Highway Child(ishness)

June 8, 2011July 8, 2014 / Diane Henders / 15 Comments

(Apologies to Bob Seger, Jimi Hendrix, and the Stones)

Before you read any further, I’d like to note that my travelling companions are (usually) mature and admirable people. Please don’t judge them harshly. You’d be a basket case, too, if you had to spend fourteen hours in a car with me.

————————————–

A couple of times a year, I drive from Calgary, Alberta to just outside Winnipeg, Manitoba. The trip is about 800 miles one way (1,200 kilometres). When I’m driving by myself, I do it in about twelve hours. If I have company in the car, it takes closer to fourteen.

The mind does frightening things when it’s cooped up in a car for that long. When I’m on my own, I beat my brain into submission with loud music.

When there are other people in the car, things get… strange.

I frequently drive with my sister and a friend whom I’ll identify only as Swamp Butt, in order to protect the guilty. Since she can’t retaliate without revealing her true identity, I’ll also disclose her nickname for me: “TB”, short for “Tiny Bladder”.

Three grown women in a car for fourteen hours. What a wonderful opportunity for deep discussion, bonding, and meaningful dialogue.

Snort!

There’s something about the trip that makes us revert to the mental age of ten. Some examples:

When you drive directly into the sunrise, the angle of the light reveals the fact that we all spit when we talk. And not just on plosive consonants. It’s a constant, fine spray of spittle. There’s no way to prevent it. Sorry, but it’s true.

Being the refined and sophisticated person that I am, I pointed this out within seconds of discovering it. My sister heaved a huge sigh of relief. “I thought it was just me,” she admitted. “I’ve been trying to stop doing it for miles.” She then proceeded to demonstrate various facial contortions designed to reduce the spray. Much merriment (and aerosolized spit) ensued.

Later in the day, we passed the umpteenth pasture with cattle dotted across its expanse. I glanced over and said, “Black cows…” Fateful pause. “…Look BETTER in the SHADE.” At which point all three of us did the head bob as we chanted the instrumental part: “NAH-nah-nah-nah-NAH-nah-nah-NAH!” Swamp Butt followed up with the solo from the back seat, “Dee-DEE-dee!”

I’ve never really liked Gino Vanelli’s music, or the song “Black Cars”. To me, the 80’s were a musical wasteland, mercifully relieved by a few outstanding artists like Bob Seger. But the point is, the “Black Cows” segment was repeated over and over, apparently getting funnier each time. It’s now a tradition. Such is the hideous danger of long-distance driving.

Eventually, the brain becomes so sodden with fatigue that it’s not actually necessary to have a stimulus for mirth. We’ve dissolved in helpless giggles while standing in line at Subway. Not talking. Not even looking at each other. The mere words, “I’ve been in the car too long…” are enough to make us weep with laughter.

Oh, and Swamp Butt? She snorts when she laughs. Not every time. The snort is reserved for special occasions. But when it finally erupts in all its raucous glory, pandemonium ensues. Hysterical, helpless hilarity. We haven’t actually had to pull over yet, but it’s been close a few times.

And then there’s the reason for Swamp Butt’s nickname. Farts become excruciatingly (and I mean the word in all its connotations) funny after too many hours in the car. They’re also pretty much unavoidable. Medical science tells us that humans pass gas 15 – 25 times a day*.

Well, guess what? Fourteen hours is over half a day. Times three people. Equals somewhere between 26 and 44 farts in the car (‘cause I’m a geek and it’s math.)

Here’s another thing you need to know. Canola smells like cabbage farts. (Honest. Those pretty yellow fields? When it’s cut, it reeks.) And there are a lot of canola fields between here and Manitoba. So the next time you let one slip while driving, just nod wisely at your passengers and murmur, “Canola”. You can thank me now. Note: This may be less convincing in the wintertime.

Anyway, on our last trip, Swamp Butt seemed to spot a lot more canola fields than there actually were. And just as we drove into the parking lot in Brandon to drop her off, she cracked off another one.

Loud.

Seconds before she got out of the car.

We all tumbled out, laughing, shrieking and choking. I’d like to say that we drew some attention, but we didn’t. Guess folks in Brandon are used to that sort of thing.

We have not yet devolved to burping contests (well, usually not), armpit noises, or mooning other drivers. We’re much too mature for that. I hope. Please, God, let me be right about that.

What’s your pinnacle of silliness while long-distance driving?

———————————————-
*Who gets paid to do these studies? There’s one for the ol’ resume: “Undertook in-depth research of human gaseous emissions.”

Doin’ It On A Dare

May 11, 2011 / Diane Henders / 22 Comments

This may reflect badly on the sexual preferences of my ancestors, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got donkey DNA in me somewhere.

The stronger the resistance, the harder I dig in my heels. And I’m genetically programmed to respond to dares:

Challenger: “Betcha can’t do that!” Me: “Oh, yeah? Watch me!” This can be a useful trait at times, but I’m trying to overcome it. Those who know me well are starting to catch on.

Hubby: “Betcha won’t clean the bathroom, do the laundry, wash my car, and make me a gourmet meal tonight!” Me: “Oh, yeah? Watch… hey, wait a minute…”

I prefer to think that my life has been enriched by the activities that I never would have tried if I hadn’t been dared to do them.

I never would have ridden to the top of that scree slope on my dirt bike. The view was amazing. ‘Course, the trip down got a little exciting when my brakes faded and gave out from the heat. And yeah, I caused a minor rockslide. But I didn’t actually hurt anything when I had to run into the side of the hill to stop.

I never would have known how many little channels and islands there are in Lake of the Woods if I hadn’t taken off on impulse on a five-day canoe trip with a couple of friends.

In retrospect, it probably would have been better if I’d told somebody I was going. And the trip could have been improved if we hadn’t ended up stranded for two days at our pickup point. And it might have been nice if my ride back hadn’t dumped me ‘way the hell out in the Mission Industrial area of Winnipeg. Without money or a map. On a Sunday. I’m still not sure what I did to piss him off. But hey, you can’t have everything. The canoeing part was great.

Those who know me have given up daring me to eat unusual foods. If it qualifies as food somewhere in the world, I’ve probably already tried it. Or I’m willing to try it. If you dare me.

And don’t bother daring me to eat non-food items. I’ve probably already done that, too. My childhood experiment with the coloured chalk comes vividly (pun intended) to mind.

And let’s not forget jumping off the highest object you can find. Fortunately for my bones, I grew up in the part of Manitoba that’s as flat as piss on a platter. The best I managed was a twelve-foot drop off one of the lifeguard towers at Grand Beach. No, not into the water. That would’ve been smart.

To this day, I’m unable to sneak up a flight of stairs, because it sounds like somebody is enthusiastically popping bubble wrap under both of my kneecaps. But at least I’m not afraid of heights.

What’s best (or worst) thing you ever did on a dare?

Die-Hard Bob Seger Fan

April 17, 2011June 8, 2011 / Diane Henders / 12 Comments

This past week, I was in Toronto to see Bob Seger in concert. For me, Bob Seger has always been (and probably will always be) the complete package. The music, the lyrics, the voice – nobody else quite measures up.

I’ve been a fan for a few decades, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen him live. When I found out he was coming to Toronto, I bought my concert ticket and booked my flight from Calgary ASAP. Could I afford it? Not really. Did I think twice about it? Hell, no. He’s saying that this might be his last tour, and I was willing to do whatever it took to see him.

Little did I know.

First, there was the cost of the concert ticket and the plane ticket, as well as taking four days off to get to a Tuesday-night concert on the other side of the country. No problem.

Trying to save a bit of money, I stayed with a friend in her studio apartment. I slept in a narrow walkway on the floor, on a makeshift bed of two cushions scavenged from the loveseat. I’m 5’10”. The loveseat? About 4’6”. But it was fine once I stuffed a chair cushion under my feet.

Her two cats had never witnessed someone sleeping on the floor. I was thoroughly and frequently inspected. I sleep on my back, which would be an unimportant piece of information unless you also know that the cats’ climbing tree was right beside the spot where I slept. You don’t know the meaning of “rude awakening” until a six-pound cat drops from a great height to land on your unprotected belly at three o’clock in the morning. Lucky thing I really like cats.

My friend kindly offered to pick me up after the concert, reasoning that it would be difficult to catch a cab downtown at that hour on a Tuesday night. I stood at the corner of Bay Street and the Gardiner Expressway waiting for her, watching the long line of cabs whisk all the other concert-goers home. The parking lot across the street emptied. Soon I stood completely alone in the darkness in an unfamiliar city. It was okay. I only had one proposition, and he graciously took no for an answer.

On the way home, I was singled out for the “random” physical search at the airport. Four out of the last five times I’ve flown, I’ve been chosen for this search, so I have to question the randomness of the selection process. Normally, I’d be mildly flattered that they can’t keep their hands off my body, but… really?

I figure the Airport Authority is missing a huge customer-service opportunity here. If I have to get groped, they should offer me a lineup of attractive security guys to choose from. Getting felt up could at least be an enjoyable experience.

As my plane descended in Calgary, I kept glancing out the window and seeing only whiteness. “Must be low overcast,” I said to myself. The jolt of wheels on landing strip alerted me to the fact that there really was only whiteness out there. A foot of snow had fallen the previous night. I wore runners.

It was the best trip ever.

Seriously. I loved every minute of the concert. He put on a great show, and the joy of being there was well worth a few minor inconveniences. I didn’t come down from my concert high (non-chemically-induced, thank-you) for days. Hell, I’d pay good money to hear Bob Seger sing anything. Even “Happy Birthday”.

Any other Seger fans out there? What’s your best/worst concert experience?

Flash Fiction: “Freedom”

March 16, 2011June 10, 2011 / Diane Henders / 7 Comments

This is in response to a flash fiction challenge based on a photo. Under a thousand words, in a week or less. Here’s the only part of the picture I really noticed:

Me: “Oh, God…” *shudders*

Those letters in the sky. They chill my soul. They do not spell “HOTEL”. They spell “Weird things will happen here. Enter at your own risk. And just try to sleep. Buwahahaha!”

And that’s just the sight of the sign that’s freaking me out. My bad hotel karma has scarred me for life.

This preamble is an attempt to justify the fact that my story is more about the journey than the destination. I’m too traumatized to write about the hotel itself.

But I did use the word “hotel”. Three times. That’s gotta count for something.

Here’s “Freedom”. All constructive criticism welcomed and appreciated.

Freedom

He spotted her about twenty miles west of Winnipeg. She turned and stuck out her thumb as the rig got closer. And smiled.

It was the smile that stopped him. Well, that and the hot body and long, silky hair. He leaned over and popped the passenger door open. “Where’re you headed?”

“As far west as I can get.”

“Your lucky day. I’m going all the way to Vancouver.”

“Great, thanks for stopping.” She hopped up into the cab. She moved like a teenager, but there were a lot more years on her than he’d first thought. The shiny brown hair was shot with grey. Deep crows-feet around the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

“Dave Smith.” He stuck out his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Dave. I’m Beth.” She shook his hand firmly. She sounded educated and confident. Clean clothes. Small backpack. Not your typical hitchhiker.

He pulled back onto the highway and ran up through the gears. “Car trouble?” he guessed out loud.

“No. Just looking for some freedom. And I’d like to see the Oregon coast.”

She rode in silence. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her smiling. Around Moosomin, he yawned and rubbed gritty eyes.

“Are you tired?”

“Yeah. Short turnaround yesterday.”

“Do you want me to talk to you?”

“Sure.”

She turned those blue eyes on him, and the next thing he knew, he was telling her about the trucking business and his hometown. Then about the failed marriage and the bitter ex-wife and the kids that didn’t seem to care if he lived or died as long as they got the monthly cheques for their college educations.

He blew through Regina on autopilot, still talking. After so many years on the road, he could do this trip in his sleep. Almost had, a few times.

At Moose Jaw, he pulled in. “Need to eat?”

“No, I’ll just stretch my legs.”

He left her walking around the parking lot. Watched her through the glass as he stood in the takeout lineup. Long legs. Nice ass in those snug pants.

He wasn’t usually a chatterbox, but she encouraged him. Six hours flew by. In Brooks, he asked her where she wanted to eat.

“I don’t need anything.”

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

“It’s okay.”

He frowned. “Do you need money?”

“No.”

He shrugged and went in to eat. None of his business. Outside Calgary, he glanced over. “I have to stop here for the night. Regulations.”

She looked at him with those big, blue eyes. “Will you get a hotel?”

“Yeah.” His usual stop was a dive, but it was cheap and clean enough. “You can sleep with me if you want. I mean, uh, in the hotel. You know. Not…”

She smiled at him then. “I’d like to sleep with you.”

“Uh?” He instinctively glanced over his shoulder. Nope, nobody else in the cab. Took stock of his own weary eyes and greying stubble in the rearview mirror, looked down at the generous gut stretching out his T-shirt. Hole in the T-shirt. When did that happen? He shook himself. Tired. Must’ve heard wrong.

She leaned over and kissed him.

Hadn’t heard wrong. Holy shit.

Stuff like this didn’t happen to guys like him.

He didn’t get the regulation hours of sleep that night. Hauled himself up out of that long soft hair and fine white skin after some head-banging morning sex. “We need to get breakfast and get on the road.”

“You go ahead. I’ll wait by the truck.”

“Don’t you eat?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have any money with you, do you?”

“No.”

He dragged her into the restaurant and bought her a big breakfast. She ate like it was her last meal.

Heading up into the mountains, he watched her smiling as she gazed out the window. She got him talking again. At lunchtime, he bought takeout for two. She ate everything he gave her, and then took him into the sleeper and rocked the whole damn rig.

He made up reasons to stop often. Rolled into Vancouver late; sore and exhausted and grinning like an idiot. Best trip ever. Holy shit.

In the parking lot, she said, “Thanks, Dave.” Kissed him and turned away.

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“Oregon.”

“Come with me instead.”

“Where?”

“Winnipeg. I leave tomorrow.”

She smiled. “I’m finished there. I just want to see Oregon.”

“I’ll take you.” The words burst out before he could stop them.

“You know you can’t.”

He kicked at the front tire. He knew he couldn’t.

“Call me.” He handed her his card. She smiled, and he knew she wouldn’t.

“Wait a second.” He pulled out his phone and called a couple of his buddies. Found her a ride south. Spent another long, hot night with her in another cheap hotel.

Next morning, she thanked him again and kissed him goodbye. Got in Frank’s truck. Waved and smiled as they pulled out.

Three weeks later, he got the call. Lawyer in Winnipeg. Yeah, he was Dave Smith. Yeah, he’d been on the Winnipeg-Vancouver haul a few weeks ago. Beth who?

Oh.

Shit.

Sitting in the lawyer’s office, twisting his cap between his hands. She’d been found dead in the woods in Oregon. Starvation and exposure. Not far from the road. No sign of foul play.

He hadn’t even known her last name. Didn’t know why the hell the lawyer would call him. Suit droning on, something about validity of handwritten wills.

“…to Dave Smith, with sincere thanks for enriching my last days, and for helping me reach my final goal, I leave all my worldly goods. Thanks, Dave. I found my freedom. Blessings.”

Over a million bucks.

She hadn’t needed him. She could’ve flown there in a private jet, drinking champagne all the way. Lawyer said he couldn’t understand it. She hadn’t been sick, didn’t seem depressed.

He knew the truth. She was just… finished there. Looking for freedom.

Holy shit.

For those who asked about Beth’s story, it’s here: “Freedom, Too“.

Bad Hotel Karma

March 12, 2011March 23, 2011 / Diane Henders / 13 Comments

I don’t know what I did in a previous life to deserve this, but I have bad hotel karma. Here are a few of the more memorable examples:

Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. I arrived, only to find that the door to my room had been recently kicked in. And repaired. With packing tape. Yeah. Big splinters out of the door frame, all held together with clear tape. It looked as though somebody had gone out the window fast, too. They’d almost gotten it back in the frame afterwards. There were just a few gaps here and there.

Many people would consider this ample reason to vacate. Instead, I went out to buy a bottle of wine. I was young(er), and this made sense at the time, for reasons that escape me now. Because usually I’m a beer drinker.

I stood in line to buy an overpriced bottle from off-sales (if you’re from Saskatchewan, you know what I’m talking about). A creepy-looking guy was in line behind me, so I stepped aside to let him buy his beer first. When I returned to the parking lot with my bottle, he was still sitting in his truck. I drove away. He followed me. All the way back to the hotel.

I discovered shortly afterwards that he was the hotel manager. I didn’t know whether to be reassured or not. He hadn’t actually been following me, specifically, as far as I knew. But he was definitely creepy. And he had a key to my room. Not that he’d have needed it. He could have farted in the general direction of the door and the whole thing would have given way. I didn’t sleep well that night.

Manitoba. The only hotel in a small town which shall remain nameless. It was definitely a deluxe establishment, with a bathroom on each and every floor. Three, in total. I spent the night sleeping on the doormat on the linoleum floor, because it was both cleaner and more comfortable than the bed. The cattle in the adjacent feedlot started bellowing at four in the morning. The smell was unspeakable. But I’m willing to concede that this one may have been more a matter of poor choice than karma.

Lest you think that my ill fate arises from the fact that I’m a cheapskate, allow me to present another hotel experience. Swanky high-rise in Vegas. Two hundred bucks a night, back in the ’90s. (No, I wasn’t paying. So I’m cheap. Shut up.)

At two o’clock in the morning, some nutcase rappelled down from the roof past my twelfth-floor window. Hooting and hollering. Feet bouncing against the glass. Thump. Thump. Thump. I didn’t get up to look. I just didn’t want to know. I heard the rumour later that he was naked, so I guess I should have looked. You don’t see naked guys rappelling every day. I’m thinking that he’d have wanted to be careful putting on the harness, though. Maybe that’s why he was hollering.

Lethbridge, Alberta. Another hotel, another night. And no, this one wasn’t cheap, either. There was an ill-fitting connecting door to the next room. Around midnight, the neighbour stumbled into his room, immediately lit up a cigarette, and dialled an escort service. The cigarette smoke drifted under the door. He demanded, “Sex! Lots of sex!” Middle European accent. Every word clear as a bell through the useless door.

Since I was awake anyway, I sneaked out of my room to get something from the car. He caught sight of me and thought I was his hooker. I’m not quite sure what he found attractive about my baggy jeans and sweatshirt, but then again, he was pretty wasted. I ignored his bawdy shouts and lay low until the real hooker arrived. She was wearing a nice little black business suit. She was much more tastefully dressed than I was. Should that bother me?

I sneaked back into the room and called the front desk. They declined to acknowledge that there was a problem. Fortunately, the guy had all the staying power of wet toilet paper. If that was his idea of “lots of sex”, no wonder he had to pay somebody. He was done in minutes, the hooker left, and I actually did get some sleep that night.

Bad hotel karma runs in our family, too. If my sister ever writes her memoirs, don’t miss them.

Got any bad hotel stories? Come on, I know you do. Share, share!