Waving Not Drowning

Bob and Donna don't quite know what to make of her. She's not Christian which makes them nervous and wary. That's the first thing they ask her as they gather round the oak dining table for breakfast. Ella arrived unannounced with Casey late the night before. Casey was a troubled young man when they first met him at the week-long retreat. Filled with demons, broken and in need of healing. A tragedy, really. Bob and Donna felt it was their divine responsibility, nay right, to lead him back to Jesus Christ, their holy saviour. Donna took him aside two days in and told Casey he was cursed, his whole family were cursed and destined to live out a life of great suffering and punishments unless he accepted Jesus Christ as his personal Saviour and learned to atone for his many sins, sins he wasn't even aware he had committed but which were cast upon him by the shortcomings and failings of his family; godless, adulterous, thieving heathens. That's how curses work, she explain...

Kirk hops in the car, kicks it into first and drives it up onto the hoist. A older model, Japanese, efficient, functional. It's a class thing he's noticed, a certain demographic of drivers that religiously choose European and Japanese compacts over anything locally made. Brainwashing, in Kirk's opinion. Mass marketing by and for elitests who believe foreign is always better, no matter if the actual car is built and assembled in Hamilton. Kirk's the troubleshooting guy. Been fiddling with cars since he could crawl. Started driving at 8, sitting on phone books, bench seat cranked all the way forward as he peeked above the dash. Three on the tree, an old powder blue Ford pickup, screeching down dirt roads alongside the lake, county highways to the dunes where they'd drag race up and down the beach. Sand does some hardcore damage to engines hence the early learning curve. Fix it or get fixed, if you know what's good for you. Kirk never much cared for owning his own ...

There really is no other way but straight through. Paul could take a left but that would pull him so far off his chosen course that he'd end up hours behind. Days, maybe. The scenic route is awfully tempting though, especially since the alternative is mind numbingly flat and boring; at this rate stimulation is key. He's been nodding off for the last few hours and jolting himself awake with blaring satellite dance music, windows rolled wide open and copious amounts of glow in the dark energy drinks. Coffee stopped working back in the eastern standard time zone. Not much farther now; 400 kilometres to go then a final 20 or 25 winding through the downtown core proper. If he heads to the coastal highway, he'll add at least another hour. Tempting to pull off at the point, unhook his board and paddle out for a while. To the island even, camp for a night. Maybe never come back. Forage, make do. Build a shelter, light a fire, dig in. Disappear. Start over, once again. If you asked ...

In the pit of her stomach it sits, like a half baked potato, starchy and raw, undigested, heavy. Today's the day, she can feel it. A big ol' ball of anxiety has made her digestive tract it's home which can only mean one thing. Something bad is coming. Or something good. She can't differentiate anymore, all she knows is change is a comin'. Her life is like a bad country song, cheatin and lyin and boots a knockin with bad boys and pickup trucks with gun racks and bourbon mash and whiskey sours. From eastern seaboard Ivy League to middle of America; small town, red neck, Christian small c Conservative, lost somewhere between the Blue Mountains and Pensacola. After three days of riding, winding through $29 Dutch Inns, skirting hurricanes in the Carolinas, she turns her phone back on and waits. The apple appears, the circle spins, then she enters her passcode. Searching for a signal. She's in. Roaming for sure, eating up data she can 't begin to fathom how she...

It takes, what, about twelve hours to get to Tennessee from here? Yeah, I think that's right. That's what the google map says so I mean, there's going to be three of us driving right, so Jeremy says he's good to drive straight through but I think if we split it between the three of us with maybe two pee breaks for gas and snacks we'll be fine. I mean, provided everything goes as planned, no major foul ups or traffic disasters. I'm not a fan of the Long Island Expressway so any way we can avoid that will be just peachy. Plus, if we leave just after rush hour we should be clear of all the major congestion getting south of the city. I think that makes the most sense, no? Carmen stops to jam a few more sweet potato fries covered in spicy peanut sauce into her mouth and washes it down with a slug of her Blanche de Chambly. You can take the girl outta Montreal but she'll find her microbroue and poutine substitute where ever she goes. Carmen's never been south ...