The only thing they had to rent was some boat of a "premium class" car. I can't remember the name now. I don't know or care about cars. What would have been a Continental when my Grandmother drove. It was 6PM in LA, Tuesday September 11th, 2001. The sun was setting. It was bright and orange and clear and beautiful. The kind of weather that New York was having that day too. I remember thinking it was like a Sunday in LA. The streets seemed empty of cars and even more empty of people than they usually are. I don't know if that was true or not, but it's my recollection. It may have been my myopic mission. To get home. I took off to find my mother 3000 miles away across the country.

I drove at least 100 MPH, usually closer to 120. I was passing through Vegas a few hours later without even a tiny urge to stop and gamble, something I love to do when I'm anywhere near any place that allows it. The next thing I remember was the moon in Wyoming. Again, I don't know if it's factual but my recollection was that it was full beyond belief. Yellow and huge. It seemed just over that ridge. Just over every ridge. Flying through the low moguled hills I was sure if I had the time to stop, get out and just run over to it, I could hug it. I never remember a time in my entire life when the moon was so close. It took my breath away but I had to leave it.

I was pounding coffee to stay awake and only stopped to pee by the side of the rode when another second would have caused me to burst. It was daytime and I was in Nebraska and now I had to stop because I had been pulled over by a kid cop with a brown Highway Patrol hat I think. I looked like how I felt. Diabolical, frenzied, anxious and needing to get the fuck away from him and home to New York.

"Can I look in the trunk please, Sir?"

"Are you aware that my home was bombed yesterday? Have you seen the news?"

"That's why I have to check the trunk, Sir."

"I'm a fucking terrorist?" All the normal rules of "don't talk to cops that way if you don't want to end up in jail" were off this day. Mostly. I still didn't want to push my luck so I bit my tongue and didn't vent any further rage at him. I popped the trunk.

"Okay? Can I go now? My mother might be dead."

"Why were you driving 102MPH?" He said calmly. Okay, he was clearly wanting, dying for me to lose my shit and end up being a terrorist so he could get on CNN. I played the game and chilled way out.

"I'm from New York. I was in LA for business and since the attacks no planes are flying so I am driving across country to get home. I couldn't reach my mother on the phone so that's why I'm driving fast."

"Have you had anything to drink?"

"No, Sir."

"You look a bit deranged."

"I'm upset."

"Maybe you should pull over and sleep a while."

"Maybe I will. If you could please just give me a ticket and let me be on my way so I can find a hotel I would appreciate it."

"Wait in the vehicle."

He walked back to his car and I to mine. I watched him in the mirror. Was he going to start straight in on the ticket writinggggggggggg....? No! FUCK! He's on the radio.

Great. Do I have some fucking ticket from 1984 the last time I road tripped through this God forsaken stretch of fuck flat earth that's gonna land me in some dusty town cell? I never take Route 40 unless I have to make time, which I general don't when I'm aimlessly driving around our great country, something I like to do to clear my head every couple years. I just take off with a map, water and music. I immediately flashed on the last time I took such a trip. It was a yeah and a half previous. March of 2000. Liza had just broken up with me a couple months before and I was still reeling.

I rented a truck in LA and set out to drive myself back to sanity. Back from abject heartbreak. I took the same route, 15, through Vegas, but that time stopped and gambled at Paris. I was up 800 at roulette and then laid it all on black. I want action. I'd rather let it all ride and leave up 1500 or let it ride again and leave up 3000 or lose it all rather than leave up 800. 800 is vanilla. It came up red so I left even. I drove north, wanting to get some winter. I headed for Montana. It still wasn't cold enough and I was getting lonely. It had been a couple nights of driving and I hadn't gotten a whore in Vegas. Then I got one of my famous ideas.

I bet they have whores and strip clubs just over the border in Canada, like in Montreal. Just because this is bumfuck Montana and the town over the border is bumfuck Canada shouldn't make a difference. Canada is progressive. Prostitution is legal. They probably have whores at the border crossing to welcome you to their progressive whore-loving country. I made a beeline for some tiny little border town at the top of our country in Montana. It was midnight and snowing. Perfect. By my map's estimation there was a little Canadian logging town which would be ripe with whore houses fifty miles from the border. This was as sleepy as it gets, this border. A gate and a shack. I pulled up.

"Where you headed?" The mounty asked me.

"Just traveling around."

"How long are you planning on staying in Canada?"

"Oh I don't know, maybe a week or so." I thought I would make my way north to the heart of cold Canada. I craved brutal winter and hadn't tasted any in the states in years. Thunder Bay had my name written all over it.

"Okay. Will you pull your vehicle over there for a minute please, Sir."

"Is everything okay?"

"Just a standard check."

I pulled over and a different Mountie came out. An affable crew cut guy.

"I'm just gonna check the car okay?"

"Sure. Go ahead." He seemed pretty serious. He had one of those swiffer things on a stick and was swabbing under the car, for what, bomb powder? I thought I would help with one of my all time bright quips...

"Wow, you guys are tough. I thought it was America that was hard to get into, not Canada." He threw me a look that made my stomach sick and I sat down. This was going to take longer than I had anticipated, especially now.

Suddenly, a dastardly thought flew into my mind.

This is a rented car. A truck. From LA... What if the rap stars that rented it before me to run kilos of cocaine up from Mexico forgot a bundle in a side panel? I'm a fucking dead man. I started praying to God as the Mountie pulled up the floor carpet.

To be continued...

Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 11:18 AM

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