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“Yeah, it was.”
Suddenly, Renée’s back and she’s ready to go.
“Are you going to be here tomorrow?” Scott asks.
Renée shrugs and looks at me. “Do you want to?”
“Yes, I do.”
Scott smiles. “I’ll see you then.”
Rainy Lake
The next night, Renée brings me back to the Red Dog. It’s two-for-one night, and the place is packed.
We make our way through the crowd and find Scott sitting at the same table, waiting for us. I wonder if he got hassled, crossing the border into Canada. I sit down next to him and we pick up our conversation from the night before. As Renée bops around and the clock ticks away, I tell him about the traveling I’ve done, from Canada’s West Coast to the East Coast, up to the Yukon, and everywhere in between.
“I went with Sophie at first,” I tell him. “The girl you met at the border. We hitchhiked, and then we’d meet people and go with them. It’s a great way to see the country.”
“Everyone I know would be too scared to hitchhike.”
“It’s not scary. It's an experience. I mean, everything's scary if you let yourself be scared of it. But that whole thing about meeting crazy people and serial killers and all that. Well," I wave my hand to dismiss the thought. "You could meet a crazy person at a house party, or walking down the street, just as easily as traveling around.”
“Maybe it’s safer in Canada,” he suggests.
“I think it’s safer everywhere than most people think. Besides, if something’s going to happen, it’s going to happen. No point worrying about it or letting it stop you.”
Scott touches his beer bottle to mine. “I'll toast to that,” he says. “My dad and I went to Mexico once. When I was twelve. We went to California and decided to drive across the border into Tijuana, and there were all these street vendors set up, selling blankets and bracelets.”
“My friends went to Mexico last year and bought me a blanket from a vendor,” I chime in, eager to point out the connection, albeit a small one.
“I bought one too," he smiles. “But what I really remember is wanting to go past the vendors. Like you said, go experience. But there were these other tourists who told us it was too dangerous, that we should stick to the tourist area.” For the first time, his attention is far away, off of me.
“I remember thinking that it didn't seem scary,” he continues. “Nothing had happened or anything. But we turned around anyway to go back to the States, just because someone told us we should be scared.”
He refocuses on me. “What I actually remember most from that trip is crossing back into the States. That was the scary part. There were guards with rifles and these huge line-ups and barbed wire fences and stuff. It’s serious down there.”
I want to hear more, but Renée’s back, ready to leave. Scott asks for my phone number and says maybe we could get together and do something other than shout back and forth at the bar.
“I'd love to.”
He calls the next night and asks if he can pick me up after work on Friday. He has something special planned.
So, looking forward to Friday, I turn down Renée’s offers to go out the next two nights, and I stay home with my dad and Pat instead. We watch the Antiques Roadshow and the news at ten, and I read in bed until I fall asleep. They’re both up before me in the morning, with coffee ready. Pat drives me to work and drops me off at the curb to bypass the bridge line-up.
“I’ll get a ride home tonight,” I tell her. “Go ahead and eat without me.”
During my last break of the day, I bring my bag into the washroom to brush my hair and refresh my make-up. Then I wait for the minutes to pass. Finally, my shift’s almost over. A new-style Grand Am pulls up off to the side of the toll booth and waits. When I walk up, Scott gets out and comes around, ready to open my door if I want him to.
“I’ve got it,” I say, and hop into the passenger seat. He pulls a u-turn and gets in line to go through U.S. Customs.
“You have ID, right?” he asks.
“I have my passport.”
Ahead, the cars advance, one by one. Each stops at the window, hands over IDs, sits answering questions, takes the IDs back. Each one then drives under the soaring flag and enters America. We inch forward. Finally, we’re next, then we’re up.
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