Marquette Mayhem

Ken and I were in a bar in Kenora watching the Blue Jays lose to the Twins and getting a little depressed. It was October 1991. We were on our way to Halifax and Kenora was a dead town. The plan had been to hit Kenora, watch the game, find a Blues Bar with a good pinball machine, and enjoy life. In the morning we'd decide what our next step would be.

Sadly, it did not look possible to enjoy life in Kenora and we were forced to move on to the decision-making part of our plan prematurely.

The main decision to be made was whether to travel north or south of Lake Superior. One route would take us through Ontario, and the other through the States. The decision proved to be easier than expected. I'd already been over the Ontario route and Ken wanted to piss on the great state of Minnesota to avenge the Blue Jays.

Of course, we did feel some guilt about this decision. Could we still call this a "cross-Canada" trip? But gas would be cheaper and Ken could buy a carton of smokes duty-free on the way back. Besides, Ontario was just too big. It would be unfair to other smaller provinces if we spent more time in Ontario just because it stretched out and hugged the U.S. border as much as possible.

So we left Kenora and headed south. There was another reason we were shy about going into the States, though, and Ken remembered it soon after we were on the road.

Ken has this little box of keepsakes, you see, and inside this (it's an old cigar box actually) he happened to have two old hash pipes. He hadn't used them in years and had no particular intention of doing so in the near future but he was still a little nervous about crossing the border with them in his possession. I felt the same way since it would be my car that the oppressive scum would impound after they found Ken's illicit utensils. We were convinced we would be searched with the utmost scrutiny. Ken and I both had long hair and a cheerful demeanor. It would be obvious to them that we were drug-using hippies. However, the pipes were objects of some sentimental value so Ken didn't want to just throw them away. So we decided we'd hide them and pick them up on the way back.

For the next hour or so we kept our eyes open for a likely looking spot. It was quite late at night by this time, almost two in the morning. Fortunately we came across a Travel Information stop near somewhere called Nestor Falls. It had a giant sign about ten meters tall. We parked the Peugeot so the lights shone on the face of the sign and I climbed up one of the posts behind it. Ken passed the nefarious dope utensils up to me and I hid them behind the letter "V". Then, after wandering around the sign with a flashlight and peering up at it to make sure our contraband was carefully hidden, we resumed our journey.

We slept in the car that night near a couple of those gigantic roller things that eastern logging trucks drive through to straighten their loads. In the west the logs are put lengthwise in the trucks but out east for some unknown reason they cut them up much smaller and place them widthwise on the trucks. Then, apparently, they all drive to this one little spot off the side of the road where we were trying to sleep and drive between these two immense metal roller things and make as much noise as possible.

That morning we woke up and drove the Peugeot through the roller things and tried to smooth out some of the dents the previous unaffectionate owner had given it and headed for the border.

I had noticed when we'd stopped to stash the "stuff" last night that the odometer on the Peugeot was approaching 100000 miles and a spiritual rebirth when once again there would be nothing but five virgin zeros right across the dash and I was very excited about this. I checked it as we drove through the roller things. It was at 99987 and then I promptly forgot about it.

We were driving down the road practicing looking innocent and conservative and trying to suck our hair back into our skulls when I happened to glance down at the odometer again. It read "00000".

Instantly, I slammed on the brakes and kept them locked up until the car had skidded to a stop mostly on the side of the road. Being safety-conscious as always, I flicked on the hazards and leapt out of the car to take a picture. Ken stopped traffic while I shot a half a roll of film and then we sat in the car and used up the other half taking pictures of the dash while logging trucks swerved past us.

It was an exciting moment. I had bought the car in Vernon from a friend who had left it sitting in her father's orchard for the last two years. The purchase price had been $200, three condoms, a bottle of red wine, a pack of gum, and a trip to Carmanah Valley. The condoms were size large; the wine was something cheap and Chilean; the gum was grape Hubba-Bubba, and the trip to Carmanah has yet to be arranged. At the time there had been widespread speculation that the car wouldn't make it out of the city, never mind to Ontario.

I put the camera away, turned off the hazards, and we continued on our way. Crossing the border into the States proved to be a mundane affair. The feared guardian of the Evil Empire didn't even find it unusual that we had two different license plates, a legal Alberta plate on the back and a polar-bear shaped NWT plate on the front. The NWT plate really belonged to our treeplanting bus, but it wasn't going to be used again until next spring. That day we drove to Marquette, Michigan. We figured it would be a fun place to stop for the night because it was the home of Northern Michigan University.

Northern Michigan University does not, however, have a Pub. There is, in fact, no drinking establishment on campus. We were informed by a large young man with almost no hair that the nearest such place was five miles away. Obviously this country knew nothing about post-secondary education.

Ken and I got back in the car and drove toward downtown Marquette in a mood of deep depression. Ken began playing with the radio in the hopes of finding some interesting tunes. He soon found a top 40 station whose D.J. immediately began ranting to us about the incredible birthday bash at "Spanky's" in the Holiday Inn. Lacking alternatives, I steered the Peugeot toward Spanky's.

There is something else which I should mention about Northern Michigan University, and that is that it has a Military Sciences Program. In addition to this, there is an Air Force base near Marquette.

You know how sometimes when you enter a bar there is a friendly atmosphere that instantly makes you feel as if you've come home? Ken and I did not feel that way when we entered Spanky's. We felt, to be honest, a little out of place. The bar was filled with extremely muscular young men with short muscular haircuts. In addition, I was wearing a tie-dyed purple tee shirt which had been artistically flecked with bits of fluorescent green and orange. Ken was wearing a tee shirt from the Montréal Musée des Beaux Arts. Most everyone else's tee shirts had images of grim death on them. "Kill them all, let God sort them out," that kind of thing.

Ken and I took a table against the wall and tried to be invisible. It didn't work. Sitting at the table across from us was a young woman who had had more than a little to drink. She was wearing shorts and her legs were draped over the arms of her chair. She also had blond hair with black roots. Sitting across from her was someone who looked like Clark Kent without glasses. He was about six and a half feet tall with a V-shaped upper body. His arms could not hang naturally down at his sides. He also had extremely short hair and seemed to be practicing Clint Eastwood facial expressions.

The young woman in question seemed to be very intrigued by us which made me very nervous. "Clint Kent" left to go to the bathroom and she rushed over to our table.

"You guys remind me so much of this guy I know. I'm just so in love with him. He's a hippy and an artist. He lives in New Jersey now, but he's just the coolest," she said. "Hold on, let me dump my date and we'll party." Then she ran back to her table and waited for He-Who-Kills-Buffalos-With-His-Bare-Hands to return. Ken and I spent the time being very scared. As soon as the behemoth returned our mystery woman leaned over to him and kissed him on the cheek and said something to him and he left, leaving his jacket behind. Once he was out the door of Spanky's, the woman joined us at our table.

"Hi, my name is Gina," said the mystery woman and drank some of my beer. As Gina told her story, I kept a nervous eye on the jacket the giant had left behind. He soon returned, waved at me, smiled, then pointed his finger at me like a gun, shot me, and left. Gina did not notice. I had a heart attack.

It turned out that she was on a blind date with this guy. Her uncle had been visiting from L.A. a couple of months ago and she had accompanied him to the airport. However, he had a 9mm handgun on him at the time and they wouldn't let him on the plane with it so he asked to speak to the pilot. Apparently, in the States, it is up to the discretion of the pilot whether or not they let you on the plane with a handgun or not. The pilot agreed to let Gina's uncle on the plane with his gun if Gina would go out on a date with him next time he was in Marquette and that is how she happened to be in Spanky's with Joe Beefcake.

"Why was your uncle carrying a handgun in the first place," I asked.

"Well, I am Italian, you know," replied Gina. "This isn't my real hair color," she said, indicating her black roots.

"So what are you trying to tell us?" Ken asked, "that your uncle is in the mob?"

"I don't know," said Gina. "He lives in L.A.. He has lots of money, he never talks about what he does for a living, and he carrys a hand gun."

It turned out that Gina had a handgun as well, though not on her of course. "Don't be silly. It's at home." It had been given to her by her roommate. "He's a cop, you know."

We were lucky enough to meet her roommate. He showed up at the bar a little later on, and his name was Tony. He was very friendly toward us, almost aggressively so in fact. After he left to go talk to some other people, Gina told us that he was a Narc. "You know what he does for a living?" she said. "He hangs out at bars and tries to get invited back to parties and then, if he catches anyone smoking up, he busts them for possession. He is such a dick."

We stayed at Spanky's until it closed and as I was waiting for Ken to come out of the bathroom I noticed Tony waiting for his date. He was standing up straight, looking bright-eyed and sober. And then he noticed me. He immediately slumped against the wall and said, "Wow, I am so wasted. What a night. But it was worth it, wasn't it dude? Hey, do you know anyplace that's happening?"

I said, "No," and explained that I was from out of town and just going to go to sleep now. Then Ken came out of the bathroom.

"Hey, I remember you, dude," Tony said, flinging an arm in Ken's direction. "How's it going, dude? What's shaking? Do you guys know of any cool parties?"

Ken and I begged off. "No thanks," I said. "We're kind of tired. I think we'll probably just try to get some sleep. We've got a big drive ahead of us tomorrow."

"Well, that's cool. We'll see you."

Ken and I slept that night in the car and had breakfast in a little coffee place where we felt more at ease. There was wood, and herbal teas, and baked goods. Then we headed out on the road again determined to get back into Canada before the day was over.

This panic was almost to be our undoing. We stopped on the American side of Sault Ste. Marie and each bought a carton of smokes and a bottle of booze. Then we crossed the border and immediately found ourselves in a pack of trouble. In order to buy cigs and booze duty-free a person has to be able to prove he had been in the country for more than 48 hours. Lying, apparently, isn't good enough. Personally, I felt no moral compunction about my crime. For one thing, Ken was going to smoke all the cigarettes and I had bought the bottle of Wild Turkey for a friend. And, anyway, I felt we had paid our dues in Marquette. We may not have had spent a lot of time in the States, but it had certainly been quality time; we'd met a mafia princess, and a cop, and I had been (figuratively, at least) shot by a muscle-bound airline pilot. We were certainly entitled to a slight discount on a couple of cartons of smokes and some booze.

The good folks at Canada Customs couldn't know all this, though, and demanded some sort of proof that we had been across the border for as long as we claimed. "Don't you have some kind of motel or gas receipt?" the woman asked.

"We slept in the car every night," Ken replied.

Not a good enough ploy, apparently. They told us to pull over and two Customs agents turned our car upside-down looking for a receipt which would either incriminate or exonerate us. They spent about an hour at it. I got the feeling that they wouldn't have cared too much about the hash pipes. We probably could have had an bale of Mary-Jane in the trunk and that would have been okay by them. Especially if we could prove we'd picked it up in B.C.. The thing they were really upset about was the fact that we'd actually bought something in the States and were trying to cheat the Tories out of taxes on it. While we were waiting, I was tempted to ask them what would happen to us if, hypothetically speaking, of course, they happened to find a couple of old hash pipes with traces of the demon weed in them. But I didn't, and eventually, they grumpily let us go our way.

From there we drove off to Toronto, with a rather extended pause in a gas station in Webbwood to play pinball. We never did make it back to Nestor Falls to pick up Ken's pipes. As far as I know, they're still up there behind the letter "V".