Editor’s note: It has been awhile, but archives are in need of reconstructing so I offer this entry originally posted on April 12, 2003.
I’ve been thinking about my brother Jack a lot today. I haven’t seen him in almost two years, he’s in the United States Coast Guard, drives boats, rescues people, breaks ice, stops smugglers- he is a true hero. I was thinking that it’s high time I visited he and his wife but they are a few thousand miles away and I have to be back to work on Monday. After calling to say “hi” and getting only a metallic, nasal sounding, whiney, computer generated voice mail message, I remembered the last time I went to visit him and am now having second thoughts.
Having just returned from three years of hard, down and dirty, soldiering in the Republic of Korea, affectionately known as “the ROK,” I decided to take a little trip. I had been visiting my parents in Maine for a couple of weeks, and at twenty-eight years of age one’s parents can be just so much fun, so I thought of going out to Michigan to see my brother. Jack and I had become closer in recent years, not that we were ever very far apart, but growing up with only eighteen months separating us, we had our differences of opinion from time to time.
Korea had taken its toll on me. We worked hard and partied hard knowing that at any moment the Communist Hordes could come across the line and be in our backyard before the alarm went off. I flew an unprecedented 350+ hours my last year on the ROK and most of them were between midnight and dawn. I was on the verge of burnout. A cross-country drive would do me some good. I was in no hurry as I still had almost three weeks before I had to report in at my next duty station; Italy.
Taking my Jeep out of dad’s garage, I did all of the pre-roadtrip checks ensuring that I didn’t get stranded someplace. As I was changing the oil, it occurred to me that I might want to drive through Canada on my way, as a chance to see a different country, have some new experiences. I rationalized my idea by remembering that mom did not yet have a souvenir spoon from our neighbor to the north and I could stop and get one for her. The decision made, I got out the maps and went down to the bookstore to purchase an English-Canadian dictionary. Boy, was I embarrassed.
I awoke from a deep slumber to the blaring of an alarm some idiot had set for 4am, momentarily thinking, “its just my brother, I can see him in a couple of years when I come home from Italy.” After forcing myself into the shower, and gulping down a hot cup of java, I was ready to hit the road. Excitedly I drove off into the early morning darkness singing along with Neil Young on the radio; one of the few artists with whom I can get away collaborating; he and Bob Dylan.
A few hours into my trip across the very large and forested state of Maine, the sun began to climb above the horizon from somewhere behind me. I marveled at the changing of the sky from black to purple, then streaks of dark orange mixing in turning the purple to pink, next a brighter orange until daylight. There I was, alone on the road with nature and all of her splendors.
Arriving at the border of Canada, I was accosted by a none too trusting customs agent. He seemed to think that I was smuggling Americans across, presumably underneath some of the camping equipment I had packed just in case I decided to stop for the night along the 20-hour route. I felt like telling him that the Vietnam War ended some time ago and few Americans wanted to run away to Canada today. Instead I politely cooperated with the officer as he rifled questions at me concerning the 3-pack of condoms he discovered after dumping the contents of my shaving kit onto the hood of the Jeep. The Mountie was apparently determined to nail my ass (no pun intended). I waved as I drove away noticing in my rearview mirror that the prick had his hand on his revolver, staring at me as if I were on the FBI’s ten most wanted list. How I wished three or four people would’ve popped up from under all my crap, just to see the look on his face, and of course, to see if the gun was loaded.
Undaunted, I continued down the single lane highway breathing in the fresh northern air, filling my nostrils with its piney crispness. I thought, “life isn’t so bad after all.” I pulled into a diner for lunch and was surprised that Canadian diners were very similar to American ones, down to the middle-aged waitress wearing an all too revealing pink outfit, fish net stockings, black pumps, and bright red lipstick. She was even smacking her gum when she asked, “what’ll you have honey?” I leisurely ate my moose burger and sipped my beer when I suddenly became aware that Nancy, the waitress, was hawking me. I wondered if the customs cop had called ahead warning her of the contents of my shaving kit. Discretion being the better part of valor, I quickly swallowed the rest of my Molson Golden, paid the tab, and left a generous tip for Nancy. After all, she did call me honey.
Back on the road, heading west, I was soaking in the beauty of the autumn landscape when a woman on the side of the road frantically waving her arms snapped me out of my tree-hugging, nature-loving trance. I wondered what a pregnant woman would be doing standing alongside of this desolate road, miles from anything resembling civilization. Fighting the instinct to stop and render assistance, I kept driving and chastised myself the instant I passed her. She looked sad, desperate. Glancing in my rearview mirror I watched her grab her swollen belly and double over falling to the ground landing on her buttocks. This time the overwhelming urge to stop and help took over and I proceeded to turn around. I felt my heart race as I hurriedly returned to where she sat. Jumping out of the Jeep, I half expected her to pull a gun out from under her pillow stuffed dress saying, “you stupid motherfucker, give me your wallet and keys!”
My chivalrous half prevailed, however, and I asked her if she was all right. Slowly she lifted her head and looked at me with the most beautiful green eyes I had ever seen. “Yeah,” she said. “Could you give me a ride?” she asked. This time without thinking I said, “of course, come on” and helped her off the ground and into the Jeep. Climbing in myself I asked, “where to?” To which she responded, “next town please” and those green eyes seemed so sad…
Sgt Hook out.
Posted by Hook @ 0730 zulu | | Permalink
This post is filed under: Reconstructed
