When the bell rang, I felt the draft of a swinging door. A chill etched my spine and my palms broke a sweat as I nudged my buddy, Don. The Mountie stood tall, a looming wide-hatted grim reaper. The jig's up. "You two from Victoria," he called. "Into the cruiser outside. We got a hoosgow just for you."
Hitchhiking, voyaging where the meek fear to step, is what landed us in this fix. Though just fourteen, we began little excursions to Sydney and Duncan. Nothing wrong with that, right? Who knew or cared what we did on our off time? So we immersed ourselves in a world of farmers, loggers and drummers, their spellbinding tales permeating as addictive drugs, brought back like prize trophies to our friends in Central Junior High School. It was a miracle to just stick out a thumb and get better entertained than a John Wayne picture show.
We certainly enjoyed the weekend we went north of Courtenay to O'Brien's stump farm. Auntie Maude obliged us with a bed, and phoned my folks with the lowdown. Nothing to worry about; we made it home the next day on the back of a hay truck. Strangely though, our parents were not pleased: "That's it!" said Mom. "One more trick like that, Buster, and I'll have the law on you."
But I was a big man, fourteen going on twenty-one, stretching the limits, giving my folks a run for their money. A few days later Don and I planned our next foray. "Port Alberni," I said. "Never been there but hear tell it's a neat place." What a thrill it was that Saturday when first we latched onto a travelling salesman who claimed plenty of experience with farmers and their daughters. Then we sipped Old Style brew with a couple of singing college kids - often stopping for relief - and finally bruised our backsides on a cranky Essex loaded with goats. Port Alberni was a disappointment. We hung out with little to do waiting for sunup, playing the last of our coins in the juke and pinball. Then came the dragnet.
"Car 205. 10-8 to your 10-20. Two 10-32's," said the officer over his microphone.
"Wow! They got car radios!" Don was mighty excited. "And codes." "Sheesh, you guys smell like drunken sheep," said the sergeant." Into the shower pronto." Blue from icy water and scrubbed raw with lye soap lathered hog-bristle brushes, behind cold iron bars we lay exhausted until dawn under two Hudson Bay blankets.
"Wakey wakey, time's a-wasting guys!" Dragging ourselves up, while the officer handed us a bucket of soapy water, a tiny can of past wax, a couple of toothbrushes and a rag, we cringed to, "It's a great fine getting' up morning, boys. Now polish that there cell before breakfast."
We finished our chore, dined on bacon and eggs, and were squeezed into a Victoria-bound Island Coach. Piqued at this Sunday intrusion, our vexed parents were waiting at the depot. "So, did you have a nice trip, son?" Daddy asked with all the sarcasm he could muster.
"You offered us no choice," Mom lectured. "You dared us and paid the price."
And did we suffer! Not only was I grounded for months, but forced to recompense the police for the room, the cost of breakfast and a bus trip I did not the least desire. Five cents at a time, one grocery delivery for nickel paid. Two or three deliveries per day. Slavery it was. Bondage.
Did we learn a lesson? Well, just for then, maybe. Three years later I was Alaska bound, and lately feeling the urge to get back on the highways for another plunge into Adventureland. Perhaps as the weather warms, and the rhumatizooties go into hibernation, who knows?
Gotta keep a sharp eye peeled for those Mounties, though.
Don't much care for their hoosegow.
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