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“Do we pay in American or Canadian?” most people ask, and I’m instructed to answer, simply, “Either one.”
At ten, a woman about my age comes in to give us each a break. There’s a tiny washroom in the back of the toll booth, but there’s never a pause in traffic to allow a break until someone comes to take over. She relieves my trainer first.
“I’m Renée,” she says when my trainer steps into the washroom.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Mel. And what’s his name again?”
“Ralph.”
“Oh yeah.”
“It’s your first day, eh?”
“Yup.”
“How’s it going?”
“Alright.”
Renée knows about every third car that comes through. She leans out the window and greets people, asking what they’re doing tonight, or where they went last night, or what they’re up to this weekend. Her laughter fills the booth as she talks.
She comes again for our lunch break at noon and our afternoon break at two. Each time she relieves Ralph first, and then takes my side so I can sit down and rest. When she turns to leave, I thank her for coming.
“Do you drink?” she asks me.
“Yeah.”
“A few of us are going out tonight if you want to come.”
“Sure. Where?”
She writes down her address for me.
“You might have to pick me up,” I tell her. “I don’t have a car.”
She laughs, writes my address down and says she’ll be by at nine.
At eight-thirty, I’m ready. I pace back to my room and glance at my reflection in the full-length mirror behind the door. My long black skirt and boots make me look even taller and slimmer than usual, and my straight blond hair falls over my shoulders, a stark contrast against my black tank top. I grab my purse and walk out to the living room to wait.
By the time Renée shows up, I’ve already been ready for an hour. My dad and Pat are heading off to bed.
“Should we wait up for you?” Pat asks.
I smile to myself. I’ve been out of school and on my own for three years. “No, that’s okay. I’ll let myself in. I’ll be quiet.”
The Red Dog parking lot is full. Renée drives through the rows and finds a spot way at the back, next to a rusty pick-up truck.
“Wow,” I say, “I didn’t know so many people went out on a Monday night.”
“People go out every night here.”
Inside, the music is blaring. The room is hot and smells of sour beer. I follow Renée through the crowds, up to the bar, and order myself a beer. I take a sip as she looks around for the people she planned to meet here.
“There they are!”
I follow her over to the pool tables and let her introduce me to half a dozen people whose names I won’t remember. One song switches to another, then another, and I feel a tap on my arm. It’s a guy with a crew cut and short sleeves rolled up to show off his muscles.
“Want to dance?” he asks.
“No thanks.”
He stares at me. “Really?”
“Really. I don’t dance.”
He walks away. Renée goes off to get us another beer and stops to talk to a dozen people on the way. I turn my attention back to the game of pool. Solids are winning. A moment later there’s another tap on my arm.
“Why wouldn’t you dance with my friend?” A tough-looking guy with greasy long brown hair is looking me up and down.
“I don’t dance.” I yell to be heard over the music.
“It’s his birthday.”
I shrug. “It’s nothing personal.”
Renée’s back with our beers. She’s found one of her friends sitting at a table with two guys. “Let’s go sit with them.”
I follow her through the crowds and up to a small, high table against the wall. There are four chairs and three people at the table: a dark-haired girl, a sheepish-looking guy wearing a shirt with “ZERO” across the chest, and a guy with a plain black t-shirt and a warm smile. Renée slips into the empty chair, and I stand at the table’s end. She introduces me to her friend Lisa, and Lisa introduces us both to the two guys, Steve and Scott. I smile and say hi and answer Lisa’s questions about working at the toll booth.
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