by Bif Naked
We slept most of the way on the bumpy drive over the Trans-Canada Highway. The bus was full, crowded with seniors, trappers, and families. Then there was us, sitting in the smoking section, bumming cigarettes off the other passengers. I felt very grown-up.
We got off the bus at our stop and were basically left standing on the side of the highway with our backpacks and secret stash of cigarettes. This was great—freedom, the life, the road! We started walking up the highway, talking excitedly and smoking and feeling pleased with ourselves. It was a mild autumn morning. The maple trees covered the land farther than either of us could ever see. The view was breathtaking, and I was ecstatic. We were really doing this! I was going to follow my dreams as soon as we got to Toronto.
We were not quite out of the city limits when a big car pulled over, a First Nations man in his twenties in the driver’s seat. He told us he was from Fort William and going to work at a construction site thirty miles or so up the road. He smiled. “Get in,” he invited. “I can’t get you too far, but at least you’ll be moving.” This made sense to us, so we gratefully jumped in.
He smoked a joint while he drove. When our new friend politely offered to share his marijuana, we both politely declined, and he was not offended. It was all civilized, but it bothered me a great deal that he was getting high while driving. I started nudging Connie: I wanted out of the car.
We made something up about feeling car sick and he pulled over to let us out. We thanked him and got out of the car unscathed. I was very relieved.
We walked for a while, smoking and talking about boys and giggling and generally having a good time. We were best friends, after all. Eventually, we decided to hitchhike again. By now, there was a lot of traffic on the highway. We walked backwards, sticking out our thumbs, smiling and waving at every logging truck or big rig that passed us. And passed us they did. For hours and hours, it was just these big trucks driven by big men honking their big horns. And then it started to rain.
Both Connie and I were in jeans, jean jackets, and running shoes. We were laughing and yelling, and our shoes were sloshing and slurping with every step, and it was very funny—for a while. It was getting frustrating, none of the trucks stopping for us. We were getting cold and feeling defeated.
Then, in the distance, we saw a beige sedan burning down a hill, then up a hill, getting bigger and bigger as it got closer. We stuck out our thumbs and jumped up and down, waving. The driver pulled over and we ran up to the car.
“You girls need a ride?”
He looked like Les Nessman from the TV show WKRP in Cincinnati and was dressed like him too, in a short-sleeved white shirt with small black buttons done up all the way to his neck. He wore glasses, was clean-shaven and slim, and was probably in his forties. He looked okay to me.
“That’d be great, sir!” We climbed into the car and away we went.
“You girls like Jesus?” he asked us, much to our surprise. Being thankful for the ride and not wanting to rock the boat, I piped up, “Oh, you bet! My parents are missionaries. My grandpa was a preacher from South Dakota. I go to a United church with my parents ’cause they sing in the choir.” I continued to drone on to try to win him over.
Connie fell asleep and remained asleep for much of the conversation, and I couldn’t blame her. The driver did not stop talking about Jesus and Mary Magdalene and how they were lovers and how that was a secret. Then he asked if I had ever seen pictures of them “in union.” I was not alarmed by this, nor was it a red flag for genius me. I was oblivious to any bigger picture. I was just tired and annoyed, I badly wanted to sleep, and he simply would not shut up. I decided right then and there that we had to get out of this vehicle too.
When I asked where the next stop was, when we could stop to use the restroom, he didn’t answer. He just looked ahead and said that there was “nowhere.” This made me uneasy, not only because I wanted to get out of the car but also because I really was worried about where to go to the bathroom. I whined a bit more, waking up Connie, who asked for the bathroom as well. The driver was getting angry. That set off an alarm bell in me—not that he was a potential predator necessarily, but that he was mean or, at the very least, grouchy. He pulled over at a gas station somewhere on Highway 17, still not too far past Thunder Bay, and waited for us in the adjoining coffee shop while Connie and I went to the washroom.
Whispering to each other from the toilet stalls, Connie and I agreed that we were going to bail out of there. We didn’t want to hurt his feelings and couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse to give him as to why we didn’t want to get back in the car, so we decided to take the easy way out and just sneak away. As luck would have it, as we were briskly walking away from the gas station, an eighteen-wheeler pulled out from the station and onto the highway headed in the direction we were going. No sooner had we turned around and waved our thumbs in the air than he stopped. “I saw you two kids back there. You need a ride to Toronto? ’Cause that’s where I’m going.”
The driver was elderly and looked remarkably like my science teacher. He also looked kind, so we jumped right in.
We exchanged pleasantries. He didn’t smoke, but he let us. He suggested we crawl into the bunk and go to sleep, as he would be driving through the night to Toronto. We were so tired, we did not hesitate for a second, just crawled right back through the drawstring curtains behind the seats and went to sleep. We woke up with the sun rising, practically blinding all three of us through the windshield.
This was it—Toronto! We had made it!
“Where are you kids going? Where can I drop you off?”
I stammered, “Um . . . my sister is meeting us at the Greyhound depot.” It was the only thing I could come up with.
“I know right where that is, but my rig ain’t going that way. I know a guy who can drive you the rest of the way in his car. I’m going to pull into this motel.” He pulled over into a motel parking lot, where five or six other big rigs were parked. There was a diner there, and the three of us went inside.
Everyone in the diner knew him. He was given a greeting worthy of Norm from Cheers. One of the other drivers typically left for the city around that time in his car, a beat-up hatchback. Our sweet grandpa friend asked him to drive us to the bus station downtown. The man enthusiastically said, “Let’s go,” and we jumped into his jalopy.
He looked like Ozzy Osbourne, but he talked like a Muppet. He let us smoke in his car, which meant that we liked him instantly. We chatted with him all the way to the station, thanking him as we emerged from the car.
“Wash time,” I declared and we headed to the busy women’s washroom. In front of a sink, I took my white T-shirt off and started washing my underarms with soap from the soap dispenser. I was full of pretend confidence and bravado—and I was wearing a black bra, just like Madonna, so I believed that entitled me to behave in this way. No one said a thing. I was on to something. Connie followed suit, and we had our half-baths, emerging from the can feeling refreshed.
“Let’s get a cup of coffee,” Connie said.
I was in. “And pie.”
The diner in the Greyhound station had a semi-circle counter, just like a diner in a James Dean movie. We took our place at the counter, trying to eat slowly as we gulped down our coffee and asked for refills. It was just the beginning of the day and we were truly thrilled with ourselves.
“Do you want to walk around and get our bearings?” I suggested to Connie, putting the dollar and change down on the counter and my coat back on. Connie agreed. Out the door we went in search of something, anything.
I had never been to Toronto before. The city was teeming with people, going to work or school or somewhere, and we sauntered through the crowds, smoking. I felt as if we owned the sidewalk. The legendary Toronto Eaton Centre was only a couple of blocks from the Greyhound depot so, naturally, we gravitated toward it. We were high school girls, after all. Malls were our natural habitat.
Already busy with commuters, the mall had just opened. Within ten minutes, w
e were spotted by the two cutest boys on the planet—they looked like Bobby Brown and Eddie Murphy in sixteen-year-old bodies. They started following us. This was the height of validation for us.
Connie flashed her smile and right then, we were fucked. The power of a smile like Connie’s was like the power of a life-changing sermon at church, or of a monster truck running over a bag of potato chips. It was unstoppable. Connie’s blonde curly hair, bright blue eyes, and athletic body, all wrapped up in a bow that screamed “I listen to Grandmaster Flash,” was the stuff dreams are made of. She was always the belle of the ball.
The boys were our own age, nice boys in polo shirts with the collar turned up and preppy Air Jordans. They were polite and soft-spoken. They told us they were skipping their first two classes that day and just hanging out at the mall. We agreed to go for coffee at a place they liked down Yonge Street.
Leaving the mall was Connie’s and my first big mistake. The second was telling these boys the truth. Oh sure, we spun an elaborate story and even gave fake names (Connie’s was Tatiana). Mine eludes me now but I guarantee it was even faker. Upon learning that we were runaways, the boys offered their help. They said we could stay with their sister, who had an apartment downtown.
We finished our coffee and gathered our duffel bags, then went outside to hail a taxi. We happily jumped in and away we went, winding down roads among red brick buildings, the industrial part of the city shifting into the suburban the farther we drove.
“First we have to stop at my cousin’s,” one of them said, and told the driver to pull over on the busy street and drop us off.
We climbed through a broken fence of a rundown apartment building and made our way to a basement suite. An older guy appeared from the back of the apartment, eating a bowl of cereal and smartly dressed, but wearing a blue plastic shower cap on his head. He sucked air through his teeth at the two boys.
“Why ya no tell me company is comin’?” He cuffed one of the boys not quite playfully around the neck. Then he turned to me and Connie and said, “Ladies, my apologies. Please come in and sit. Sit.” Then he left the room.
He talked from the hall. “I’m just conditioning my curls, one moment.” Connie and I were laughing at the cuffing, and the boys were giggling with us.
“How old is your cousin?” I asked for the sake of making conversation.
“My cousin?”
“Yeah, your cousin there—how old is he? But we are still going to your sister’s, right?”
The boy dropped his gaze.
The Jheri-curl fellow returned to the room. “Ladies!” he said with a toothy smile, “what will we drink? You like rum?”
Ever polite, we both nodded yes. He poured the rum into two small glasses sitting on a shelf in the living room. I don’t think they were clean.
“My name is Cash. What’s yours?” He handed me the drink, about four fingers high in the tumbler. I was not all that familiar with rum, since Connie and I pretty much always drank beer, like every other self-respecting Prairie girl—light beer so we wouldn’t get fat.
“Beth,” I said. “Beth Torbert.” We had long ago given up on using our fake names.
Cash handed Connie the other dirty tumbler, smiling at her.
“Connie,” she said. “Just Connie.”
Cash laughed. “Well, Beth and just Connie, it is a pleasuah ta meet ya bott.”
The front door opened. “Cash! Where ya be?” From the dark hall emerged a tall man in a red leather jacket and pants to match—just like Eddie Murphy! Around his neck was a thick gold chain that looked like it weighed two hundred pounds.
“This is my roommate, T.J.,” Cash announced. Then, turning to T.J., said, “Ya got it?”
T.J. nodded, then came over and shook our hands before waving the boys away. Our pals promptly got up.
“We’ll see you later,” one said. “I’ll go make sure my sister’s home.” He looked me right in the eyes. The boys left, never to return.
“Let’s light it!” Cash said as he poured more rum into our glasses and turned on the stereo, and T.J. produced a joint from his jacket pocket. They high-fived and T.J. gleefully lit the reefer. Of course, I was not at all interested in smoking the marijuana, and particularly not in this situation, but it dawned on me that not only would it be impolite to decline but saying “No, thank you” was not an option. Neither was not kissing them. Within a short while, Connie and I were quite drunk and incredibly high—likely their goal. The experts had us petting with them, in separate rooms, without any protest.
I knew I could deal with the danger, but I did not wish it upon anyone else, especially my sweet best girl, Connie. Much to my relief, the phone rang.
Cash got up to answer it and I straightened my bra, which was pushed around my collarbones, still fastened under my shirt. I buttoned the top button on my jeans, which, remarkably, had not yet come off. He was on and off the phone in all of ten seconds.
“We gotta go!” Cash banged on the wall. “T.J., we gotta go!” He smiled at me. “Get your coat, girl. We are going out on the town!” He laughed and finished the rum in his glass.
Cash called a cab, I got my coat and running shoes on, and Connie joined me on the couch to lace up her sneakers. We exchanged looks. She seemed just as relieved as I was. We had both been saved by the bell.
“Cab’s here,” T.J. said, looking out the window. “Bring your bags,” he said to us.
We left the apartment and hopped into the taxi, all four of us in the backseat, like children at the back of a school bus. The dark night was brighter than Christmas, with all the streetlights and stoplights.
I was still so relieved and grateful that nothing had happened at the apartment that I was in a good mood. I took in the sights of the big city and didn’t pay much attention to what the two guys were talking about.
Our drive took us through an unusually winding road that became more desolate as we drove and the fare meter ticked on: eighty-nine dollars so far. Connie and I were quiet—we were tired and starting to sober up. The cab passed several motels with women hanging around outside. They were girls, really, but dressed up like women, and as if they were going to a nightclub. It struck me as very peculiar, since there didn’t seem to be any bars around.
“Shitty bus service here,” I joked. I should have kept my mouth shut.
“What the fuck kind of thing is that to say, girl?” Cash was offended.
I tried backpedalling immediately. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”
“Shut ya mouth, bitch,” he shouted. I was stunned. Suddenly, I was very sober and alert. I grabbed Connie’s hand and squeezed it; she squeezed mine back.
Cash pulled out a gun from his jacket and discreetly pressed it against my side; I held my breath.
“Pull over here!” T.J. instructed the cab driver, indicating the driveway of one of the motels. The driver complied. He seemed unaware that the man seated behind him had a gun. T.J. angrily waved a girl toward the car. She flipped her long blonde hair and turned on her heel, sauntering away from us. T.J. looked at Cash. “I’m going to go deal with this,” he said, getting out of the cab and slamming the door behind him.
Connie started to cry but tried to stifle a whimper. Cash pressed the tip of the gun harder into my side. “You shut her the fuck up and you shut the fuck up. You will both be tried out tonight, so pull it together, girls!” he whispered through clenched teeth. The driver was not interested in paying attention, that much was clear.
T.J. was having an all-out fight with the blonde girl now, and they were causing quite a scene, prompting other girls to run over to them. “Get the fuck back!” Cash yelled out the car window. He was furious.
Connie was crying and I was still squeezing her hand, trying to reassure and soothe her. Cash got out of the cab, telling the driver to “keep it runnin’” and slamming the door behind him. He shouted at the group of girls, “You fuckin’ girls better . . .”
I didn’t spare one second. I leaned over toward the fron
t seat and said, “Please! Please, mister!” I started to cry. “Please help us. We don’t know them. I’ll do anything you want! Just please get us out of here!” I looked him in the eyes in the rear-view mirror.
He looked back at me, annoyed. “I don’t need this shit, kid.” He didn’t make a move.
“Please. He has a gun.” I was bawling.
“For fuck’s sake,” the cabbie muttered. He kept my gaze in the mirror for what seemed like a whole minute before he let out a big sigh and turned off the meter. “Put your fucking seatbelt on,” he said and slammed the gear into drive, peeling out of the motel driveway, the pissed-off pimp running after us, shouting and waving his gun. Cash became smaller and smaller as we left him in the dust. He even shot his gun off into the air, but we simply kept going.
The driver wasn’t driving for his life; he was driving for ours. Connie and I ducked down in the back and held hands and cried like schoolgirls, the type of schoolgirls we had never been, the innocent kind. We drove and drove, the silent driver just looking at us through the rear-view mirror from time to time without saying a word. The window on my side was down a crack, and the cold breeze stung my cheeks.
Eventually, the cab pulled into a 7-Eleven parking lot, and the driver parked and turned off the engine. He sat still for a minute, looking straight ahead and saying nothing. Connie and I just looked at our feet. Then he turned around to face us. “What do you want in your coffee?” he asked quietly.
Afraid we’d start blubbering all over again, Connie and I could barely get words out. “Sugar . . .” I said. “And . . . and cream.” My voice was shaking.
“Black,” Connie said.
“You smoke?” We nodded, and he left the cab.
Connie and I didn’t even think about taking off from the cab. Instead, we both began to cry again, this time with relief. And because we did not want to be turned out by pimps. And for our mothers. And we just kept on crying.
The cabbie came back to the car and handed us each a cup of coffee. He threw a package of menthol cigarettes over the seat and turned on the engine.