ENROUTE TV   ENROUTE FM   MEDIA KIT   AIR CANADA   LINKS   WRITERS'   GUIDELINES	CBC LITERARY AWARDS Second Prize Travel Literature ALL WELCOME   (p. 3 of 3) 1   |   2   |   3   |   APR The Country Cafe is, apparently, the place to eat in Marathon. Yesterday the mechanic recommended it and this morning the motel owner recommended it. We’re already regulars. Same waitress serves us two days in a row. The van has broken down, and so far nobody has any idea what’s wrong with it. Napa Auto is just up the hill from the Country Cafe. The shy French-Canadian owner takes off his glasses and blinks a lot. You can tell he takes good care of his employees. When closing time arrives and they still haven’t figured out what’s wrong, he asks one of them to drive us up to the motel near the highway. The van’s running again by the noon the next day (though the heater’s still broken). One of the mechanics got on the internet on his own time at home and communicated with someone in Germany. Diagrams were downloaded and printed, a German-English dictionary tracked down and employed. The owner blinks and beams and shakes our hands, proud as a father over his employee’s initiative. Hard to say whether it’s desperation-induced illusion or attention-induced clarity, but grief can do this trick: for a time, whatever happens to happen becomes the service you needed. We’re ready to be home now so agree to just keep driving from here. Pulling onto the highway, we spot a hitch-hiker. Jeremy and I look at each other and nod. The kid’s name is John, grin hardy as a weed. We apologize for the lack of heat but he says, You kidding? He can’t believe his luck. A ride with good music. A ride where he can smoke. A ride at all. He keeps grinning and pushing his greasy hair out of his eyes. Slept outside last night. John knows exactly how may cops there are in Penticton. Got beat up once by bikers in Montreal – trying to sell pot for food money on a corner he didn’t own. He takes in everything, quick. Eyes checking how much gas the gauge acknowledges, checking out Jeremy’s video camera. I keep going back: You slept outside last night? You honestly slept outside? He shrugs. Couldn’t get a ride. Guy let me off at a gas station he said was 24 hours. Turned out it closed at ten. He shrugs again, points to the sleeping bag at his feet – a thin, ratty thing, broken zipper, cowboys and indians chasing each other across the matted flannel of the lining. He takes off his wet boots, says sorry if they stink. I look back. His socks have holes in them. The day being a bit warmer, it was no big deal, when he climbed in back, to tear down the plastic sheeting we’d had sealing in the front part of the van. I had a pang as we pulled it down – the bursting of our little bubble – but as we drive and chat with the irrepressible John it starts to feel right. Somewhere along the way the question, what are we doing here? has undergone a subtle shift. Its brittle tone of bewilderment and protest has surrendered to a deeper, fresher current, a stirred curiosity: what are we doing here? Low fog over the fields outside of Sault Ste. Marie. THIS IS INDIAN LAND spray-painted on a railway bridge by the highway. John lets out a low whistle, as if to say, Now there’s one wound bigger than my optimism. Then, on the other side of the highway a sign: Magic Show Tonight, 6pm at the Native Community Centre. All Welcome. Somewhere near Sudbury John says out of the blue, Sometimes I can hardly believe it, you know? I mean, holy shit – we’re alive. I keep having to stop myself from reaching back and mussing John’s hair. Instead, remembering his threadbare socks, I root in my back-pack for a pair of Dad’s and surprise myself by performing the death-defying feat of giving them away. Almost home now. Flawlessness and anticlimax mingle. As we turn off the highway onto our road Dylan’s harmonica veers against the grain, off-key, as if he were here with us and knew just what note to sound. [ ] Alayna Munce grew up in Huntsville, Ont. Her poetry and prose have appeared in various Canadian literary journals. She now lives in Toronto, where she is at work on her first novel. A student at Algonquin College, Cassie Janca is passionate about the environment. Among future projects, she will be painting a mural at the Children’s Hospital of Eastern Ontario. Jury Arjun Basu is the Editor-in-Chief of enRoute. Douglas Coupland’s most recent novel is Hey Nostradamus! Anna Porter is Publisher and CEO of Key Porter Books, and an author. ADD YOUR COMMENTS > letters@enroutemag.net 1   |   2   |   3   |   APR
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