The Wrecking Crew in Ontario

Three young men from a small harbor town in Massachusetts begin their drive to the northern slopes of Alaska.

The three of us, Craig, Mathew, and myself were on our second day of our journey to Alaska.    After traveling from Boston for six hours we spent our first night in our makeshift camper in Longueuil, Quebec, a suburb of Montreal.

 

We had parked our van in a vacant lot under the shadow of an old tenement.   Waking up in the morning there was no sun.   Mathew wiped the mist off the window to discover a bleak overcast day.

 

“Wonder where I can find a tree.”, he said.

 

“What for?”, I muttered.

 

“Gotta go really bad.”

 

“There’s a metro subway station down the street.   They might have restrooms.”

 

As Mathew stepped out of the van into the mist, Craig showed signs of life and yelled, “Watch out for the bears.”

 

“How long have you been awake?”, I asked Craig.

 

“Past hour or so.  I’ve got a wicked hangover.”

 

“You and me both.”

 

We got out of our sleeping bags and put on some clothes.  By the time we had packed our gear away Mathew had returned.

 

“See any bears?”, Craig asked.

 

“Just an exhibitionist in the subway station.”, Mathew replied.

 

“What exposure was he using?”, I asked.  Mathew was a serious photographer.

 

“Half-moon at three seconds.”, he replied.

 

“Well, I’m impressed.”, said Craig.  “That’s a respectable smart-a*s quip coming from you so early in the morning.”

 

“Come on.” I said, “Let’s ditch these empties and get rolling.  The wilds of western Ontario and hundreds of Esso stations beckon.”

 

After everything was secured in the van, I pulled it out of the parking lot and drove into Montreal.    There we would access to the Trans-Canada highway heading towards Ottawa.  As I negotiated traffic through the old part of the city, Craig was riding shotgun with his morning cigarette, while Mathew sat in the back keeping a sharp eye for any belles’ femmes that might be seen on the sidewalk going to work.

 

“Yes!”, Mathew exclaimed.  “Over there at three o’clock!   A divine piece of French pastry.”

 

“Hmmm, yes.”, Craig added, “Very nice.”

 

“Where?”, I asked excitedly craning my head, almost grazing two pedestrians on the sidewalk.

 

“Jesus, Rodney.  Keep your f*****g eyes on the road.” Craig said.

 

One of the quirks of growing up in our small harbor town was that virtually everyone had two names.   Their birth name, and a surname bestowed upon them by peers during adolescence.   Adolescent nicknames are common everywhere, but in our town, it was more than common.  It was an unstated mandate.  Unless you were baptized with a nickname by your peers, you were considered an outcast.

 

The origins of the nicknames were almost always obscure.   Someone would start using it to address a buddy, and if it stuck and was picked up by other peers, there was no getting rid of it.  It would be unforgivable to overtly reject it.  If you did, a pack mentality would kick in, and it would be used exclusively, to the point that some people would either forget or never know a person’s real name.

 

Hence, I was “Rodney”, Craig was “Marty”, Mathew was “Cecil B”.  Mathew’s surname was a rarity because it made sense.  It was short for Cecil B. DeMille and was a nod toward his obsession with photography.

 

“Dormitas tu avec moi?”, Craig shouted out the window.

 

Glancing back in the rear-view mirror, I saw Mathew shaking his head and doing an eye roll.

 

“I don’t remember learning that in French One.”, I said.

 

“You weren’t in the advanced level, Rodney.”

 

“Oh.”

 

We reached the “on ramp” to the Trans-Canada highway, the longest highway in the world.   It was elevated above the city streets and we soon found ourselves on the rural western end of the island of Montreal.   Crossing the St. Lawrence into Ontario, we were soon driving on a two-lane highway.  It would be like this for the next three thousand miles.

 

After passing through Ottawa, Mathew took over the driving chores and I settled in the back of the van resigning myself to the long drive.  Craig was reading on the passenger side immersed in a sci-fi paperback.   He started chuckling to himself, and within seconds Mathew and I knew why.

 

“Marty that’s got to be you.”, Mathew said, as he rolled down the driver window.  

 

“Oh Jesus.”, I said.  “What just died?”

 

“Yes gentlemen.  A mid-morning low tide special.” Craig proudly announced.   Then Craig gave us his usual speech about the reason passing gas disgusts people was because it served as an acute reminder that at the end of the day, they would always just be two legged animals.

 

“No Marty, it’s disgusting because it stinks to high heaven and makes me want to barf.”, Mathew retorted.

 

After the open windows cleared the fog, and Craig got back to his book, the landscape had already become boringly predictable.  Every fifteen miles of cornfields were punctuated with country stores and gas stations.  By mid-morning, the sun broke through the clouds.

 

The sunlight woke me up and I a pulled a beer out of the cooler.  “Care for some breakfast, anyone?”, I asked.

 

“Sure.  I’m up for one.”, Craig said.  “How about you Mathew?”

 

“Okay.  Just put an open one up here on the transom.”

 

Craig opened a bottle and handed it to the driver.   He then settled back into his chair and glanced at the passenger rear view mirror.   Suddenly he barked, “Mathew.  Put the beer down right now!”

 

“Huh?”

 

“I said put the...”, Craig’s voice trailed off.  It was too late.  Mathew had taken a sip.  “There is a cop behind us you moron!”

 

“Where?”

 

“Look in the mirror stupid.  See the black cruiser with those pretty bright red flashers on?  For Christ’s sake!”   Craig threw down his book.

 

As Mathew pulled over to the side of the road, I rummaged around in the back to find a map.   After the police officer checked Mathew driver’s license and the van’s registration, he invited Mathew into his cruiser for a little chat.   Craig and I watched the two conversing with each other.

 

“At least the cop is smiling.”, I said optimistically.

 

“Of course, he’s smiling.  He just bagged an out-of-stater for drinking while driving.”

 

“Strictly speaking, Marty, we are out-of-province.   Anyway, where did my beer go?”

 

“Didn’t you see, he confiscated it.  Mine too, and it was a full one.”

 

“Well I’m pissed.   What are we going to do if he throws Mathew into the slammer?”

 

“Where are we?”, Craig asked.

 

“Someplace in the sticks.”  I looked at the map.  “A town called Pembroke.”

 

“I suppose we could send him a postcard.”

 

The driver’s door opened, and Mathew climbed back into his seat.   “Well gentlemen, what’s the story?”, he asked.

 

“Never mind us.  What did the cop say?”

“Two hundred dollars, men.  The cop said he’d usually make an arrest, but in our case, he’d let us go with a fine.”

 

“He’s all heart.”  Craig said.  “What are we supposed to do?”

 

Mathew started up the van and began to drive west.   The policeman turned his car around and drove in the opposite direction.   The cop had instructed Mathew to drive to the courthouse at the edge of town.   A police cruiser would be waiting for us and escort us to the courthouse where we would pay the fine.

 

“The cop said that if we tried to run it, the party would be over.”, said Mathew.

 

“How many days in jail would you get if we didn’t pay off the fine?”, Craig asked.

 

“Seven.”, Mathew replied.

 

Craig said, “We can’t afford it.  That will screw up our schedule.   Besides, by the time you’ll be getting out of jail, they will be making room for us.”

 

We came to the last set of stoplights in Pembroke.  On the opposite corner was the courthouse.  There was no cruiser to be seen.

 

“That must be the courthouse, Mathew.”, I said.   He didn’t seem to hear me and proceeded through the lights.  “Mathew, the courthouse?”

 

“I don’t see any courthouse.”, Craig said, speaking to the clouds.

 

I looked at Craig for a moment, and then at Mathew.   “You guys are crazy.”, I said.

 

No response.

 

“You know we are gonna get caught.”, I said.  “That was the OPD that bagged us.  They’re going to have warrants, and we will be breaking the law.”

 

Dead silence.

 

“Again.”

 

“Will you listen to him?”, Craig sputtered to Mathew.  “Tell me something Rodney.  Since when have you acquired morals?”

 

“Since I looked at the map.”, I said.  “Check it out for yourself.   We’re stuck on this highway for a minimum of the next hundred and ten miles.   Unless we turn around now, there are no turn-offs, no side roads, or junctions.  No nothing, except never ending fifty foot driveways to these ugly starter homes we’ve seen for the past hour.”

 

“So, you are saying it’s hopeless, huh?”

 

“Well,” I said, “if we make it to North Bay we have three options.”

 

Craig grinned.  “We’re listening.”, he said.

 

“According to my calculations, we can head south east to Toronto, and that gets us back in the States in about five hours in Buffalo, New York.  But, in case you guys have forgotten, we’re supposed to be going to Alaska.  An alternative is that we head north on the scenic route, north of the lakes to Manitoba, but that is eleven hundred miles, at least eighteen hours.  We’ll be stuck in Ontario for at least another day.”

 

“And maybe two months of hard labor.   Some scenery.”, Craig said.  “What’s the third option?”

 

“If we make it to North Bay, we swing southwest to Sault Ste. Marie.   We cross over to northern Michigan and circumvent Ontario all together.   It’s about ten hours from here.”

 

“So, you figure Sault Ste. Marie would be the best route?”, Craig asked.

 

“It’s the most moral, my son.”

 

“So be it.”

 

To help relieve the tensions of our great escape, we turned to our emergency whiskey supply, reserved for snakebites or for the more occasional breakouts of post-adolescent stupidity.  After sixty miles of medicine we were ripe for our next fiasco.   Craig was driving when the van stuttered to a halt.

 

“Some escape artists we turned out to be.”, Craig said disgustedly.   “We ran out of gas.”  

 

“We were going to fill up back in Pembroke.”, Mathew said. 

 

“Yah, the Esso station right across from the courthouse.” I stepped out of the van.  “Okay.  Who’s wants to hitchhike with me?”

 

“What the hell, I’ll go.”, Craig said.   He neatly put down a shot of whiskey, put his flask in his back pocket, and we began walking west.

 

Eventually an empty flatbed stopped for us.

 

“Where are you headed after you get the gas?”, the truck driver asked.

 

“Alaska.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Alaska.”

 

“That’s what I thought you said.   What do you wanna go up there for?”

 

It was a question that had been asked a thousand times.

 

I remember when the Alaska bug hit me as a freshman in high school.   I was in study hall in the school library, spectacularly bored, and was sauntering through the bookshelves.  I pulled out a book about Alaska and thumbed through the pages.   One picture captured my imagination.   It was an old sepia picture taken inside a log cabin general store where Denali was towering in the background.   By all appearances, of the wood stove, and the spartan goods on roughhewn shelves, it looked like it was taken in the first decade of the twentieth century, until I saw the date of the photo in a footnote, May 21, 1959.   The same year Alaska became a state.    “I got to see this place.”, I thought.  It would be as close as possible to traveling back in time when the country was still a frontier.

 

Mathew's interest came from his innate sense of wanderlust and curiosity.   He was willing to go any place that had a story to tell, especially places where that an interesting story could be captured on film. 

 

Craig simply wanted to go anywhere if it put substantial distance between him and Scituate, the small harbor town in Massachusetts we all grew up in, but the place we were all feverishly chomping at the bit to leave.

 

Mathew, Craig, and I had taken a year off from college working at home and decided in mid-winter that it would be a splendid idea to escape the confines of the lower 48 and spend the following summer driving to the far end of both the continent, and perhaps not incidentally, civilization.   So after a late February Saturday night in Craig’s house, when cabin fever was peak, the three of us made a pact that we would pool our winter earnings, buy a used Ford Econoline, purchase some serious tires, and drive to Alaska. 

 

Upon reflection, indulging in cheap liquor that night may have influenced our decision.

 

“Because it’s there!”, Craig responded boldly to the truck driver’s question.

 

The truck driver looked at us.  “You guys have been hitting it early today, haven’t you?  You wouldn’t happen to have some to spare right now, by any chance?”

 

Craig pulled out his flask and passed it to the truck driver.   “Help yourself.”

 

“Keep that, low will yah?”, the truck driver said while checking both rear-view mirrors and the oncoming traffic.

 

I glanced at Craig.  “This guy’s a real pro.”, I said quietly.

 

The truck driver geared down as we approached an Esso station. 

 

“Good luck fellas.  Hope you guys figure out why the hell you’re going up there.”, he said as we exited the cab.

 

We went into the office of the filling station where a one-arm man was serving a customer.   He looked at us for a moment and walked outside.   When he had finished pumping gas, he walked back in.

 

“What do you want?”, he asked.

 

“We ran out of gas down the road.”, Craig replied.

 

“You’re going to have to make a deposit.”, he said abruptly, seeing that we had no gas can.

 

“How much?”  I asked.

 

“Fifty bucks.”

 

“For that price he ought to throw in his wife.”, Craig muttered.

 

The man glared at Craig.  “What did you say?”

 

“He said he owes you his life.  How much is the gas?”, I asked.

 

“Three forty-nine a gallon.”, he said.   “Take it or leave it.   The next station is twenty-five miles down the road.”

 

We put down the deposit, purchased five gallons, and got back on the road to hitchhike back.

 

“Talk about one-arm bandits.”, Craig said to me, “that guy should be arrested.”

 

“Never mind.”, I said, “Let’s get going.”

 

We quickly caught a ride back to the van and poured in the gasoline.  “We will have to fill it up at the station.” I said.  “We can’t afford to run out again.”

 

Back at the gas station, the gas attendant was reluctant to take a one-hundred-dollar bill.  “Is this for real?”, he asked.

 

“Of course, it is for real!”, Craig replied indignantly.  “Printed it fresh myself, this morning.”

 

For a moment he hesitated.  “That’s one hell of a mouth, he has.”, looking at Mathew and myself.

 

“You have no idea.”, Mathew replied.

 

The man went in back into the office to make change.

 

“We’ve got a rifle packed away. “, Craig said, “Why should we pay him?”

 

“Oh, please.”, Mathew said.

 

“What the hell.”, Craig argued.  “We’re under probably under arrest anyway.  Just have the OPD put it on the tab.”

 

The gas attendant handed us for the gas and deposit, without so much as a nod.

 

As we drove out of the station, Craig said.  “Wave good-bye to the nice man, Mathew.   Say 'thank you' for the spare gas can he just gave us."

 

“Great.  We just added petty theft to our running tab.”, I said.

 

I took over the driving as we continued west.   About forty-five minutes later, Craig said, “Slow down, let’s pick up that hitchhiker we just past.”

 

“Why?”, I asked.

 

“He looks like a stoner.   Maybe he will have some stash we might partake in.”

“Whatever.  I’m game.”, said Mathew.

 

I pulled over the van.  “I’ll bet a nickel the guy is clean.”

 

Craig slid open the side door to let the stranger into the van.

 

“Thanks for the lift guys?  Where are you headed?” he asked.

 

“Ste. St. Marie.”, I replied.  “What about you?”

 

“Home.  Parry Sound.  You can drop me off at Sudbury.”

 

“That’s Bobby Orr territory.  What’s your name?  You play hockey?”, Mathew asked.

 

“People call me Thyme, as in the spice.  Never been on skates.”, he replied.

 

Craig was smirking in the rear-view mirror.  “Up one nickel, Rodney.”

 

“Where are you gents heading?”, Thyme asked.

 

“Alaska.”, Mathew replied.

 

“Why?”

 

“No reason in particular.”, Craig blurted in a brusque tone. “You got any pot you can share with us?”

 

Thyme paused for a second, sizing Craig up. “Yah.  Sure.”, he said, clearly annoyed.  “Give me a minute and let me get out my pipe.”

 

After lighting up and passing the pipe around, Thyme gave a brief outline of his recent travels.

 

Apparently, he was originally heading to Quebec City, but ran low on cash in Pembroke.   There he picked up a job had stocking shelves at a Giant Tiger grocery store.   While working there, he hit it off with a cute cashier and decided to stay for a few months.

 

“So, what happened?”, Mathew asked.

 

“Everything was cool for a while, but she started getting serious.” Thyme explained.   “She was hinting about getting married and having a family.  I thought she would get over it like most of them do, but then she asked me to come to a formal dinner with her parents.”

 

“Yah.  That’s a tough situation.” Craig replied.

 

“As if you would know.” replied Mathew.

 

“So, what happened?”, I asked.

 

“The dinner got really weird, man.   The father kept grilling me about what I did for a living.“

 

“What did you tell him?”, Craig asked.

 

 “I told him I was into manufacturing.”

 

“Manufacturing?”, I asked.

 

“Well, I did make my own scented candles for a while.”, he laughed.  “Anyway, I cashed my last paycheck yesterday and decided to head home.”

 

The communal pipe had had its affect and we all enjoyed a good chuckle.   The sun was starting to set, and Craig and Thyme zoned out, slouching in the back of the van.

 

We dropped Thyme off at Sudbury and continued west, where Craig took over driving.

 

As we were approaching U.S. Customs, it was mid-evening.

 

“Wake up, Cecil B.  Looks like we’ve made it.” Craig said.

 

The waiting line of cars was short, and we quickly presented our passports.

 

“Please pull over to the parking lot on the right.”, the immigration official asked.

 

We all stepped out of the fan to stretch our legs.  Suddenly the person checking the inside of the van became curiously animated.   He signaled others holding up something in his hand.   It was Thyme’s pipe which he “accidentally” left in the van.  

 

“Bring out the dogs!”, the official barked.   “You three need to follow me.”  He led us into a Custom building accompanied by three burly officers.

 

About an hour later, we were told that no illicit drugs were found, but we had to sign papers that a drug use device was found in the vehicle.   This was just a formality to clarify the reason for their very thorough search.  

“Do we get to keep the pipe?” Craig asked.

 

The official glared.  “You would be wise to get into that van of yours and get out the hell out of here.”

 

I took over the driving through Sault Ste. Marie and as we left the city we started looking for

campground signs.   Night had fallen and we were all uncharacteristically quiet.

 

About forty-five minutes later we found a public campground, payed the fee for the night and parked the

the van.   Still feeling like zombies, we quickly built a warm campfire and stared blurry eyed at the dancing

flames.

 

“You know,” I said, “we’ve been in some pretty crazy situations before, but correct me if I’m wrong.   I

don’t ever remember being in a situation where each of us were individually in a small room,

naked, with three fully clothed men staring at us.”

 

“Staring at us with handcuffs.”, Mathew added.

 

“Did they make you bend over, spread your cheeks, and shine a pen flashlight up your wazoo?” Craig

asked.

 

I made a sideway glance of contempt towards Craig and continued to glare silently at the fire.   I looked

at Mathew, who didn’t offer a reply.

 

Craig crowed in a sing-song taunt, “We’ll they didn’t do that to me!”

 

“What do you mean?”, Mathew asked.

 

“When the guy approached me with the flashlight, I let one rip.   One of my low tide specials ,with gale

 force winds.”

 

“Jesus, Marty!”, I said.  “You’re lucky that you got out of there alive.”

 

Craig stood up and hovered over the fire defiantly smacking his posterior hard with his right hand

for emphasis.   “Let me tell you something, gentlemen.  Nobody, and I mean nobody messes around with

my Georgia peach.”

 

“What did they do?”, Mathew asked.

 

Craig laughed.   “The guy with the flashlight backed up immediately and started swearing.   One of the

officers in the back said ‘Hey, he looks clean to me, aside from the dead rodent he’s got up his a*s.

Just toss him his underwear.  Let’s get out of here and write up the report.’”

 

“Someone actually picked up your underwear?”, I asked.  “Well he’s brave.  You realize that this is just

day two of our hundred-day road trip.  God help us.”

 

We nursed our beers while musing the day’s events.

 

“I still think we should have rubbed out guy at the gas station.” Craig asserted.  “There were three of us.”

 

“I dunno.” I said. “He still had one arm.”

 

Craig nodded and said, “This is true.”

 

“That cop in Pembroke must have felt burnt.”, Mathew said.  “We skipped out on that two hundred dollar fine.”

 

“I know.” Craig added.  “Imagine what his superiors had to say.”

 

Craig stood up rigidly, clearing his throat, and taking the pose of an authority figure.

 

“Now let me get this straight, corporal, you mean that you gave them a two hundred dollar fine and you actually expected them to drive straight to the courthouse unescorted?”

 

 “What are we corporal? On the honor code?”

 

“I’d hate to be the next person fined by that cop.”, I said.

 

“You and me both.” Craig replied.  “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you, why did we decide to go to Alaska?”

 

I tried to answer but found that I couldn’t.   I looked to Mathew.

 

He said, “Don’t ask me.   Before we started on this trip, I thought I had a reason.  Now I’m not so sure.”

 

I looked at my beer and smiled.   “That’s great Cecil B.”, I said.  “We spend six months working and saving money for this trip and none of us know why we’re going.”

 

“You have to admit,” Mathew said, “it’s typical for us.”

 

“Just put it on the tab.”, said Craig.