Hitchhiking
Whenever I spot a hitchhiker by the side of the road, it takes me back to a time when it wasn't safe to hitchhike, or for that matter, pick up hitchhikers. And yet that time was several many lots of years ago. I wonder - is the hitchhiker for real or is he (and he's always a he nowadays, as he was always a he when my mom would go sailing by him on the way to our farm down the line, in a roomy station wagon, causing me no end of embarrassment and guilt which if voiced would elicit a "do you want to join him?" response) simply an apparition... I mean, a) who, in his right mind, would hitchhike in this day and age, and; b) who, in his right mind, would pick him up?
Now, when I say all hitchhikers were/are guys, I know that can't be true because my friend, Ev, and I used to hitchhike quite regularly when we were in our teens. But we were drunk so it wasn't that dangerous. And, to be fair, we WERE just hitchhiking across the international bridge to go drinking in Soo, Michigan - on account of the bars were open on Sunday nights over there, but closed in Sault, Ontario.
What could happen?
Well, usually nothing much, but one night we got picked up by a guy Ev recognized. In fact, I remember her shouting over her shoulder at me "S'okay - I know him." She did, too. What she neglected to elaborate on was the fact that she knew him for his dodgy character and shady goings on. His buddy on the passenger side she didn't know at all. But he was good looking and muscular, so we figured - safe enough.
Luckily, and you can all breathe out now, they didn't turn out to be sexually depraved or anything like that - just really really stupid - times two. Less luckily was that neither Ev nor I were carrying our own I.D. See, although Ev was a year younger than me, she passed for older. But one night she fell in with the boyfriend of one of the waitresses at our favourite bar. To get even, BitchFace the Waitress decided to ask her for I.D. Of course Ev didn't have it BUT the waitress didn't know her name, either, so later that night we took a ride with some drunk guys from the bar (the waitress's boyfriend had moved on to another bar when he figured out that drinking in the same bar where his girlfriend worked was really cutting in on his action) to one of her friend's apartments and she was able to alter her I.D. Voila - valid of age I.D. I, on the other hand, looked the same as I had in grade 8 (and would for the next 20 years), so I always had to carry I.D., but since I was actually 18, I could use my own. The trouble was, Soo Michigan's legal age was 21, so whenever we hitchhiked across the bridge, I had in my back pocket borrowed I.D. from another one of Ev's friends (she had a lot of friends, mostly older not very bright girls who rarely went out drinking because they were saddled with boyfriends and babies - uh, from going out drinking...) and she had a separate altered I.D. from another friend to make her 21 (Bitchface the Waitress never would have bought Ev being 21 on account of she was always with me). So we were 18 in Sault, Ontario and 21 in Soo, Mich.
So far, so good.
There we are in the car with Doofus and Sidekick and we're doin' great, all checkpoints cleared, when Doofus decides to yell out the window at a customs officer, "Hey! Ya fergot ta check my left boot!" And then, I kid you not, his car engine makes a sound like this, "Whirrrrrr Phhhh Pah". And the car dies.
"Aw shit. Cunt. Bastard. Fuck." Doofus is resting his head on the steering wheel. Sidekick is swallowing the doobie he'd just sparked up in celebration of having cleared all the checkpoints. Within seconds the customs guy is at the door. I had watched him walk over. Or rather, stroll over, "Okay, everybody out of the car. I'm going to have to take you inside."
At that point, and it may have been the fumes from the engine that had been backdrafting into the car all the way over the bridge, Ev pukes up half a six pack. "Have you girls been drinking?" "Well, I'd say no, officer, except I'd obviously be lying." "Don't get smart with me. Do you have any I.D.?" Ah ha - do we have I.D. In spades, my friend, in spades.
I pull out my I.D. "Where did you get this I.D." "Uh... that's my I.D. officer." "Do you want to admit to me you're lying right now or do I have to take you inside."
"I'm lying."
And here's the tip for you youngsters reading this. After your friend has puked up half a six pack - get her to start crying. Then you start crying. And apologizing. And promising you'll never ever do anything like this again. Maybe even throw in that you're from a fatherless home (never ever let your Mother hear about that one). Tell him Ev's father escaped from Estonia when the Russians took it over and that he saved a whole boat load of people who now work hard in Canada to make a better life for their children and that's why you'll never ever shame him again by doing this terrible terrible thing.
Because if you're really unbelievable lucky and have a horseshoe up your ass, you'll get a ride home right to your door by a cute young customs officer (not the bad ass old custom's officer - a cute young customs officer) who will tell you about a different bar in Soo, Mich than the one you were always going to that was kind of skuzzy really. A bar where you can bowl while you're drinking beer. And yup. He's usually there on Sunday nights, tonight was an exception and he had to come in to work...
Ah, forget it. It would never happen like that nowadays, would it...
