The Bloody Doors Off

I hitched a ride with a vending machine repair man
He says he’s been down this road more than twice
He was high on intellectualism
I’ve never been there but the brochure looks nice

Sheryl Crow

I sometimes dream of road trips.

Can never remember the destination. Don’t know if there ever was one.

And never with the same person (people).

That hadn’t really popped up in my mind before. Of if it did, the thought was so fleeting that a whisper carried it off to obscurity.

Tonight it chose to properly remind me.

Also the few road trips I did take over the years.

My first strip club.

Doug, Anthony, George and I. We were, eighteen? Shit, this is gonna depend on whether this trip happened before or after my first trip to Buffalo. I’ll get to that.

We grew up together. Three of us lived on the same street within stone’s throw of our houses, and the fourth lived on the first cross street to the left. The memory is hazy, but I remember it was about my birthday. And we took the QEW westbound out of the city. To what city, I have no clue. I remember a seedy strip club. There were wood shavings on the floor. (Which I now think was there to absorb any spilled beer or worse.) And a dancer, who back then would’ve been my age now (okay, maybe mid-forties), who tried to take the belt off my pants.

I’d had a beer or two, but that was Not gonna happen. She intimidated me.

Buffalo.

I remember I was nineteen, and you needed to be twenty-one to drink in the State of New York. I was on co-op assignment with The Scarborough Mirror and the bullpen decided one Friday they were going to the Anchor Bar in downtown Buffalo and they invited me along. For some inexplicable reason, I began chanting pro-Soviet propaganda as we approached the border. I was reminded it was a long walk home. (I have proof of this somewhere.)

It was the first time in Buffalo. First (and not the last) time at the Anchor Bar. Finest wings I’ve ever tasted. Nothing has compared in the past thirty-five years. And I feel in love with live jazz.

Oh yeah. I tried to conduct a phone interview with Monika Schnarre (Ford Models 1984 “Supermodel of the World”) in the Anchor Bar’s one phone booth. Ended up rescheduling for her Toronto press junket the following week.

I was nominated for that article.

Not because it was good.

Good lord. It sucked.

It appeared on page 3 on the specific week all main articles were generated in all the boroughs.

But I was still nominated, dammit.

National Museum of the United States Air Force

This was a memorable road trip, for all the wrong reasons.

We got lost in the middle of the night, on backroads in Ohio. We couldn’t see the road in front of us. Which turned extremely scary when, as we were speeding forward, we left the road and sailed through the air, because of a sudden and extreme dip in the, well I can’t for sure call it pavement.

We drove through the wrong side of Cincinnati at two in the morning. And we were too afraid to roll down the window and ask for directions.

My friend Paul snored. We shared a two double-bed motel room. His sleep apnea ensured I couldn’t sleep. I wouldn’t fall asleep until we were back home a day later.

Pork Burgers at Harmony Lunch in Waterloo

A woman I was seeing at the time and I drove out to Waterloo based on a friend’s recommendation, and had amazing burgers. That had to be prior to 2016, ‘cuz that’s when they originally closed and were reopened by a group who promised to be faithful to the little diner that’d been around since 1930.

Flash forward to today.

That just feels like a lot of work.

Packing for a week-long stay at a cottage takes a flow chart for planning. And I can’t make those mental gymnastics on my own. (Marlo may add “at all” and she wouldn’t be wrong.)

And so I dream.

Sitting in the passenger seat, feeling the car roar to life as we race along a well-travelled highway to destinations unknown. Stopping at the most unlikely restaurant/diner and discovering the best [insert personal preference here] in all of Canada. Praying the motel room door locks from the inside. (And this is important: it should NOT, under ANY circumstances, give off a murdery vibe. Your first thought after stepping into the room should not be, “And how would you like to be murdered this evening?“)*

It’s almost 2:30 am.

Should’ve been in bed an hour ago.

Alright, I’m on my way.

Places to be.

* True story.