with Squanch. We'd rendezvous - hopefully on better terms - in Halifax.

The thought of our golden destination and a recharged friendship coaxed me and Fernweh into an eager sleep.