In A Yellow El Camino

1981.

In Meaford, at the southern tip of Georgian Bay, Rory's mom had already bought him the long underwear for the oncoming cold season, though she hadn't given them to him yet. She knew he thought they were goofy and he'd rather be cold than feel goofy. Fourteen year old boys simply couldn't be reasoned with.

He was a bit of a scruffy looking kid -- thick, shaggy brown hair resting on his slight shoulders, a preference for ripped denim and shirts with crude phrases printed on them. He never fooled his mom, though; she knew what a little sweetheart he really was.

They had always maintained a close bond, the two of them. Ever since he was a toddler, Rory had always loved when his mom read to him; House At Pooh Corner was an early favourite and as he matured, so did the tales. She often told him stories and philosophies that were dear to her own heart, like the works of Kerouac and Thoreau. She was passionate about anything that depicted freedom, adventure, and the boundless power of nature -- true escapism. She loved to get Rory to watch documentaries with her about the hippie culture in California during the late 1960s.

She often fantasized about that time and place. Her romantic notions were entirely inaccurate but she pictured it in just the way she wanted. California is the place where seasons never change, she'd say, and because she so wanted to believe that such a paradise existed somewhere right here on Earth, Rory did, too.

She had a tough time this past year or two trying to coax him into admitting anything sentimental, but his deep adoration for her shone in his friendly blue eyes. The more he tried to hide it, the more she teased him. She'd be relentless until he finally had to say something "goofy.” just so she'd leave him alone.

Her baby was growing up. She loved that fact and also despised it. She glanced over at him, sitting at the edge of the couch, with Lauren's leg wrapped over his own. Lauren. The tramp who was stealing her little boy. She sighed silently, guilty at thinking anything so hurtful about the girl. Lauren really was a sweet little thing, and she was happy for Rory for having found her, she really was, even if she couldn't help being a jealous mom. He had young love and he had his whole life ahead of him. Just started high school and with a world of wonders and adventures awaiting him down life's highway.

*

Rory couldn't recall a time when he and his mom hadn't watched Jeopardy! together. Every weeknight at 7:30, when it was practical, they'd converge on the living room couch and wage a friendly battle of wits. There was always a notepad nearby to keep score. He knew his mom used to let him win when he was younger, but he was pretty sure that when he beat her these days, he'd done so on his own merits. Sometimes, anyway.

The ritual was such a strong part of the closeness they shared. Though, now, with Lauren draped over him, they both knew it would never be quite the same. Not really. Rory felt a little sorry for his mom -- for him bringing this interloper into their sacred circle but what could he do? He and Lauren simply knew they were soul mates and their love couldn't be challenged by any force in the world. Not even Mom.

Still, the mood was light and the laughs were warm and genuine between the three of them. His mom would just need some time to get used to the new arrangement, that's all.

   ".. . and though it won't be winter for quite a while down the road,” the TV weatherman was saying,

"a serious chill is setting in tonight, just as autumn arrives, and you just might want to dig out that old comforter you tucked away in May. Do you remember where you put it?” he said with the phoniest of smiles. He had the sort of face you'd never get tired of kicking, Rory's mom had joked and Lauren burst out laughing -- a laugh that included an embarrassing little snort that got all three of them going.

   "So that's the deal here at Channel 4's Action Weather Update,” he continued, "come on back at ten for a full analysis of the day's conditions and our long range forecast. Now hang around, Alex Trebek is up next with Jeopardy!”

   " . . and Rory's gonna get his ass kicked!” his mom added.

   "Oh, Rory doesn't think so!” He turned to his girlfriend. "Any chance the old broad here could beat me, Lauren?” Before Lauren could answer, he found a cushion had been flopped into the side of his head. He grabbed it and threw it back at his mom, who knew it was coming and easily avoided it, laughing.

 "Just for that, I'm not gonna even let you get close to winning! It's gonna be a merciless slaughter! I'm sorry, Mom, but you brought this on yourself,” Rory said.

 "We'll see, Sunshine. I was going to try not to embarrass you in front of Lauren but, well, an old broad's gotta do what an old broad's gotta do.”

Rory unburied himself from beneath Lauren to get the scorecard just as the headlights cast their long glare across the living room ceiling, creating ominous shadows creeping over their heads. The dark images of the simple lamps and ornaments slowly reaching, looming forebodingly across the room's expanse and swallowing whole the sense of fun and play.

The gravel crunched harshly in the driveway under the weight of the heavy duty Dodge Ram. Lauren felt the sudden change in atmosphere but didn't know what it meant. Rory's face turned very sombre and his mom sighed audibly.

 "I didn't think he'd be home till after last call. He must have something on his mind,” she said almost despondently. Rory didn't answer her, instead turning to Lauren.

   "Come on, let's go watch TV in the basement.”

   "Uh, okay, but what about the Great Jeopardy Challenge?”

   "We'll watch it tomorrow night, Sweetie,” his mom answered for him. Rory took Lauren's hand and lead her to the stairs and down, after shutting the door behind him. He didn't look back at his Mom first. He knew just what her face would look like, and it wasn't an image he preferred to keep fresh in his mind.

   "What's going on, Ror' -is that your Dad?” Lauren asked as she sat herself awkwardly on the old worn out sofa.

   "Yeah. My Dad. There's a reason why you haven't met him yet.”

   "Why's that?”

   "Look, don't worry about it. You wanna watch something? This TV down here sucks big time but it still works.”

   "What about Jeopardy?”

   "I don't feel like it. Isn't that goofy show you like on now, that one with Schneider the handyman and the cute chick in it?”

   "I'm not sure what one you mean. . . One Day At A Time? That's on now. You think Valerie Bertenelli's cute?” she asked, a little defensively.

   "I -”

The front door slammed. Murmurs were heard from upstairs. A deep masculine voice grew steadily louder. The words couldn't be made out, but it was clear enough that they weren't pleasant ones. Rory sat down beside Lauren and held her hand. He thought he did it to comfort her, but soon realised it was he who needed comforting. They both stared non-committally at an annoying TV advertisement for denture cream.

A sudden bang, and a smash shook the lighting fixtures and a little stucco dust sprinkled down from the ceiling. Rory closed his eyes and squeezed Lauren's hand tighter.

   "Ye cunt, ye!” It was as crisp and bitter as mid-winter. Lauren froze, having never before been witness to such a frightening outburst. Rory's mom could be heard trying to explain something but the boy knew it was hopeless. Nothing she could say or do could convince his dad of anything when he got to this point. There was no turning back now, either. Once he used that word, Rory knew it was going to be an even worse night than usual because his dad saved that most vile of derogatory terms only for the most special occasions.

Both the drunken slurs and defensive pleas became louder and more agitated. The kids heard another tremendous smash, this time followed by his mom's painful scream. She began crying and yelling and begging her husband to stop, explaining that Rory had his girlfriend downstairs.

   "Rory,” Lauren's voice was quivering, the fear in her growing with every syllable uttered, "please, take me home. I don't wanna be here anymore.” Rory's mom screamed again in obvious pain and terror.

No longer able to contain what was welling up inside him, the boy suddenly let out a yell like a Maori warrior heading into battle. He jumped off the couch and ran into the adjoining workroom, re-emerging seconds later with a long, thick Phillips screwdriver gripped firmly in his right hand. He ran up the stairs two at a time and Lauren's desperate pleas for him not to go up there was merely a vague background noise. She began to sob uncontrollably.

Rory swung the door open to see his mom crawling across the living room floor, blood dripping from her mouth, one arm balancing herself and the other in a defensive posture over her head. She heard Rory coming and turned toward him.

   "Get back downstairs!” she screamed, as a swift, hard workboot connected with her side, quite possibly cracking a rib or two. A horrible, low, guttural sound escaped her then as the impact of the blow sent her reeling into the wall. Her face was already starting to swell. That effect, along with her bloody mouth and wide, terrified eyes, gave her a grotesque appearance and she appeared not at all to be the same woman who playfully threw a pillow at her son just minutes earlier, not in any sense. Now she was just a frightened, cornered animal at the mercy of her psychotic and brutal master.

 

   "You fucking bastard!” Rory screamed at his father as he turned to face him, the screwdriver now held high and back like a javelin. "Touch her one more time and I'll fucking kill you, you son of a bitch!”

His dad was slightly taken aback by this uncharacteristic display of nobility and bravery and he sobered for a moment, before regaining his sense of purpose.

   "What's that, son - one more time you say?” his dad sneered and kicked his mom square in the jaw. She grunted grotesquely, spitting blood as she did so.

Rory charged at his father then, seething, filled with such a passionate hatred that it surprised and overwhelmed the boy. Screwdriver at the ready, he lunged, but stumbled against the overturned coffee table and momentarily lost his balance. His dad, a seasoned barroom brawler, instinctively took advantage of this small window of opportunity, and effortlessly disarmed the boy with one hand, using his other to backhand Rory and sent him careening across the room.

Rory regained his senses in time to see his dad coming straight at him with the screwdriver -- a look of what could only be described as sheer delight in the man's mad eyes. His mom uttered a blood curdling, piercing scream from her place in the corner. Rory raised his arms to protect himself but his dad, perhaps reacting to his wife's screams, suddenly stopped, and hurled the tool into the wall where it penetrated the drywall, and remained lodged there. He instead started mercilessly beating his son about the head and torso with kicks and punches. His eyes shone with pleasure and excitement as he pounded the youth, mocking and chiding him as his fists and legs continued in a flurry of assaults.

The boy didn't stand a chance. His dad was at least five inches taller, a hundred pounds heavier, and completely crazed. When his mom managed to throw an ornament in her husband's direction, it distracted the man long enough for Rory to scamper away and rush back to the basement, but not before he saw his father's face drop as the slightest degree of clarity began to sink in to him.

Lauren was hysterical, whimpering and clutching a pillow to her chest as if it might somehow protect her from the horror she'd been hearing.

   "Come on,” Rory said, "I'll take you home now.” He tried to sound brave, blood dripping from his nose.

   "Oh my God, Rory. What about your Mom?”

   "It's okay. I distracted him long enough that he won't hit her again. Not tonight. Now my Mom will get my aunt to take her to the hospital, make up some bullshit excuse that the doctor will pretend to believe so he won't have to get involved, and my uncle will come over and stay with my dad, keeping him occupied until he passes out. That's the routine.”

As they walked the few blocks to her place, Rory was unable to say anything that could explain what had happened, and Lauren was lost as to what she might ask. They walked, therefore, mostly in silence. When he noticed her shivering slightly, he placed his jacket over her shoulders. She uttered a meek thank you, and then the silence continued. When they got to her door, he felt too bashful to kiss her so she took the lead, kissing him softly on the lips, then deeper, more passionately. They said

goodnight. Rory walked around aimlessly for a half hour, then went home to find his dad, thankfully, snoring like a lion.

His mom was wearing sunglasses in the kitchen as she made lunch the next day, trying not to cringe too much at her pain. She didn't want her husband to think she was looking for sympathy. He didn't like that sort of thing. By evening, his dad had brought her home a gift card for her favourite boutique, and was cracking jokes, content that the event was in the past. She laughed at his attempts at humour, afraid not to, but had already begun to forgive him, as much as she was able. She knew this was far from paradise but was equally certain that she couldn't provide Rory with the things he needed if she were a single mother.

*

 "You see, son, it's like this,” Rory's dad was calmly explaining. "When I was a little younger than you are now, I swore nobody would ever -- ever -- get away with calling me a bastard.”

It took Rory a few moments to comprehend what was going on, and what was being said. He'd been sleeping, then he'd been jolted awake by having his head lifted savagely from his pillow by the hair. He tried to arrange himself by supporting his weight with his arm, to save his hair from being pulled out by the roots. His dad continued.

   "And nobody ever has. Now, you might've called me some other names instead and I just might've been able to forgive you. Maybe. But not that. Not bastard. What your grandmother did years ago is none of your fucking business.” His controlled calmness slipped when he mentioned his mother's past. Rory hadn't the slightest idea what he was rambling about. He just knew his scalp hurt terribly and that this was a shitty way to start a day.

   "Now,” his dad went on after a deep breath to regain his composure, and pointing to the garments thrown on a chair across the room, "there's your shit. Get it on and get out. If I ever see you hovering around this house or even this street ever again, I'll kill you. Understand?” Rory blinked, and his dad maneuvered his hair-filled fist back and forth to make the boy appear to be nodding. Humiliation was one of the man's greatest sources of self-amusement and he was a master of the art. He knew that the affliction of mental, emotional pain could penetrate so much deeper and leave uglier, more enduring scars than any mere physical abuse could. And he reveled in its application.

   "Very good. Actually, I won't kill you, come to think of it. I'll kill your cunt of a mother and you'll watch me do it. Yeah, that's better. That's a solid plan, isn't it?” Again the infuriating, degrading forced nod. It was sinking in now. Rory looked into his father's eyes and had absolutely no doubt the man was in earnest. He'd never before been this crazy while sober. This was serious shit. When his dad released his grip on his hair, Rory got out of bed, wearing track pants and a thin loose pullover. He put on the socks and jacket his father had ready for him. He didn't notice the new thermals his mom had left atop his dresser the previous evening.

As Rory fiddled with the jacket's zipper, his father lit a smoke and contemplated the situation. He couldn't quite shake the feeling that he hadn't done all he could to hurt his son enough before he headed out. Not enough to make up for calling him a bastard. He decided to add a few last words in hopes of achieving some long-lasting impact.

   "Before you go, son, I'd like to give you some fatherly advice.” A slight crooked smile couldn't quite be hidden as he spoke. "Wherever you go, whatever you do, it's so important that you understand one thing above all -- that nothing you could ever say or do will ever make a difference to anyone ever. I'm afraid you're quite stupid, son. An idiot, in fact. You're a tiny insignificant speck of nothing in the universe. You couldn't matter less if you'd never existed. You understand that, son? You're nothing.” He now managed to conceal his glee as he tried hard to put on his most sincere Ward Cleaver face. "That's from me to you. As long as you remember that, son, you just might have a chance at getting by.” His dad snuffed out the cigarette on the bedside table and walked out.

Rory put on his sneakers and left. He yearned to say goodbye to his mom, but knew it wasn't an option. His dad, knowing how painful that would be for them both, had been quite specific about what would happen to his mom if he even tried to speak to her. Rory wondered how she'd react when she woke up and discovered he was gone. He almost choked up at that point but there wasn't time for goofy stuff like that. He had to think. It was just after six and the sun wouldn't even be up for another hour. The weatherman had been right about the chill, only he might've underestimated it a bit; it was fucking freezing. He walked aimlessly towards downtown. There was nobody around when he got there. What did you expect, ya dumb fuck? he thought to himself.

It seemed like forever but he'd finally killed off an hour of walking and thinking. He knew Lauren would be getting up by now. He headed over to her place, thankful for finally having a purpose, a direction in which to turn. He didn't know what he'd accomplish there but at least he might get someone to talk to, and maybe some warm breakfast thrown in.

Lauren's father answered the door and looked curiously at the disheveled youth.

   "It's 7 am, Rory.”

   "I know, sorry. Um, is Lauren up yet?”

   "No, she's not. She'll see you at school. Goodbye,” he said, and abruptly shut the door. Rory turned away slowly, disappointed but not too surprised, really.

As he made his way to the sidewalk he heard a soft voice call his name. He turned to see Lauren standing in the doorway. She was like an angel -- a warm, comforting, beautiful angel. His sense of hope returned as he approached her but it soon dissipated when he looked into her sad hazel eyes.

   "My dad says we can't see each other anymore.” she spoke apologetically.

   "Because of my old man?”

   "Yeah, he doesn't want me involved with a family like that, he says. He says it's not you personally.”

   "So I shouldn't take it personally, huh?” She remained silent. "And are you gonna listen to him?”

   "He's my Dad, Rory. I have to listen to him.” Now Rory maintained the silence as he looked at her. She began to cry.

   "I'm sorry, Rory. I'll talk to ya later, okay? Bye.”

When Rory turned away this time, he knew he wouldn't be called back. He heard Lauren gently shutting the door and a feeling came over him that he couldn't quite grasp. It was a funny feeling, kind of inside, and all over. Not quite nausea or... or what? He didn't know. Maybe something to do with the weather. Old people were always saying a change in seasons brought about various ailments. That's probably all it was.

Rory was once again faced with the challenge of trying to find a reason to head in a particular direction. When he caught himself anticipating the start of the school day, he realised he couldn't go, not in track pants and stuff. Besides, were kids without homes even allowed to go to school?

And then it hit him: No home, no school, nothing to do and nowhere to go... He had found freedom! Sweet, unadulterated freedom. A sense of awe overwhelmed him as he thought about not having restrictions of any kind opposed on him. No expectations, no fuck all. What an amazing thing just happened, he thought, and it became even more incredible with the next thought in the process. That is, that he could go to California, the place where the seasons never change. Who could tell him he can't? What could stop him?

Rory totally forgot about the crisp early autumn breeze that was penetrating his thin layer of clothing. Dreams of eternal warmth and adventure enveloped him. He fantasized about returning home in a few years with all sorts of amazing stories about paradise with which his mom would assuredly be enchanted. His young mind was racing as he tried to plan his trek amid childish notions of being an intrepid ramblin' man. A Jack Kerouac for the 21st century. Mom would be so proud.

*

He stopped at the Mac's Milk heading out of town to the west, where he bought a provincial road map, a Pepsi, and a pack of M&Ms. He had considered stealing them when the cashier had her back turned, since money was so tight, but it didn't feel like it was the right thing to do. He was broke now, after the purchase, but didn't that just make the adventure all the more exciting and poetic? He continued to walk west until Sykes Street became Highway 26. When he reached the point where houses stopped lining the side of the street, he stuck out his thumb as he'd seen in so many road movies.

First leg would be the short distance to Owen Sound where he could take #6 south to Durham, then 4 to London where the expressway would take him the rest of the way to the border dividing Ontario and Michigan. How to get to California from Michigan, he had no idea. He could worry about that later. His chosen route may not have been one opted by a seasoned traveler, but to young Rory, it seemed like the way to go.

At first he was a bit surprised at how many cars passed him by. Sometimes men would slow down and look at him as if anticipating a signal from him. Rory had no clue what that could mean. Others would avert their eyes as they sped past. He got used to it, though, after an hour or two. He was then very surprised when someone actually stopped. His first ride. He ran up to the well-maintained early-seventies yellow El Camino and opened the passenger door.

   "Hop in, honey,” said a very pretty blonde lady about 25 years of age. Rory couldn't believe his luck. He jumped in, shyly mumbling his thanks as he closed the door. The car smelled of perfume, marijuana, and something he couldn't quite interpret. Grace Slick blared from the Kenwood deck and... Rory tried very hard to keep his eyes from the woman's short leather skirt and gorgeous long legs.

   "Where ya headin', babe?” she asked pleasantly.

   "Uh, San Francisco.” She burst out laughing. That's not what she was expecting.

   "San Fran fuckin' cisco? Honey, I can get ya as far as Owen Sound, about twenty-five clicks up here.”

   "Yeah, that's okay. Ya gotta start somewhere, right?”

   "That you do. Everybody's gotta start some place.”

   "You from Owen Sound?” he asked shyly.

   "No, no. I got a gig there for the next six weeks. I'm from down Hamilton way.”

   "You sing in a band?”

   "Dancer, baby. I dance in the clubs. Owen Sound's just a stop on the circuit. They like to rotate us like crops. So the prestigious establishments don't get stale.”

   "Oh, okay.”

Rory found himself imagining her naked on stage, dancing to Grace Slick: When the garden flowers Baby, are dead, yes And your mind, your mind Is so full of red... He quickly tried to switch focus and, unfortunately, found himself staring at her thighs again. She caught him and he began to blush. She gave him an amused smile and he wasn't sure if that made things better or not.

   "So what's in San Francisco?” she asked, to help him feel less uncomfortable.

   "I don't know. Warm weather. Freedom?”

   "Well, I guess it's probably warm, but freedom's a state of mind, baby. It ain't a place.”

Rory shrugged, uncertain of her meaning.

   "Look at me,” she continued, and Rory, trying his best not to, looked at her legs again. "I've got it all right here. It's like an aura all around me. My car, my smoke, my music, my mind set. I know who I am. I know what I like and what I need. And I know where this old car is taking me. Five years from now, I'll own my own nightclub. Ain't no limits on me, kiddo. No limits.”

   "It's somewhere to go anyway -- San Francisco,” Rory responded, uncertain how else to reply.

They were silent for a good while. At one point, the woman found a reasonably-sized roach in the ashtray and sparked it up. She offered Rory a puff but he refused. He had considered it, but he didn't want to cough and look goofy in front of such a classy lady.

When he explained his intended route to her, she went out of her way to drop him at the southern city limits of Owen Sound to help make it easier for him to get another ride. He thanked her several times and as he was exiting the car, she handed him a half pack of smokes.

   "These'll help keep you warm later, honey.” He thanked her again and she was gone with a cute little smile and a matching wave.

If she's any indication of what's ahead for me, Rory thought, this is going to be one damn fun time. He pulled his jacket around himself tighter as the sun slid behind a cloud and the wind picked up. He wished he'd thought of wearing warmer clothes.

He lost track of how far he'd walked, or for how long before a GMC pickup stopped for him. The driver was an amiable elderly man with the green John Deere ball cap that was apparently mandatory headwear for all rural seniors everywhere. He really just wanted someone to talk to. Not that he had anything to say, from Rory's perspective. Just weather, weather, and more weather. Rory was grateful for the ride, though, and engaged him politely.

   "It's funny,” the old guy was saying, "when you're a kid, summer lasts forever, but when you end up an old fart like me? It's just bam, bam, bam. One season after another, just like lightning. You'd think I'd get used to it, but every year's even shorter than the one before so it keeps being astounding. I bet your summer lasted for damn near eternity, didn't it?”

 "Lots of stuff happened, yeah. It was a good summer.” He thought of Lauren.

 "Damn seasons. I don't know why they're always in such a bloody hurry.”

The old man dropped him off in Durham, and three or four more relatively uneventful rides brought him just about twenty kilometres north of London. The deserted country intersection where he was dropped provided the quickest route to the south end of town where he needed to get, he was told, and so that lonely corner became his home for about two progressively chilly hours. He didn't feel like walking anymore. The roadside elms were starting to cast long shadows as the afternoon faded. At least there was an old streetlight there and Rory decided he might as well stay put rather than ending up on a dark patch of road as twilight eased into the night.

Standing there at the crossroads his first doubts began to set in. Maybe he'd be better off heading back, telling his mom what happened, and the two of them could take off together. But, he heard himself argue back, his dad would probably track them down and then there'd be no possible way out. They were trapped in the situation his father had created and lorded over. Onward was the only option, he decided. He smoked a few cigarettes in an attempt to get warm, and wondered if the stripper really knew what the hell she was talking about. It only exacerbated that funny feeling he got when Lauren broke up with him. Maybe that thing she said about freedom was bogus, too. . . whatever it was she said.

When the blue Honda pulled over, Rory was ecstatic. It was heat. It was company. It was a place to sit down. The young man good-naturedly introduced himself as Jake, and shook Rory's hand before they headed off.

   "So off to London, are ya, Rory?”

   "Just passing through,” he offered without going into detail. The conversation jumped all over the place and Rory was really enjoying talking to an older guy who treated him like an equal rather than just a kid. Jake was a pretty cool dude.

   "Yeah, good place to pass through, that's for damn sure. You wouldn't wanna get stuck there,” Jake warned.

   "How come?”

   "Fags, man. They're everywhere. The whole town's infested with them. It's fuckin' crazy.”

   "Well, I won't be around long enough to run into any of 'em,” Rory laughed. "I got no reason to stop there at all, Jake. I just wanna get to the south side and hop on the 402 towards Sarnia.”

   "Yeah, especially Victoria Park. That's like the focal point. The god damn hive. What they do, they all hang out in the park there, right? And at the curbs waiting for cars to come by and pick 'em up. Fuckin' sick shit, man.”

   "So are ya heading near a freeway ramp in London where I can jump?” Rory asked.

   "Uh, sure, sure, I can take you to a ramp. There's a few of them in town. There's one just near Victoria Park. But don't worry, we can drive through that area fast!” They both laughed. But when they got there, Jake didn't drive fast at all.

   "Here, I'll show you what I was talking about,” Jake said, slowing to a crawl. "See! Right there!” he pointed to a bench were a teen was performing fellatio on a man. "See? Right out in the open!”

Rory was starting to get it.

   "Listen, man, I'll just bail here. The 401's just back at the lights and left, right?”

   "No, it's.. hey, I'll take ya, like I said. I was just showing you what I meant about this place. I wonder why they do that? Ya know? Have you ever thought about something like that?”

   "Like what?” was all Rory could come up with but he already knew the answer.

   "Suckin' a guy off.”

   "No.”

   "What about someone doing it to you?”

   "Sure I've thought about it. Of course I have! Hell, I spent all summer trying to talk my girlfriend into it. But all I got was a hand job. But twice, though. Two hand jobs. Well, one and a half, really.” He laughed nervously. Jake laughed, too.

   "Well, listen, Rory, we're already at the right place, ya know? Do you think you might wanna give it a try? On me, I mean?”

   "That's okay, Jake. I'm not into that, man.”

   "Well, I'll give you one, then. It's just as good as a girl doing it for you. You can pretend it's your girlfriend.”

   "We broke up today,” Rory recalled sadly.

   "Sorry, dude. That bites. All the more reason to, you know, get yourself relieved a bit.”

   "I don't think so, Jake.”

   "I mean, not for nothing; I'll give you $20.”
Rory suddenly realised he was famished. That money would come in real handy...

   "N-no, Jake. Stop and let me out please.”

   "Whoa, it's okay, man. Don't worry about it. C'mon, I'll take you to the on-ramp. Sorry I made you uncomfortable, bro.” He did as promised and Rory was never so relieved to be out in the cold. Jake tore off back in the direction of Victoria Park.

There was frost on the ground. Rory found himself wondering if he should've considered taking the money from Jake. Maybe it is just like getting it from a girl. Would that be so bad? Jesus, yes! He admonished himself for having let his mind roam in that direction. Shit, he thought, this is going to be one cold mother of a night. And there was that funny feeling again. He wished he knew what it was. Getting sick was the last friggin’thing he needed out here.

Luckily, it didn't take him long to get another ride. The middle aged man was completely drunk. He promised Rory if he drove the car for him down to Chatham, he'd put him up for the night. That sounded all too fair to Rory and he complied. The guy managed to get the car to a quiet, slower road, gave Rory directions and let the kid take over. The man was too drunk to notice what a horrible driver Rory was, and dozed blissfully unaware in the passenger seat. When they got to his house, the man's wife, after yelling at her husband for awhile, fixed Rory some very welcomed dinner, and set him up on the couch with a down-filled comforter. He was out very quickly.

He finally made it to the border separating Sarnia and Port Huron, Michigan late the next morning. He was a bit nervous crossing but the Canadian border guards just let him right on through. That's it, he thought, I'm in. Freedom, here I come! The Americans, however, weren't comfortable with someone so young walking into their country with no luggage or anything else. He was afraid what they might do to him but they merely sent him back.

He was so disappointed and he didn't know what to do next. He was walking with his head down, contemplated his fate and was caught entirely off guard when the Canadians hauled him and interrogated him for an hour and a half.

   "Why were you leaving the country?”

   "I was just going to visit my sister and her husband.”

   "Where do they live?”

   "Port Huron.”

   "What address?”

   "Uh, 118 Maple Street.” He figured every town had a Maple Street, didn't it?

   "Phone number?”

   "Getting installed today. They just moved in. They were only married last week and my sister just moved there with him.” He was getting into the swing of things now, but since nothing could be confirmed or disproved, they eventually just told him to go home.

Home. He wondered what that was as he wandered away from the border crossing. What now? No paradise, no eternal sunshine, no every-season-is-summer. He resolutely decided he wasn't going to let some civil servants keep him from the land of milk and honey. He'd just go to the other border -- the one between Windsor and Detroit. They can't trap him here forever.

Following the secondary highways, he made his way to Windsor. He tried to get someone to bring him across in a car, saying he was their son, but nobody would go for it. He got rejected again. Another dead end on the road to escape. It pissed him off that Jack Kerouac never had to go through this shit. Next stop: Niagara Falls. Sure it was hours away but so what? Freedom was worth fighting for.

But it was late. Traffic would be slow and he damn well didn't want to be out there tonight. It was even colder than the night before. He walked for a good long while looking for a place to sleep. He found a row of low-rent apartments and tried their front doors until he found one that was open and offered an area to lie down. He wouldn't be seen, hopefully, under the stairwell, he figured, and it was better than being outside. He had found a long brick out front of the building, that he could use as a pillow, and tried to get comfortable. He removed his jacket to stop his ears from scratching on the brick but soon found himself freezing so he covered himself with it again. He went back and forth this way many times before the dawn gratefully arrived.

Something else he did during the night, for reasons he couldn't fathom, was masturbate. He wasn't thinking of Lauren, or even the chick in the yellow El Camino, he wasn't horny, and he was damn uncomfortable. He thought it should've been the last thing on his mind. Yet there it was. The Need. He decided it must be some primitive instinct to create body heat. Yeah, that must've been it. He was out of cigarettes.

Before heading to the highway for the long trek to Niagara, he hit a local convenience store and helped himself to several packs of luncheon meat. He put some down his pants and stashed the rest inside his jacket. He'd never stolen anything before, but hunger was a powerful swayer of morality.

   "Are you going to pay for that?” asked the girl behind the counter as he was heading out.

   "For what?”

   "For that bologna you took?” She wasn't any more comfortable with the situation than he was.

   "Uh, to which bologna would you be referring?”

   "That'd be the bologna you tucked into your jacket.”

   "Oh, that bologna. No, I guess not. I'm kinda broke.”

   "Then I suggest you put it back where you got it.”

   "Okay, sorry.” He threw it back towards the cooler but deliberately landed it a bit short of the target. As the girl went to replace it properly, Rory grabbed a few packs of smokes from the counter display and took off. After pulling the rest of the sandwich meat from his pants, he had his makeshift breakfast on the way back to the 401.

A white, late model Sedan DeVille glided smoothly to a stop about ten meters past the spot where Rory stood. This was going to be sweet, he thought, as he ran up and hopped in. The jovial, spectacled, fiftyish, somewhat obese man at the wheel had to be a banker. If not, he was doing a remarkable impression of one.

   "Where ya headed, son?” His voice was as smooth as his vehicle and it evoked an aura of safety and security, like a real father, like one Rory had yearned for since forever. The car slid effortlessly into gear and they were off.

   "Niagara.”

   "Well, I can get you as far as London. That's nearly half the way, anyway.”

   "Great.” Yeah, great. Back to Fag Town again.

   "So what's waiting for you there?”

   "In The Falls? Nothing really. I'm just going to go to Buffalo actually, to check it out.”

Ever since the stripper had laughed at him for saying he was going to California, he didn't bother mentioning it much anymore. What was it she had said about freedom? He tried again to recall her words. Something about... nothing left to lose? No, that was from one of his mom's old records. It was something like... no, he just couldn't remember.

   "Jesus, kid, you must be bored. Nobody goes to Buffalo unless they have to.” Some sort of classical music was emanating from about a hundred speakers, the sound seemingly everywhere at once, enveloping the whole cab. As if he anticipated Rory's unspoken desire, he hit a button and Pink Floyd invaded the space instead. Odd that he'd have a rock station on preset, he thought, but what a merciful change it was. He was sure the old guy couldn't stand this stuff, so he was grateful to him for putting up with it.

   "A kid like you could do okay for yourself in my line of work, ya know,” the man stated after a few minutes without any forewarning. Rory wondered how that was possible. He'd just barely begun his first accounting course, and now that was never going to be completed.

   "Doing what?”

   "I run a few clubs up and down the corridor here. Sometimes we get male strippers to come in and entertain the ladies. You know, Chippendale types.”

   "I think I'm too young to be a male stripper,” Rory giggled. The man laughed.

   "You're probably right. But the thing is, after the show, those ladies from the audience are all worked up and bothered and all, and they like to relieve a little stress before they go home, if you know what I mean.”

   "Not really, no.”

   "There's rooms upstairs. Guys stay in them, and help out the girls, who pay handsomely for the privilege.”

   "Oh yeah.”

   "Well, those guys get a good chunk of that change, and they get free room and board. Meals, too, usually. They do quite alright for themselves.”

   "Wow, sign me up!” Rory joked.

   "How much would you expect?”

   "You're not serious.”

   "Serious as all hell, kid.”

   "Ha! A hundred bucks a week.”

   "How 'bout a hundred a night?”

   "You're gonna gimme a hundred dollars every night, and rent, and food, to have sex with women?” Rory was incredulous.

   "Crazy, huh? It's a funny world, son. Money's everywhere for the taking if you know where to look.” The conversation continued like this for a half hour or more, with more and more amazing details about the job, and the perks that went with it. Maybe California wasn't the place to be after all. What could possibly be better than this?

They pulled into a pit stop McDonald's and the man bought Rory some lunch. They stayed in the parking lot to eat and talk more about this business opportunity, as the man put it.

   "Man, I swear I won't let you down. I never dreamed I could get a job like this, so you can bet I won't do anything to mess it up,” Rory promised sincerely.

   "That's great, kid. And you know what? I believe you. I can see the integrity in your face. You've got what it takes.”

   "Cool.”

   "Okay, let's check out the merchandise, my man.”

   "How do you mean?”

   "I'm a businessman, kid. I don't buy nothin' without making damn sure I'm getting the goods. I'm sure you can understand that, a smart kid like you.”

   "Well, yeah, I guess. But. . . what do you mean, exactly?”

   "I mean let's see it! If I'm going to charge women to play with it, I gotta be sure it's worth playing with. Pull it out, kid!”

Rory was a little stunned but it made sense, he guessed, from a business perspective. He wasn't going to let this opportunity slip by. Not a smart kid like him. Slowly he began undoing his fly, in an almost surreal state of mind. He couldn't believe he was doing this, but like the guy said, it was just business. He reached into his pants and pulled out his penis, letting it lay in his hand as the man looked over. His reaction was muted and Rory wasn't sure what to think.

   "Well,” the man began, "I guess...” He moved a little closer to Rory. "It's kind of... ”

Closer.

   "Maybe if... ” He reached over and took it in his own pudgy, sweaty hand. "Maybe if it was. . . ” He began massaging it gently. Rory went numb. He looked out the window, intent on thinking about anything other than what was happening to him, to see a few maple leaves drifting down toward the cold hard pavement. God, it's not time already, is it?

The man still hemmed and hawed, apparently uncertain if the product was worth the expense. He continued to handle the merchandise and Rory became horrified to find he was getting an erection.

   "Yeah, I think... ” the man continued, and bent over and wrapped his wet rubbery lips over the tip of Rory's penis, his tongue creeping out and slithering down and around the shaft. Rory closed his eyes tightly. He thought how much he missed his mom. God, how he missed her right now. He began to tremble slightly, then quietly cried as that mysterious funny feeling completely overwhelmed his young senses. The car was warm, so maybe that feeling wasn't about the weather after all. As Rory was tucking himself back in, the man sat up and hit the steering wheel.

   "Shit,” he said, "I gotta meet a guy back there in Chatham. I forgot all about it. I guess this is as far as I can take ya, kid. Damn. That's what happens when you get old. Don't ever grow up, kid.” A short awkward silence followed until the man felt compelled to speak again. "Yeah, so, you shouldn't have a hard time getting a ride from here. Coming out of the pit stop, there's lots of guys going slow and don't mind stopping.  Okay, so, uh, take care of yourself, eh?”

   "Well, but what about the job?”

   "Job?”

   "In the club, with the women and all.”
The man sighed. "Listen, kid. Look me up in a couple of years. I think maybe you're still a bit too green for the life. You'll be great in a few years, though, I guarantee it. Okay? Now, I really gotta run or this guy I'm seeing is gonna have my nuts in a sling. Everybody serves somebody, know what I mean?” Rory didn't but he nodded anyway and slowly left the vehicle. As he began to walk away, the man called him back and gave him two crisp $20 bills.

   "Spend it wisely, kid.” And with that he was off, speeding away back from the way they had come. Rory watched the car disappear down the highway. What the hell just happened? he wondered. One minute I was on my way to wonderland and the next... He slowly clued into what really went down. God, I'm such a fuckin' stupid, useless piece of shit. Dad was right about me. Shit, he thought, I bet stuff like that never happens in San Francisco.

The Cadillac creep was right, though. Rory got a quick ride. A nice woman who looked about forty stopped for him. She was too thin and a little homely, by Rory's reckoning, but warm and friendly.

   "Well, good morning, young man!” she said as she invited him in.

   "Hi. I'm going to Niagara Falls.”

   "Niagara, eh? Well, I can get you a good bit closer. How's Brantford sound?”

   "That'd be great, Ma'am.”

   "Ma'am? You call me Penny, dear.”

   "Dear? You can call me Rory.”
She laughed, and so did he.

 "Ya know, I've never picked up a hitchhiker before. Never in my life. But you just looked so sweet and helpless, I couldn't resist. My uncle used to tell me tales of his hitchhiking adventures years ago. That was back in Manitoba where I grew up. It can get cold there, but it's so beautiful, too.” She kept talking like that for forty-five minutes. She was a lonely woman, Rory surmised, and that's why she really stopped for him.

   "...and that's how my brother Bob got his nickname, Boobie.”
Penny was obviously hinting in a particular direction, by using words like boobie in front of him. Rory figured he was getting the idea.

   "I bet a big handsome boy like you has a lot of girlfriends, eh?” she teased.

   "No, I'm single at the moment.” Rory thought he sounded very mature.

   "Well, I bet that won't last long.”

   "I prefer it that way, in my line of work.”

   "And what line of work might that be, Rory?”

   "I help lonely women on the road.”

   "Lonely women? What do you mean?”

   "You know, $25 for facialato, that sort of thing.”

   "Facial what? I'm afraid I'm not getting you.”

   "Skull, Penny. Like, head, ya know? We don't have to beat around the bush about this.”

   "Wh-you don't mean. . . ”

   "It's just business, lady, and I like you, so you can dip for $20. Early bird special we'll call it.”

The car came to a screeching halt, almost resulting in a transport slamming through its trunk. The truck blasted an angry foghorn and went whizzing by, narrowly missing them. Haphazardly on the shoulder, Penny's voice trembled.

   "Please. get out. of my car. young man.”

   "But... this is nowhere. I -I'm sorry, Penny, I thought it was what you wanted.”

   "Get out!” she screamed, and Rory complied as fast as he possibly could. She sped away leaving him abandoned miles between towns or ramps. People sure were tough to read sometimes.

He finally made it into London, where he walked around a mall to get warm, bought a sweater, a wool hat and a little junk food. He felt kind of guilty about where the money had come from, but he had it none the less. He certainly wasn't going to throw it away. Did that make him a hustler, even though he was the one who was hustled? He couldn't quite decide.

He found himself downtown after a while, hoping like hell to avoid Victoria Park. He ducked into a grungy pool hall for a little heat and ended up blowing the last of his money by shooting a couple of games of Boston with a grizzled old drunk with whom he'd struck up a bit of a friendship. Come closing time, it became apparent to the drunk that the kid had nowhere to go, and Rory confirmed the fact.

   "I got a room upstairs, son. It ain't much but it'll help keep the frost off your toes. I got part of a 26'er of gin up there, too. That'll keep the frost off your soul!” Rory was very uncomfortable with the idea but didn't see any alternative available to him. Another night like under the stairs in Windsor was a less appealing plan so he took the drunk up on the offer.

   "Sure, thanks, but you can keep your gin for yourself.”

And it really was just a room. No bathroom, kitchen, or much of anything else. Just a twin bed, a bedraggled upholstered chair, a wooden table with two more chairs pulled up to it, one sort of matching and the other a chrome dinette piece that seemed to be the premises' most prized artifact.

Rory sat on the edge of the bed and the fatigue hit him immediately. He needed a good sleep more than he realised. How, though, could he make sure this old guy didn't do creepy shit to him while he was passed out?

   "You're sure you don't wanna night cap, son?”

   "No, I don't really drink.”

   "Now there's a phrase you don't often hear in my circles. Suit yourself.” He took a long swig from the bottle as Rory crawled into the bed, fully clothed, and pressed his back against the wall.

   "I'm really beat, too,” the drunk stated, and laid down as well.

   "I hope you're not a fuckin' blanket thief, cuz I hate waking up with no blankets. It reminds me of the park bench nights before I acquired all this.”

   "I'll try not to.”

   "That's all I can ask of any man. G'night, Rory.”

   "'night.”

Tired as he was, Rory wouldn't allow himself to fall asleep, not when he was in such an obviously compromising position. He fought sleep bravely for what seemed like hours until he heard the old drunk begin to snore.

He was greatly relieved to discover that the guy didn't have dubious motives for putting him up after all. That relief quickly turned to gratitude and then deep admiration. Now all he could think was that this gentle man, who has nothing, deserves something for his kind generosity. But Rory had nothing to offer in thanks. He wished he did.

Then he thought of something. It's all he had to offer and for some reason it felt like the right thing to do. He pulled a little closer to the slumbering alcoholic, and, though shaking, slowly reached around and, as distasteful as it was for him, began massaging through the slumbering man's pants. The drunk moaned pleasantly. Rory took this as a sign to proceed and began fondling in earnest.

The drunk's snoring came to an abrupt halt and he jolted up in the bed.

  "What the f-?”

  "I -I wanna repay you for helping me out.”
The drunk sobered on the spot and jumped out of the bed. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, then spoke more clearly than Rory had heard before.

  "No... no, son... it's not like that. Here, lemme grab that top blanket and I'll just sleep on the floor. You stretch yourself out on the bed there, Rory.”

  "But the floor's hard as a rock. You can't sleep there.”
The man laughed jovially. "Son, this floor is like a god damn king's bed compared to some of the places I've slept. Believe me, it's no trouble at all.” As he spoke, he laid down and pulled the blanket over him, and stuffed a dirty sweater under his head that he found on the floor nearby.

  "Now if you don't mind, Rory, I've got some obvious beauty sleep to catch up on.” He was snoring again before two minutes had passed. Rory was contemplating his own actions and his eyes began to get misty. Why am I such a fucking stupid piece of shit? he wondered in frustration as he eventually drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, Rory was awakened by the man, now fully sober but looking just as ragged as ever. He held a not-very-clean cup out for his young guest.

  "Drink up, son. You never know when your next cup of coffee is gonna show up.”
Rory accepted and drank it slowly. He wasn't any sort of java connoisseur, but he was certain this was the most disgusting excuse for coffee he'd ever had the misfortune of tasting. He drank every drop.

  "Any good?” his friend asked.

  "Delicious.”

  "Fuckin' liar," the man replied. “It's putrid. That's why you're supposed to mix it half and half with gin.” He demonstrated in his own cup as he spoke.

They made a little small talk while the man warmed himself with his second cup of ginnee, as he called it. Quite deliberately, and compassionately, he never mentioned the incident from during the night, and did what he could to keep Rory from thinking about it and being embarrassed. He then tried to explain to Rory how to find the nearest 401 on-ramp, but he was a little uncertain himself.

  "If you go north,” he tried unconfidently, "then east just over the river, or west is it? Well when you get past the river anyway, just-- it is west, that's right. I can't remember how many blocks down there it is, but as long as you turn in the right direction and start walking, you'll get there.”

Rory thanked him for his hospitality and headed back out to the road, trying to feel optimistic about the day's journey ahead of him. It wasn't easy. Getting to an on-ramp was hell. He must've walked three hours (up and down some stretches two or three times), with a stop at a corner market to load up on free chocolate, for energy. He managed to dig enough change from his pockets for a small coffee -- a real coffee -- which he consumed eagerly while munching down a couple of liberated Snickers bars.

The sky was overcast and dark. What looked like snow clouds loomed ominously from the northeast, but they couldn't be, could they? They were nasty anyway, and Rory was eager to get into a warm vehicle as quickly as possible. He found making eye contact, and appearing just a little pathetic, seemed to persuade more drivers to pull over for him. He was getting the hang of this racket.

An old rusty Fiat rattled to a stop. When Rory opened the passenger door, he had to hold it up so it wouldn't fall off. There was no passenger seat. Nor a back seat. Just a battered old foam mattress that stretched the length of the interior. The driver's seat was there, and occupied by an amused-looking man with a shocking amount of unruly gray hair that flowed halfway down his back. A few days beard growth and a white handlebar moustache completed the almost comical portrait.

  "What da Christ ya waitin' for? Haul yer ass in already!”
Rory did so, with trepidation, and made himself as comfortable as could be arranged.

Once they got going, and it wasn't a foregone conclusion that they would, the man never shut up. Not that Rory minded. He enjoyed the man's ramblings.

  "Yeah, I'm just here for a seed delivery. A beautiful BC Bud--Dutch Pink cross that'll knock your socks off and yield damn near four ounces a plant. Wickedly wicked, man. My best hybrid ever.” He dug into a pocket and gave Rory a fat, lazily-rolled joint.

  "Try it now or later, don't matter to me, but there's no doubt you'll love it.” Rory put it in his jacket pocket. "I'll be back off to Vancouver in a day or two, after I see a coupla three more guys down here. I don't know how you people stand it out here! This fuckin' frigid weather.”

  "You get used to it.”

  "I'm sure ya do. But Jesus, why? You don't gotta get used to nothin', man. If it ain't what you want, go find what you do.”

  "It's not that easy. I'm trying to find my way to paradise and I keep getting stopped at all the borders,” Rory joked.

  "Well, maybe you just put the borders in the wrong places.”

  "Me?”

  "If not you, then somebody else in your life. And that's even worse, letting somebody else put up your borders. I know guys who've been trying to get out for years and they're still stuck here, the stupid fucks. You don't strike me as a stupid fuck, kid. You'll find your way out.”

  "That'd sure be nice.”

When the car sputtered to an agonizing and undignified death, the man wasn't the least bit put out by the inconvenience. Rory waited with him until the tow truck arrived.

  "A car's just a tool to help get from one place to another,” he offered philosophically, "and it's the least important tool in the box.” He was as gregarious and cheerful as ever as he hopped into the tow truck, trying to sell seeds to the driver, and Rory wondered where he had been stranded exactly. He wasn't sure but he knew the slowest moving cars here were going well over seventy miles an hour.

He slunk back towards the grassy side of the shoulder and cringed as a transport flew by, its back wind nearly sending him careening off into the ditch. Another was coming and Rory braced himself. But it slowed, and eventually stopped well up the highway. Rory ran the fifty or so yards and climbed up into the cab.

The trucker was a chain-smoking crusty sort of man who looked about sixty, but was probably younger with a hard life behind him.

  "I can get ya to Toronto,” he growled, as if he had sandpaper in his throat and some more up his ass.

  "Thanks, but I can get off wherever the road cuts off towards the Falls.”

  "That'd be the 403 ya want. Cuts off up at Woodstock. Take that to Hamilton and it gets a bit tricky till ya get down by Stoney Creek, but just ask somebody in town.”

  "Thanks. I guess you really know your way around, huh?”

  "Got to.”

  "I'm just learning how to get places,” Rory confessed.

  "Goin' home?” the man asked.

  "Pardon?”

  "Niagara Falls yer home?” Rory didn't really want to get into the whole quest for paradise thing and San Francisco and all, but he ended up telling the trucker anyway, about his journey and his goal, and how he keeps getting turned away.

  "Can't you take a hint, kid? Maybe you can't get there from here.”

  "But, some combination of roads is bound to get you where you need to go eventually, right?” Rory was confused that a man of the highway would say something so obviously untrue. The trucker glanced at him quickly.

  "That ain't what I meant.”

  "Oh.”
The trucker's blunt statement suggested he didn't wish to elaborate on the matter so Rory didn't press the issue. He'd just be happy to get out of there before this guy decided to eat him for lunch. He did manage to escape with his life and was surprised when the trucker smiled and wished him luck. His parting words were as perplexing as the man's character:

  "You can't always just look at a map and expect to get where ya wanna go, kiddo. Ya gotta look around for yerself.”

Rory was finding rides were getting easier and easier. Eye contact, a stiff arm with a slight degree of attention-getting waving, a non-threatening appearance and other little traits all made for a shorter standing time between pullovers. He was glad he'd picked up on these techniques because the day was getting colder and the merciless evening was approaching as he finally landed in Niagara Falls.

He was turned back.

What direction to try next? For fuck sakes. Disillusioned, starving, freezing and tired, he wondered where to turn. Someone had told him he might have better luck trying to cross at Kingston, but, shit, that was another few hundred miles away. It hardly seemed worth the trouble when he knew the probable outcome when he finally arrived.

He tried to steal some candy and meat from a grocery store but fatigue had dulled his senses and he was caught by one of those minimum wage geeks who takes his dead-end job just a little too seriously. Rory acted weak and helpless until the older teen's guard was down, then kneed him in the groin and ran like hell. Nobody followed, and he managed to get away with a little something he could call dinner. But that wouldn't get him a roof for the night. Or warmth. He could think of only one option. He asked around until he found a park. A park similar to that one back in London.

*

He did things there he never would have dreamed of just a short time ago. But it's amazing what a person can talk himself into, when not doing so means unbearable cold and hunger. He got enough for a cheap motel room and a little too much crap at Burger King. He also found a guy to pick him up a mickey of Old Bushmills. That's what his dad drank so he thought he'd give it a go.

He drank the whiskey with coke in his Niagara motel room. It helped to warm him quicker and dulled the memory of how he earned his shelter. He felt uncomfortable about it, but not guilty. Work was work. And in that room, he'd made up his mind on his plans for the immediate future: Get a few quick bucks here in town, get some warm clothes -ones that suggest a certain trade, and head up and down the Ontario freeways raking in the dough. It ain't paradise, but it's better than the hell of starving to death.

He had finally understood what that funny feeling had been, the one that hit him every few hours since he'd left home. It was a part of him dying. Seasons change no matter what. But it was gone now, the feeling; he didn't feel it anymore and he was glad for that. He was tough now. Cold and hard as the northern winter.

Once he was organised, he headed out on the road. He spent six weeks going back and forth, living all sorts of interesting adventures, most, however, sourly unpleasant in nature; they were the kind he would never tell another soul about.

On the fifth of November, the wind was furious and bitter and the brilliantly-coloured leaves were abandoning their branches like desperate tenants of a flaming high-rise. The first blizzard of the season rampaged down upon him, sweeping away the highway view in a dizzying swirl of snow, leaves, and debris. He was just outside Guelph and he lost his bearings. He couldn't see any road signs from his vantage point, and was unsure which direction to go.

He suddenly lost all courage and resolve. The weight of his situation and his miserable existence overwhelmed the young teen and he felt like just lying down and dying right there. He didn't think it should take too long in this weather, and it seemed like a much more reasonable plan than not doing so. He sat down at what he thought was a safe distance from the traffic but it didn't really matter if it was.

Amid the whirr and whine of the wind and speeding traffic, a friendly voice floated into his mind.

Just turn yourself in the right direction, and start walking. You'll find it.

He managed a slight smile at the recollection, and as the sun found a minuscule window in the storm clouds to peek through, something glinting caught his attention from the opposite east bound lanes: a yellow El Camino flying along, heading towards Hamilton. Now that he wasn't thinking about it, what the stripper had said on the very first leg of his strange trip finally came to him:

Freedom's a state of mind, baby, it ain't a place.

He stood up. An SUV had stopped for him but Rory didn't notice. The car soon took off again.

Freedom's a state of mind. It's not a place. Suddenly that meant something. Other recollections from Rory's journey came flooding back to him then like the rushing rivers of Ontario in the spring.

You can't get there from here.

Maybe you just put your borders in the wrong places. Or someone else did, and that's even worse.

If it ain't what you want, go find what you do.

You can't always just look at a map and expect to get where ya wanna go.

Ya gotta look around for yourself.

Everybody's gotta start some place.

Turn yourself in the right direction and start walking.

You'll find your way out. You'll find it. You've got what it takes.

Freedom's a state of mind, baby, it ain't a place.

Standing there on the side of the highway, Rory started to cry. Tears of unbounding joy and relief and understanding enveloped him and warmed his soul like no liquor ever could. He thought of his mother and her own quest for paradise and freedom. He couldn't wait to tell her what he'd found on his journey. It's a state of mind, Mom, and we can get there. We're not confined to my father's borders. And maybe Lauren can even convince her dad to reconsider me, when he sees we refused to stay trapped there.

He headed home.

***

“Everything can be taken from a man but the last of the human freedoms: to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."

                                                                                                                                  -Victor Frankl