Find some duct tape, man.
Sew shut the segregated synapses in your brain;
unify the array - quick!
Each neuron's a shingle,
covering the roof of your mind,
and they're being blown away
in a whirlwind that roars with animosity.
Every home deteriorates, yes,
but you had seemed ineffably constructed;
the thoughts that caulked your consciousness
so perfectly placed.
Yes, every mind will sag;
ceilings collapse
like cerebrums will lapse;
but you can't hire someone
to fix your leaking skull;
you can't find someone to re-shingle your smarts.
You're your own foreman,
distracted by low wages
output from your own mouth;
and high taxes on the price of your spirit.
The only one to rebuild you is you.
Friday, 13 September 2013
Thursday, 12 September 2013
Is it a bird? A plane? It's SUPER-HABEEB
Habeeb left us in a flurry of badly confused miscommunication and a sense of awe at how dependent he was on technology. Never have I seen someone so reliant on a malfunctioning (or a functioning one, for that matter) GPS. Maybe he had doubts about his own intelligence, maybe he'd gotten himself lost a dozen times, I didn't know - all I knew is that I was getting pissed off.
We had been driving around in a circle for twenty minutes now as Habeeb's GPS system got him stuck in a loop. The road we were on went around a small suburban block, and we drove around it so many times that I was half-close to ripping Habeeb's head off. Did he even look at the fucking road? Habeeb, we can SEE THE HIGHWAY FROM HERE. IT'S RIGHT OVER THERE. TAKE A RIGHT.
"Oh, no, no. GPS says take a left."
"We've taken this road three times already." Silence. We drove around the road again.
Finally Beebs looked up from his goddamn GPS and realized that we could, actually, see the highway from where we were. He took the right and we ended up back on the #1 highway.
The sun had already set and a star-speckled firmament grinned down at us. We were going to be sleeping outside tonight, and it looked like a great night to do it.
Habeeb pulled into a motel to book himself a room. Before stepping out of his car, he made sure to usher us all out of the backseats - in the midst, juggling guitars and backpacks like street performers - and instructed us to go hide behind a building. He didn't want the motel attendant to think that he was going to be sneaking 3 additional people into the motel room - as if making a huge scene and sending us dashing from his car to hide ourselves made things less conspicuous. Fuck, Beebs.
Once that was settled, he crammed us back into his car and dumped us off downtown. I'm sure we'd been bothering him as much as he'd been bothering us (our fetid feet and snide remarks will do that), so it was nice to get some time to ourselves. Aside from the tense atmosphere in the car, the air itself had grown muggy and disgusting. It was nice to be away from Beebs and under the stars.
He dropped us off at a Boston Pizza - right next to the dumpster. Perfect. Once he'd reversed out of the parking lot (slower than anyone should ever reverse out of a parking lot - I didn't know cars could drive less than 1mph, but he was pulling out at a tenth of that speed), we dove into the dumpster. We were tossing old pizza boxes around inside when the store's manager came out and gawked at us.
"Are you... in that dumpster?" he asked, completely incredulous.
Scrib poked his head out of the dumpster. The question was stupid, the answer was obvious, so Scrib only chose to mock the idiot. "Do your eyes often deceive you?"
The manager contemplated Scrib's statement for a moment before he realized how dumb he'd sounded. Still, he used his power of authority to ensure he came out on the top of this situation.
After we got kicked out, we made our way to the back of a convenience store. There was an electrical outlet there, so me and Scrib plugged in our phones. Fernweh and I crawled into our sleeping bags and settled down onto our nice, spongy-soft concrete mattresses, while Scrib stared deeply into the depths of my phone. His gaze was locked with great intent on the screen as he immersed himself in a world of video games. The 32-bit music serenaded me as the night drifted on and the moon gave way to the following morning.
Tonight, we'd be in Toronto!
We had been driving around in a circle for twenty minutes now as Habeeb's GPS system got him stuck in a loop. The road we were on went around a small suburban block, and we drove around it so many times that I was half-close to ripping Habeeb's head off. Did he even look at the fucking road? Habeeb, we can SEE THE HIGHWAY FROM HERE. IT'S RIGHT OVER THERE. TAKE A RIGHT.
"Oh, no, no. GPS says take a left."
"We've taken this road three times already." Silence. We drove around the road again.
Finally Beebs looked up from his goddamn GPS and realized that we could, actually, see the highway from where we were. He took the right and we ended up back on the #1 highway.
The sun had already set and a star-speckled firmament grinned down at us. We were going to be sleeping outside tonight, and it looked like a great night to do it.
Habeeb pulled into a motel to book himself a room. Before stepping out of his car, he made sure to usher us all out of the backseats - in the midst, juggling guitars and backpacks like street performers - and instructed us to go hide behind a building. He didn't want the motel attendant to think that he was going to be sneaking 3 additional people into the motel room - as if making a huge scene and sending us dashing from his car to hide ourselves made things less conspicuous. Fuck, Beebs.
Once that was settled, he crammed us back into his car and dumped us off downtown. I'm sure we'd been bothering him as much as he'd been bothering us (our fetid feet and snide remarks will do that), so it was nice to get some time to ourselves. Aside from the tense atmosphere in the car, the air itself had grown muggy and disgusting. It was nice to be away from Beebs and under the stars.
He dropped us off at a Boston Pizza - right next to the dumpster. Perfect. Once he'd reversed out of the parking lot (slower than anyone should ever reverse out of a parking lot - I didn't know cars could drive less than 1mph, but he was pulling out at a tenth of that speed), we dove into the dumpster. We were tossing old pizza boxes around inside when the store's manager came out and gawked at us.
"Are you... in that dumpster?" he asked, completely incredulous.
Scrib poked his head out of the dumpster. The question was stupid, the answer was obvious, so Scrib only chose to mock the idiot. "Do your eyes often deceive you?"
The manager contemplated Scrib's statement for a moment before he realized how dumb he'd sounded. Still, he used his power of authority to ensure he came out on the top of this situation.
After we got kicked out, we made our way to the back of a convenience store. There was an electrical outlet there, so me and Scrib plugged in our phones. Fernweh and I crawled into our sleeping bags and settled down onto our nice, spongy-soft concrete mattresses, while Scrib stared deeply into the depths of my phone. His gaze was locked with great intent on the screen as he immersed himself in a world of video games. The 32-bit music serenaded me as the night drifted on and the moon gave way to the following morning.
Tonight, we'd be in Toronto!
Saturday, 31 August 2013
The Bottle Pops (pt. 1) (05-19-13)
This was way too much commotion to deal with at this absurdly early hour - 9:30 - and even more absurd was trying to figure out exactly what had happened and why.
Scrib had awoken blacked out, grabbed Fernweh by the throat and held him off the ground, screaming and spitting incoherent belligerence at his face for a while before coming to his senses. He soon apologized for what he claimed not to remember doing.
Scrib had always had anger problems, but prior to this morning, his anger had always been directed to himself. He used to punch himself in the head or cut himself when he was feeling upset, but things were different now. The Road has a tendency to change people - it weakens insecurities, heightens an individuals sense of self (having to live for yourself for so long will undeniably do that) and, whether in subtle or obvious ways, bloats a person’s ego. Scrib had definitely let the Road get to him - his ego had stretched far enough to allow him to take his anger out on the people around him, as opposed to internalizing it. We had hoped that it wouldn’t continue this way, but it looked like things were going downhill.
Once our heartbeats had settled, we recalled our day’s agenda. We had to make thirty more bucks before we could pay for our rideshare, and we only had a few hours to do it. To the highway!
We reached our super spot (exact locations will remain secret in accordance with the Hobo Code). The three of us made a most profitable team. Two of us would shred some strings on one of our instruments while the other sauntered up and down the side of the highway with a sign proclaiming our perverse desire for pennies and dimes. Not only were we thrown the thirty bucks that we needed in less than an hour, but we found an awesome opportunity to smoke a bowl of weed with a dude passing by in the oncoming traffic lane. As we passed him back his pipe, he sped off towards a stagnant green light while we grew slant-eyed and slack jawed.
We headed back to Marcellus’s house and sat around waiting for our rideshare to arrive.
Only two hours late, our short, gruff east Indian chauffeur rolled up in a car which was much smaller than any of us had anticipated. The look on his face said that we had much more shit to pack with us than he’d anticipated.
After a good twenty minutes of rearranging the useless contents of his trunk (empty bottles of tire lube and washer fluid, etc) which he seemed determined to keep, we finally managed to shove a couple of our bags in with them. The rest was destined to sit upon our laps as the four of us climbed into the car.
Scrib and I, packed to the point of immobility, sat in the back accompanied with two baby chairs, my huge military backpack, and a guitar. Fernweh sat in the passenger seat with his own backpack and his mandolin.
As our new driver (hereon known as Habeeb) pulled out of the driveway, we found ourselves on the road again. Unable to move any part of our body except our eyeballs and our mouths, the three of us wore sly smiles as we hit the highway on our way to Toronto. We bid good riddance to Regina, and thus began our extremely painful, irritable and unsavoury journey towards Ontario.
Scrib had awoken blacked out, grabbed Fernweh by the throat and held him off the ground, screaming and spitting incoherent belligerence at his face for a while before coming to his senses. He soon apologized for what he claimed not to remember doing.
Scrib had always had anger problems, but prior to this morning, his anger had always been directed to himself. He used to punch himself in the head or cut himself when he was feeling upset, but things were different now. The Road has a tendency to change people - it weakens insecurities, heightens an individuals sense of self (having to live for yourself for so long will undeniably do that) and, whether in subtle or obvious ways, bloats a person’s ego. Scrib had definitely let the Road get to him - his ego had stretched far enough to allow him to take his anger out on the people around him, as opposed to internalizing it. We had hoped that it wouldn’t continue this way, but it looked like things were going downhill.
Once our heartbeats had settled, we recalled our day’s agenda. We had to make thirty more bucks before we could pay for our rideshare, and we only had a few hours to do it. To the highway!
We reached our super spot (exact locations will remain secret in accordance with the Hobo Code). The three of us made a most profitable team. Two of us would shred some strings on one of our instruments while the other sauntered up and down the side of the highway with a sign proclaiming our perverse desire for pennies and dimes. Not only were we thrown the thirty bucks that we needed in less than an hour, but we found an awesome opportunity to smoke a bowl of weed with a dude passing by in the oncoming traffic lane. As we passed him back his pipe, he sped off towards a stagnant green light while we grew slant-eyed and slack jawed.
We headed back to Marcellus’s house and sat around waiting for our rideshare to arrive.
Only two hours late, our short, gruff east Indian chauffeur rolled up in a car which was much smaller than any of us had anticipated. The look on his face said that we had much more shit to pack with us than he’d anticipated.
After a good twenty minutes of rearranging the useless contents of his trunk (empty bottles of tire lube and washer fluid, etc) which he seemed determined to keep, we finally managed to shove a couple of our bags in with them. The rest was destined to sit upon our laps as the four of us climbed into the car.
Scrib and I, packed to the point of immobility, sat in the back accompanied with two baby chairs, my huge military backpack, and a guitar. Fernweh sat in the passenger seat with his own backpack and his mandolin.
As our new driver (hereon known as Habeeb) pulled out of the driveway, we found ourselves on the road again. Unable to move any part of our body except our eyeballs and our mouths, the three of us wore sly smiles as we hit the highway on our way to Toronto. We bid good riddance to Regina, and thus began our extremely painful, irritable and unsavoury journey towards Ontario.
Thursday, 29 August 2013
All-you-can-eat (05-18-13)
One lesson to never forget: you get what you pay for. we sure learned that as we sat down to the indulge in our ten dollar Chinese buffet. We chomped on incompetent excuses for fried wontons, slurped on failed attempts of sweet and sour pork, and devoured some truly eccentric egg rolls. Displeased not only with the service, but the food as well, we made a mountain of our disapproval by stacking all the dishes and leftovers in a filthy fashion all over the table.
We tossed the money amongst our (not-so)meticulous mixture of mayhem that we had strewn about the table and left with no desire to return. Scarfing down the stale fortune cookies, we exited with of an air of disgust.
On the way towards the hospital, we grabbed Aids a pack of her favourite cigarettes. We trucked down to the hospital and found her in her room. They had fed her, and she was doing a bit better than she had been the night before. She was able to come out for a smoke with us, and she was able to tell us that her dad had already booked her a plane ticket back home the next day.
This worked out perfect! The husbands and I had been thinking about seizing an opportunity for a rideshare opprtunity (we would pay for a direct shot to Toronto) the next day - we could not have done that, however, if Aids had been left in the hospital. We would have had to stay to ensure her well being. This, however, set all of our plans in to action. Aids would be free tomorrow, and on her way home. We would be on our way forward.
We smoked our smokes and wished each other good luck. Prior, wee had known that we were a travelling crew, and we had known that we would come to separate somehow. Such is the way that travelling always works. You can never be sure how things will turn out - either way, we were three now - me, Scrib, and Fernweh - and we needed to make 60 bucks each to pay for the 30 hour ride we had ahead of us.
Onward and outward!!!!!!!! The husbands pressed forward, leaving Aids with three fresh kisses on her forward. Onward and outward, the husbands went to acquire their two hundred-odd bucks. Onward and outward, the journey continued.
We tossed the money amongst our (not-so)meticulous mixture of mayhem that we had strewn about the table and left with no desire to return. Scarfing down the stale fortune cookies, we exited with of an air of disgust.
On the way towards the hospital, we grabbed Aids a pack of her favourite cigarettes. We trucked down to the hospital and found her in her room. They had fed her, and she was doing a bit better than she had been the night before. She was able to come out for a smoke with us, and she was able to tell us that her dad had already booked her a plane ticket back home the next day.
This worked out perfect! The husbands and I had been thinking about seizing an opportunity for a rideshare opprtunity (we would pay for a direct shot to Toronto) the next day - we could not have done that, however, if Aids had been left in the hospital. We would have had to stay to ensure her well being. This, however, set all of our plans in to action. Aids would be free tomorrow, and on her way home. We would be on our way forward.
We smoked our smokes and wished each other good luck. Prior, wee had known that we were a travelling crew, and we had known that we would come to separate somehow. Such is the way that travelling always works. You can never be sure how things will turn out - either way, we were three now - me, Scrib, and Fernweh - and we needed to make 60 bucks each to pay for the 30 hour ride we had ahead of us.
Onward and outward!!!!!!!! The husbands pressed forward, leaving Aids with three fresh kisses on her forward. Onward and outward, the husbands went to acquire their two hundred-odd bucks. Onward and outward, the journey continued.
Friday, 9 August 2013
Concussed (05/17/13)
Getting woken up by a huge thump isn`t that weird of an occurence. Shit falls over in the night all the time. Thunder crackles. Deer run into fences. This thump wasn't any different, so I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. I heard Frank get up and head downstairs as I rolled around in my sleeping bag. Him and Aids were saying something downstairs, then the sound of Frank's footsteps carried him back upstairs to the attic where we'd been sleeping.
I awoke later to the sound of sobbing. At first I dismissed it as someone struggling with a bad dream and tried to go back to bed, but the crying continued.
Must be a really, really bad dream.
I got up and went downstairs to see if Aids was alright. She wasn't. She lay crumpled in a ball on the floor, directly beneath the lone hole that perforated the floorboards separating the attic from the garage. That whole was the perfect size for Aids to slip through, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened. On the other hand, it did take a genius to figure out why she'd slept parallel to a gaping hole in the fucking floorboard. These were questions for later, though. Right now, she needed water and some help.
I grabbed her some water and gently nestled my pillow under her neck. Through her sobs, she kept telling me she was okay, she was okay, it was fine, it was fine. Not knowing the severity of her injuries, and not wanting to make things worse than they were, I sat with her for a while until her tears subsided.
The next morning, we found out that things were indeed not ok. Her collarbone was belligerently broken, threatening to burst through her fragile skin. Her coordination was off, perhaps due to a strong hit to her head... she was susceptible to concussions on any day, let alone on days when she fell 10 feet onto concrete.
We snuck into Marcellus's house and awoke Deany. Deany, with the great motherly instinct that comes with birthing a child, jumped up from her doze and drove Aids to the hospital. Me and my husbands decided to go for a walk to go meet her there; Frank seized this opportunity to secede from the group. He didn't know Aids too well, and he didn't want to make things awkward in her hospital room. Besides, Scrib and Fernweh weren't on the best terms with him.
So, we parted ways, and the three husbands hoisted our hearts onto our shoulders and headed towards the hospital to soothe our pet Aids.
I awoke later to the sound of sobbing. At first I dismissed it as someone struggling with a bad dream and tried to go back to bed, but the crying continued.
Must be a really, really bad dream.
I got up and went downstairs to see if Aids was alright. She wasn't. She lay crumpled in a ball on the floor, directly beneath the lone hole that perforated the floorboards separating the attic from the garage. That whole was the perfect size for Aids to slip through, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened. On the other hand, it did take a genius to figure out why she'd slept parallel to a gaping hole in the fucking floorboard. These were questions for later, though. Right now, she needed water and some help.
I grabbed her some water and gently nestled my pillow under her neck. Through her sobs, she kept telling me she was okay, she was okay, it was fine, it was fine. Not knowing the severity of her injuries, and not wanting to make things worse than they were, I sat with her for a while until her tears subsided.
The next morning, we found out that things were indeed not ok. Her collarbone was belligerently broken, threatening to burst through her fragile skin. Her coordination was off, perhaps due to a strong hit to her head... she was susceptible to concussions on any day, let alone on days when she fell 10 feet onto concrete.
We snuck into Marcellus's house and awoke Deany. Deany, with the great motherly instinct that comes with birthing a child, jumped up from her doze and drove Aids to the hospital. Me and my husbands decided to go for a walk to go meet her there; Frank seized this opportunity to secede from the group. He didn't know Aids too well, and he didn't want to make things awkward in her hospital room. Besides, Scrib and Fernweh weren't on the best terms with him.
So, we parted ways, and the three husbands hoisted our hearts onto our shoulders and headed towards the hospital to soothe our pet Aids.
Whiskey and Family (05/16/13)
FUCK YEAH!
THE FAMILY WAS WHOLE AGAIN!
The excitement, however, was short-lived. Our multicultural family had only been reunited for a few hours before we'd fallen back into our asinine routine of talking about phallic devices and contorting our faces into painful positions.
So much for personal development. I'd hitchhiked here solo in an attempt to regain some sense of my mind, but it had reverted so quickly back into retardation. Oh, well. It was okay. It would have to be.
Frank had returned to his old ways. He hadn't said much since he'd gotten here - not much for big groups, I figured - so he was well received. It's hard to pass a negative judgement on a silent man.
We soon found ourselves at Marcellus's house. Marcellus - a pot-bellied, mohawked, projectile puking father of a newborn, had taken me on the road for my first time a few years ago.
I'd met him when I was in high school. He'd stumbled into my hallways during the period between class change and was demanding of different kids to tell him where the water fountain was. His flailing dreadlocks and tattooed, beer-stinking biceps seemed to frighten the other kids away, but they drew me towards him. I took him on a walk to the water fountain and he told me to come shotgun a few beers with him. We did, behind the bandstand, until the principal decided to show up. Marcellus and his partner fled the scene as the principal dragged me back to the office, telling me that if I wanted to shotgun more beer, I should meet them at the mall after school.
I did, and this meeting blossomed into the gradual definition of my entire life.
Regardless, we were different breeds. Marcellus is a punk with a short temper and a raging anger problem; I'm stupidly laid-back and frequently referred to as a hippie. Strong bonds are often formed between opposites.
It was great to see him again - along with Ally, Mat, and Deany, his two best friends and his baby's mama, respectively. These were the other 3 folks who'd been with us on that fateful journey that introduced me to the world of travelling.
They were all doing good - as was evident by the two 60 pounders of whiskey that greeted us as we arrived. As the whiskey dwindled away, the volume rose, and the conversations grew less sensible. Soon, drunken threats were being growled back and forth across the table (fuckin' whiskey...) and Frank was quick to threaten to beat the shit out of Marcellus for pronouncing his name wrong.
Fortunately, Marcellus took this as a joke (for if he hadn't, Frank still would have been in the hospital.) However, Fernweh and Scrib took this as an insult to their own persons, and the night escalated into a flurry of headbuts, pushes, shouting and other macho stupidity. These flying fists and fighting words built a barrier between the group. Frank was now separated from the rest fo the family.
I still liked him, but the rest of the crew weren't down with him anymore. The rage slowly simmered down as the alcohol filtered itself out of our systems. As we sobered up, the fact still remained: Frank had been ostracized. He needed to leave.
THE FAMILY WAS WHOLE AGAIN!
The excitement, however, was short-lived. Our multicultural family had only been reunited for a few hours before we'd fallen back into our asinine routine of talking about phallic devices and contorting our faces into painful positions.
So much for personal development. I'd hitchhiked here solo in an attempt to regain some sense of my mind, but it had reverted so quickly back into retardation. Oh, well. It was okay. It would have to be.
Frank had returned to his old ways. He hadn't said much since he'd gotten here - not much for big groups, I figured - so he was well received. It's hard to pass a negative judgement on a silent man.
We soon found ourselves at Marcellus's house. Marcellus - a pot-bellied, mohawked, projectile puking father of a newborn, had taken me on the road for my first time a few years ago.
I'd met him when I was in high school. He'd stumbled into my hallways during the period between class change and was demanding of different kids to tell him where the water fountain was. His flailing dreadlocks and tattooed, beer-stinking biceps seemed to frighten the other kids away, but they drew me towards him. I took him on a walk to the water fountain and he told me to come shotgun a few beers with him. We did, behind the bandstand, until the principal decided to show up. Marcellus and his partner fled the scene as the principal dragged me back to the office, telling me that if I wanted to shotgun more beer, I should meet them at the mall after school.
I did, and this meeting blossomed into the gradual definition of my entire life.
Regardless, we were different breeds. Marcellus is a punk with a short temper and a raging anger problem; I'm stupidly laid-back and frequently referred to as a hippie. Strong bonds are often formed between opposites.
It was great to see him again - along with Ally, Mat, and Deany, his two best friends and his baby's mama, respectively. These were the other 3 folks who'd been with us on that fateful journey that introduced me to the world of travelling.
They were all doing good - as was evident by the two 60 pounders of whiskey that greeted us as we arrived. As the whiskey dwindled away, the volume rose, and the conversations grew less sensible. Soon, drunken threats were being growled back and forth across the table (fuckin' whiskey...) and Frank was quick to threaten to beat the shit out of Marcellus for pronouncing his name wrong.
Fortunately, Marcellus took this as a joke (for if he hadn't, Frank still would have been in the hospital.) However, Fernweh and Scrib took this as an insult to their own persons, and the night escalated into a flurry of headbuts, pushes, shouting and other macho stupidity. These flying fists and fighting words built a barrier between the group. Frank was now separated from the rest fo the family.
I still liked him, but the rest of the crew weren't down with him anymore. The rage slowly simmered down as the alcohol filtered itself out of our systems. As we sobered up, the fact still remained: Frank had been ostracized. He needed to leave.
Thursday, 8 August 2013
Swass, for lack of a better title. 05/16/13
We were going to get picked up.
The universe had no choice in the matter. We were getting a ride - I don't care what fate said.
We did end up getting a ride, but we had to split up first. Hitchhiking with two guys is rarely an easy task, so after an hour, we decided to separate. The moment Frank stepped off the highway to let me hitchhike solo, a blue pickup truck rolled up behind me.
I jumped in and listened to Graeme as he regaled me with tales about his efforts in assisting people in New Orleans after hurricane Katrina. He told me about some of the dangers of being a white man in the hoods where he'd worked - racial prejudice hung over such areas like a dark, bigoted blanket. An armed bodyguard had had to accompany him at all times, just to protect him and the colour of his skin.
Fortunately, we weren't in the hood right now, but the place he dropped me off was almost as shitty. I spent the next hour and a half having violent battles with armies of mosquitos and faltering under deadly rays of sun as they both worked to annihilate my skin.
Hope had just started to fade when a crimson station wagon pulled over in front of me. The passenger seat was loaded with an awesome site: a smiling Frank.
I slid into the backseat and let the ride to Regina pass fairly quickly, trying to take in the nonexistant Saskatchewan scenery. Despite its absence, it is, somehow, still beautiful. The stretch between the Current and Moose Jaw is the flattest part of the prairies and potentially the world; so long and desolate that you can see the curve of the earth.
I was quite satisfied with the outcome of the last few days - a reunion with an old friend, banking $35 just from the people who had picked me up, and repairing my broken brain to the point of being able to hold an intelligent conversation again. We rolled into Regina bursting with fresh excitement. I was ready to take on my family again. I missed those bearded, blue-haired, asian fucks. Hopefully they'd get along with Frank... wouldn't they?
The universe had no choice in the matter. We were getting a ride - I don't care what fate said.
We did end up getting a ride, but we had to split up first. Hitchhiking with two guys is rarely an easy task, so after an hour, we decided to separate. The moment Frank stepped off the highway to let me hitchhike solo, a blue pickup truck rolled up behind me.
I jumped in and listened to Graeme as he regaled me with tales about his efforts in assisting people in New Orleans after hurricane Katrina. He told me about some of the dangers of being a white man in the hoods where he'd worked - racial prejudice hung over such areas like a dark, bigoted blanket. An armed bodyguard had had to accompany him at all times, just to protect him and the colour of his skin.
Fortunately, we weren't in the hood right now, but the place he dropped me off was almost as shitty. I spent the next hour and a half having violent battles with armies of mosquitos and faltering under deadly rays of sun as they both worked to annihilate my skin.
Hope had just started to fade when a crimson station wagon pulled over in front of me. The passenger seat was loaded with an awesome site: a smiling Frank.
I slid into the backseat and let the ride to Regina pass fairly quickly, trying to take in the nonexistant Saskatchewan scenery. Despite its absence, it is, somehow, still beautiful. The stretch between the Current and Moose Jaw is the flattest part of the prairies and potentially the world; so long and desolate that you can see the curve of the earth.
I was quite satisfied with the outcome of the last few days - a reunion with an old friend, banking $35 just from the people who had picked me up, and repairing my broken brain to the point of being able to hold an intelligent conversation again. We rolled into Regina bursting with fresh excitement. I was ready to take on my family again. I missed those bearded, blue-haired, asian fucks. Hopefully they'd get along with Frank... wouldn't they?
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