Here Comes Trouble

by Michael Moore

  Joey backed his car down the path of the boat launch to the edge of the water. Ralph was nervous about our chances of getting caught, and I kept my eyes peeled straight across the river looking for Canadians. I could see none, and the late afternoon sun from the west lit up the Canadian shore to reveal absolutely no activity. There were no border guards with binoculars keeping their eyes on us, no patrol boats protecting their sovereign territory. Just a half mile of river lapping up on our land in the same way it lapped up on theirs. Although this was just supposed to be a dry run, there was a part of me that just wanted to take that boat, right then, across the St. Clair and not return.

  That was not going to happen. Joey let out a loud “Shit!Fuck!Shit!” and I got out to see what the problem was.

  “No fucking motor! My dad took the outboard off! Fuck!”

  “What the fuck, Joey?!” Ralph kicked the boat’s trailer a few times, but neither kick made the outboard motor appear. “How could you be so fucking stupid?!”

  The Eagle Scout with the rowing merit badge spoke up. “Hey, it’s like two thousand feet of river. There’s four of us. Let’s just row!”

  “We don’t have any oars,” Joey said quietly, feeling the shame of having wrecked our Great Escape. “My dad musta taken it off to work on it. We just used it last week. Can’t believe I didn’t see it missing when I left.”

  “Great. Just great.” Ralph was still pissed. “You know I can’t swim.” We knew.

  “We’re not swimming,” Jacko chimed in. “We’re gonna grab a bag of White Castles and hang out here for a while. And I brought ‘dessert.’” He was holding a very large and perfectly rolled joint in his hand. This seemed to take the sting out of the situation, and if there was one thing you could count on Jacko for it was the very finest and most expensive marijuana from lands far away.

  We headed back in to Port Huron and found a burger joint and took what passed for our picnic dinner to the town’s park on the river. There was a big boulder with a plaque honoring Thomas Edison on it. We sat there, with our burgers, staring at it and trying to come up a list of things he invented: Lightbulb. Record player. Movie projector. There was more, but that was enough to make him cool.

  “Man,” I added, accidentally slipping into know-it-all mode, “a lot of inventors came from our state: Edison. Henry Ford. Kellogg. Dow. Not bad for just one state.”

  “Well, fuck Dow,” Ralph interjected.

  “Yeah, fuck Dow!” Jacko repeated.

  “Yeah, fuck Dow—fuck Dow royal!” I added, in case it needed emphasis.

  “Edison said that of all his inventions, he was proudest of the fact he never invented a weapon, never invented anything for war,” Jacko said. We were impressed that he knew something so serious, whether it was true or not.

  I was looking up at the bridge above us. Early evening had arrived, and while this adventure was, in spite of its motor mishap, already more fun than anything I had done so far in my senior year, I was still obsessed with not leaving the border zone without a plan on how to escape to Canada. I had to keep this mission on track. Of course, the ability to get the other three to refocus on why we were there was a bit more difficult now, as they were already halfway through the king-size joint.

  “C’mon, man, try it,” Jacko implored me. “Just once.”

  I was still a virgin when it came to, well, when it came to everything—but in this instance I was the only seventeen-year-old I knew who hadn’t at least tried pot or other controlled substances. I was not against it on any legal or moral grounds, and I was not worried that my first joint would force me to pick up a heroin needle. In fact, I noticed that everyone became nicer and funnier once stoned, and there was certainly nothing wrong with that. My fear was this: To me, I already seemed way too high/stoned/crazy. Or at least I thought I was. I was convinced that my natural, everyday altered state did not need any enhancing. I truly believed that if I were to smoke a joint or drop some acid I might not ever come back. I was fine just where I was, thinking up things like sneaking into Canada on a boat without a motor.

  “We could always just make a run for it over the bridge,” I suggested, knowing that with the joint now finished off, they’d be open to just about anything.

  “Whatcha mean, ‘make a run’?” Ralph asked in a tone that indicated a rare moment of open-mindedness.

  “You don’t mean run like run-run, do ya?” Joey wondered.

  “No, I don’t mean literally run across the bridge,” I explained. “I mean, let’s just get in the car and make like we’re going to visit our Canadian cousins. I can speak some Canadian. All you have to do is talk slower and put an extra “u” in some words.”

  “I thought they spoke French,” Ralph interjected.

  “They do,” I said. “It’s like their secret language they go to when they don’t want America to know what they’re saying. I’ve already had two years of French, so I’ll be ready if they try to pull that trick.”

  “Good thinkin’,” Joey said.

  “But we don’t need to worry about no French at the American checkpoint,” I assured them. “I’ll just tell the American border guards we’re going over to do some fishing with our Canadian relatives. Then we’ll hit the gas and make a run for it to the Canadian side before they figure out none of us look very related.”

  “Man, I don’t know,” Jacko said after not thinking long about it. “What if they pull out their guns and start shooting? What if they chase us in some goddamn Army truck or somethin’? Fuck, I dunno.”

  “Plus,” added Joey, “don’t forget, we’re pulling my dad’s boat.”

  “We could leave the boat on this side and put a note on it,” I suggested. “Remember, we’re not going over there tonight for good. We’re just going to see if, when we do need to escape, we’ll be able to do it.”

  “Well, if it’s not for real, then I’d rather we keep the boat with us,” Joey responded.

  “Makes better sense to have the boat,” said Ralph. “That way it does look like we’re going on a fishing trip or something.”

  “OK, we take the boat,” I said, feeling like I was talking to Cheech and Chong and Chong. “But you guys are going to have to let me do the driving ’cause you’re in no shape to be behind the wheel. And Jacko, make sure you don’t have any more drugs on you. That will get us in trouble if we get stopped.”

  “All clean, sir,” he replied, cracking up.

  “Let’s say we do get past the American guards,” Ralph wondered. “And we make it across the bridge. When we get to the Canadian side, what do we say?”

  “I think we have to say what we’re going to say on the real day next year when we have to do this. We have to tell them we are draft resisters and we are here to seek asylum from a peace-loving nation.”

  “And that’s when they take out their Canadian pistols and shoot us,” Jacko offered. “Four less bloody Americans! Jolly good job, Jeeves!” he said in his best Flint/British accent.

  “They’re not going to shoot us, and they’re not British,” I reminded them. “They just think they are. I don’t even think they have guns. But they might take us away for questioning, so I’ll just say I was kidding, we’re only in high school and we have to get back home tonight ’cause we gotta get up and go to church in the morning.”

  “Don’t lay it on too thick, Mikey,” Jacko cautioned. “We don’t exactly look like altar boys in this car.”

  “Look, I think we should give this a try,” I pleaded. “We’re here. We need to know what we’re facing, and, assuming we get past the American soldiers, I think things will be OK.”

  There was some more mumbling about not wanting to get shot or the car careening off the bridge, but after a few minutes I had them convinced this was the best thing to do. I got in the driver’s seat, Ralph rode up front with me, and Joey and Jacko sat in the back trying to sober up.

  The Blue Water Bridge, though it crossed only a half mile of water, was an imposing structure. It soared over
150 feet into the air, high above the St. Clair River. This was done to accommodate the huge Great Lakes ships that traveled underneath it. It was the gateway to Lake Huron, and to get on it you had to travel up a long ramp that rose above an old Port Huron neighborhood that once housed the Irish immigrants from my dad’s side of the family. As the car climbed up the ramp of the bridge, my heart started to beat at quite a clip. Everyone made their final adjustments to personal grooming as the lone American checkpoint came into view. There was a series of booths for each lane of traffic, some with red lights, others with green, and I thought it best to be in the green-lit lane. There were massive floodlights, and we could see men in uniform inside each guard booth. As we pulled near a booth I issued one final warning.

  “OK, keep cool, let me do the talking, and if there’s any problem, I’m flooring it. Just keep your heads down in case they start shooting.” Pause. “I’m kidding. No one is going to shoot us.” Or so I assumed.

  The soldier in the booth waved me forward. When I came up beside his booth the window was open—but he wasn’t a soldier. He looked more like a school crossing guard volunteer.

  “That’ll be twenty-five cents, please.”

  “Huh?”

  “Twenty-five cents.”

  I didn’t understand.

  “Just a quarter, son.”

  He wanted money from us.

  “Sure,” I said. I fished around in my pocket. “Here.”

  I handed him the quarter.

  “Thank you.”

  That was it?

  “Is that it?” I asked the man.

  “Well, usually people think that’s too much! They keep talking about raising it another quarter. I don’t think that will sit too well with folks.”

  “No, I mean, we can just, like, go to Canada now? You don’t have to ask us any questions or check us out?”

  “Oh Lord, no!” he chuckled. “I’m just a toll collector. They’ll ask you some questions when you get over there,” he added, pointing to Canada.

  “So anyone can just leave America, just like that, no questions asked?”

  “Well, I hope so. It’s a free country. Say, is there some reason you shouldn’t be leaving? Your parents know where you are?”

  “Oh no, I mean, yes, no—I was just asking. Our parents went ahead of us. They’re waiting for us over there.”

  “Well, then, you better get going. And now you’re holding up traffic!”

  I gently touched the gas pedal, or at least I thought I did, and the car jerked forward. At that same instant, a loud whistle went off. I hit the brakes. I was so confused and scared I didn’t know what to do. Jacko kept saying, “Run!” and Ralph kept saying “No! Stop!” I can’t quite remember what I did, or what I did wrong, or why someone was blowing a whistle, but I could see in the side view mirror that the old man had left the booth and was approaching my door. I knew this had been a trap! I steeled myself for whatever was to happen. I looked over at Ralph. He had his knife out.

  “Jesus, put that—”

  The old man was at my window.

  “Sorry, son,” he said politely and a bit out of breath. “I didn’t see the boat you were hauling.”

  The boat! The boat! The goddamn boat was going to do us in! What the fuck were we doing with a boat? Oh, shit, what had I got us into?

  “That’ll be another twenty-five cents for the boat.”

  Holy shit. Phew!

  But at that moment, Jacko, apparently not hearing the man’s simple request for an extra quarter, had thrown open his door, jumped out, and took off running across the Blue Water Bridge.

  As I handed the man his quarter, he yelled at Jacko.

  “Son, get back in the car! There’s no pedestrian traffic on this bridge!”

  “I’ll go get him,” I said in a rush. “Don’t worry. Sorry!”

  I hit the gas and caught up to Jacko in a matter of seconds.

  “Get the fuck in here or you’ll get us all arrested!” Ralph yelled at him. I pulled over and Ralph grabbed his arm. Jacko snapped back into his senses and got in.

  “Jesus!” I said. “That was fucking stupid.”

  “Hey,” he said, “I wasn’t taking any chances.”

  “Jacko,” Joey said. “That guy wasn’t going to do anything to us. He was old! Like fifty or something!”

  Things calmed down and we headed across the St. Clair River, leaving the United States behind. At the halfway mark there was a big sign that said WELCOME TO CANADA, and we all let out a big “WOOOO-HOOOO!!”

  But now we had to get through the Canadian checkpoint. I pulled the car up to the Canadian booth. This time, it was not a school crossing guard. This Canadian looked official, like one of those Mounties, but not. He waved me to approach him.

  “Citizenship?”

  That was the only word he said. Wow, I thought, they get right to the point here.

  “Yes,” I answered. “Thank you!”

  “Citizenship?” he said, louder.

  “Yes,” I repeated. “We’d like that.” I couldn’t believe how generous the Canadians were to just, like, right off the bat, offer you citizenship!

  The Canadian looked at me. Hard.

  “I don’t have time to fool around. What is your citizenship and place of birth?”

  Oh.

  “Uh, Michigan. American.”

  “And where were you born?”

  “Flint, Michigan.”

  “How ’bout the rest of you?”

  “American.”

  “American.”

  “American.”

  “And where were you born?”

  “Flint.”

  “Flint.”

  “Mexico.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Are you a citizen of Mexico or the United States?”

  “Both,” Ralph said.

  “What’s the purpose of your visit to Canada?”

  “We just thought we’d come over the bridge because we’ve never been here,” I said.

  “What’s the boat for?”

  “Oh, that’s Joey’s. His dad just had it attached to the car,” I answered, thinking fast.

  “How old are you boys?”

  “Seventeen.” “Seventeen.” “Sixteen.” “Seventeen.”

  “OK, pull over in that space over there.”

  I steered the car over to a small lot in front of a building with official-looking people in it. A man in a uniform came out.

  “Please get out of the car, pop the trunk, and step inside.”

  We got out and went inside the building with the Mountie (or whatever he was). Two other officers started going through the car.

  “You two look high,” he said, looking at Jacko and Ralph. “Do you have other drugs on you?”

  “No sir,” Jacko said politely. “And we are not high, sir. We’re just happy to be in Canada.”

  Oh, brother.

  “What exactly are you boys up to? Do you know your boat has no motor?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “This is Joey’s dad’s car and boat, and he didn’t want us to detach the boat so he said we could just take it with us.”

  “Uh-huh,” the Canadian responded.

  “But there is something I would like to ask you,” I said, deciding to take the plunge. “Let’s say we were draft dodgers, and we wanted to move to Canada—could we do that?”

  The “Mountie” looked me up and down, and shouted over to the desk. “Cavity check!”

  What???

  “This way, please,” said another official from the welcome wagon. And then he stopped, and the pseudo-Mounties started laughing.

  “Just kidding. We’re not like the American border guards. You can keep your pants on for us. We’ll just give them a call and tell them you’re on your way back.” More laughs. I was familiar with this warped humor from watching Canadian television. They needed it to counteract all those dreadful beaver and moose documentaries.

  They took us back out to the car where, thankfully, they
found nothing but the boat without a motor.

  “You can turn your car around now and head back to the U.S.,” the head Canadian said.

  Pushing my luck, I asked him again. “But, sir—what if we don’t want to be drafted someday. Can we come here or not?”

  “If you are here legitimately as an objector to the war, the Canadian government will give you asylum, yes. Have you been drafted? Are any of you in the armed services?”

  “No.”

  “Then have a nice night. And be on your way.”

  We got back in Joey’s car and headed back across the Blue Water Bridge to Michigan. The border guards on the American side were, fortunately, in a rush, so they asked the same set of citizenship questions as the Canadians did and sent us on our way. There would be no cavity checks that night. For the rest of the ride home we didn’t say much, other than review what we had learned: Canada would take us in if need be, even if we had to endure their Canadian sense of humour.

  A fair deal, all around.

  In February, my birthday was the 279th date called for the draft lottery, and the year after that it was #115. Both were beyond the cutoff number. I was classified 4-F on my draft card and did not have to learn French, the metric system, or how to soak my fries in cheese curd.

  I would remain fond of Canada for a very long time.

  Two Dates

  THERE WAS LINDA LIMATTA and her sister, Sue, and Mary Powers, Marcia Nastle, and Luanne Turner, too. There was Barb Gilliam, Lisa Dean, Debbie Johnson—it’s all true. Denise Hopkins, Cheryl Hopkins, Karen Hopkins, any Hopkins would do! There was Kathy Minto and Kathy Collins, Kathy Root, and Cathy O’Rourke—yes, if her name was Kathy, that just might do. There was Mary Sue Johnson, Mary Jo Madore, Mary Sue Rauschl, and Maribeth Beach. Jill Williams, Diane Peter, Lora Hitchcock, Wendy Carrell, Jeanie Malin, Madeline Peroni, Louise Prine, Suzanne Flynn, and Susie Hicks—and there wasn’t one of them, not a single one of them, that I had the courage to walk up to and simply ask if they’d like to go out to a movie with me on Friday night.