Go West Young Man!

Since we first colonized North America opportunity has been knocking on the Atlantic side of the continent, but the answer has slowly but surely creeping towards the Pacific. It’s as though the rainbow begins in the East, but the Pot of Gold lies in the west! Just as Grampa Joad, in Steinbeck’s, “Grapes of Wrath,”, wanted to reach California, pick a big bunch of grapes, and ‘squoosh’ the juice all over his old body, I too wanted to romp out here, grab handfuls of $100 bills, and squeeze till the change cascaded about my feet! Poor old Grampa never made it. I have, but I haven’t found those $100 bills just yet.

Julie, in a conversation with friends, commented how worried she was that I would be lonely in my travels. In jest I remarked that there would be enough $50 hookers out there that no man need ever fear loneliness. It didn’t go over well as marital remarks go, but the subject of loneliness was not broached again.

For my first four nights in Calgary I stayed in an inexpensive Hotel. While there I became quite familiar with the clientele. For the most part they were a nice combination of itinerate workers, families pausing in the pursuit of their own rainbow, a little apprehensive of the necessary expense, and, due to the proximity of the airport, a few travelling businessmen. A nice eclectic mix and, once familiar with the clientele, it became easy to pick out those that did and did not fit in.

When I’d had enough and moved back into my truck I didn’t really stay in the Hotel parking lot, but went about my business through the day, using the parking lot and/or the one of the Husky service center beside it, as a home base. Here I could return in the evening and, over a cup of tea, watch the mysteries of the hotel/trucker world unfold. It’s a completely different world from that which you observe within the hotel walls. I call it my own ‘Neighbourhood Watch’ program, and enjoy the practice, although I’m aware there are other terms for it.

It was the Wednesday of my first week here, about 4:30pm, and I’d returned from points elsewhere to freshen up, grab a bite to eat, and take a few moments to meditate before going to a Toastmasters meeting for the evening. I’d hardly arrived when a rather shabby Ford half ton pulled into the row in front of me. It was grey in a hazy, rusty sort of way, and various bits dangled forlornly. Like myself, long past its prime, and like myself just didn’t seem to fit into this picture.

It appeared that the driver was a slight young lady, her hair in a pony tail which she immediately unloosed and began to brush out. There was quite a flurry of activity for a few moments; make-up adjustments interspersed with quick intense phone calls, and an odd combination of impatient cigarette smoking with rapid gum chewing. It was her hair I suppose that stuck in my mind, a very light ash blonde that reminded me of my daughter Allison’s hair ....before it dyed.

Then, the phone set aside, but still working the gum and smoke, she stepped out of the truck and another frenzy of activity began. Off came the knee length trench coat and I could see that she probably fell just a trifle short of twenty. About the same age as my daughter, just as slim, but taller with the wicked spikes on those tall lace-up boots. “Ah!” thought I to myself, “how much less callous today’s youth than those of my own day. Here is a young rancher’s daughter, in her Father’s truck, taking a few moments out of her unimaginably cluttered social life, to visit a dear Uncle stopped in this lonely city for a day or two on business. In my time I believe that I forgot Aunts & Uncles from about age twelve till thirty.

She had on a form fitting black sheath that must have had a good jag of spandex thrown in just to showcase her assets. Short? Well some might say so. Myself, well ....had you knocked another quarter inch off it you would have seen my angina. Such is the glory of innocent youth; the complete unawareness of its effect on others. A vixen she was in her rapid deft movements adjusting that dress just so, all the while chewing gum and smoking yet another cigarette. Bright as a fresh minted dime she put her coat back on, adjusted the belt to best advantage, shook out her shoulder length ash hair, cast aside her butt, and marched towards the entrance with confidence and determination. But she paused just short of the door and made one quick phone call; I assume just making sure that she did not embarrass her uncle by catching him in a nap.
Not much of a gambler I still bet myself she’d be back in less than an hour ...given the timidity of lethargic age when faced with the vibrancy of youth. With a weary sigh I composed myself for twenty minutes meditation and rose refreshed to begin putting together my modest supper. As I was trying to camouflage the results of my latest culinary endeavour with a drift of pepper I noticed her striding confidently back to her less than pristine truck. She climbed in and immediately launched into a rerun of the preening ritual I’d observed when she arrived; hair combed out and tied in a pony tail, meticulous attention to makeup, and cigarette puffed in short intense beacon bursts; all three interspersed with urgent cell calls. Then ...nothing! What had gone wrong? A spat with her boyfriend? Perhaps Uncle, in a moment of warmth and trust, had disclosed to her a serious malady, and she, her teen shoulders inadequate to such a burden, was rallying the entire family to his beside in condolence.

Whatever it was it was important. She was out of the truck, pacing, smoking and celling like a fiend! This went on for ten minutes and I began to fear that all my conjecture was crumbling around me. Then the arrival of the white knight; ....or black Honda in this case, a Honda in better shape than the Ford, but not noticeably so. To her rescue came two strapping cousins. I’d say brothers, but, in this case the family similarity was a little vague. Rural rappers this pair; undone basketball shoes, pants slung so low you could see the tops of their socks, and, on a cloudy damp day, sunglasses on top of their billiard smooth heads.

For a few moments the cousins gave the old Ford received more attention than it had received in the last half decade. Both heads were together under the hood, each one taking a turn behind the wheel, while their sweet cousin paced and played with her cell. Finally the hood went down. They hadn’t been as successful as they’d wished. In a rush they beckoned the Lady to their Honda. I was disappointed in her response to this gallantry. With an exclamation I couldn’t quite hear she spun on the toe of her elegant right stiletto and round housed the driver’s side door with the left; ...a rather cunning stunt! Stamping around the front of the truck she repeated this action to the front passenger fender-. Finally, one last fond adieu; two swift kicks to the box, and into the Honda she placed her indignant self. As they passed my van I saw her sitting in the back seat, another lit cigarette between her lips, counting a handful of twenties. The truck sat there till I vacated a couple days later, and may well sit there still.

My first Wednesday in Calgary someone, noting that I was from Ontario, enquired politely, “I guess you’re not a Flames fan, eh? I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, while I did enjoy playing hockey in university, and always loved watching my friends on other teams play, I couldn’t sit through a NHL game to save my life! Discretion is the entirety of my valour, I’m afraid, so I responded with enthusiasm, “I’ve been fascinated by the flames for ages, and there are few things I enjoy more than watching the leafs get burned!” From that point my new found best, but somewhat misled, friend got on famously. Oh well, ...it’s a Mackay thing.

I was not ab-whored by the scene I described in the hotel parking lot. It’s a scene as old as humanity itself. I’ve read that during the Industrial Revolution one in three houses in London were bawdy houses. Not in the modern sense, but just in the sense that, in one third of the homes, someone, whether it be wife, daughter, or maid, would look to the world’s oldest profession, and hone their entrepreneurial skills. It was economic necessity. I don’t know that it’s necessary now a days, and doubt that it’s economical, but it certainly seems popular.

My Father, who was for ten years one of Toronto’s finest, described to me a fellow he used to see regularly on his beat. Long dark hair and flowing beard, he dressed in a simple robe, and looked much like the pictures of the Biblical Jesus that we’re so familiar with. Without doubt he suffered some form of mental aberration, but my Father said that he was amazed at the normal, lucid and authentic manner in which he presented himself. If asked he could tell you how many souls went to heaven that day, and how many failed the test! He could predict the date and time of the end of the world with the accuracy of a Coo-Coo clock! But he was well informed on current affairs, and could converse easily. My Father, ever the Farmer, even in uniform, was always willing to shoot the breeze. He asked Jesus, for that is what the fellow called himself, “What do you think of all the Lovin’ going on in the parks and allays?” He said that Jesus mulled the question over for a moment then pronounced, “I think it’s here to stay!”

I did not get involved with that young ‘looker’, nor any similar; I’m twenty or thirty years too old and two or three hundred dollars short for such adventures. Fan of flames though I am, the heat of youth is too much for me. I can’t find kindling, my coals are banked, and my ashes hauled long ago; ...I’ve been burnt before! Besides, like that poor old truck, this rusted out old reprobate wouldn’t stand up well to such a battering of his fenders!

But, had I managed to broach the $50.00 question, I cannot imagine the response being positive. Oh she might have been polite. She might not have repulsed my advances with a stiletto roundhouse. But even with a polite “No!”, I’m sure the inference in the well tweaked but arched eyebrow would convey the essence of the attitude I found here on my first trip. “Let the Cheap Eastern Bastard Freeze in the Dark!, ...Alone!”

My title for this piece was taken from a quote from a lady named Mae. It read, I believe, it pre-revisionist times as; “Go West Hung Man!”

james