The Launch

Chapter Twenty

Toronto, Ontario: the Big Smoke. "Toronto the Good." Hogtown. Trawnna to the locals. Home of the Maple Laughs. T-dot, Hollywood North, the GTA, the 416... to us it's just a bus transfer point.

Our Woodstock bus lets us off at about 1:15 in a smaller bus terminal building behind the main building at Bay and Dundas and we all mill around until the driver opens the swing-up doors underneath the bus and passes out all the suitcases and boxes and strange-looking bags of sports equipment. We have to cross Elizabeth Street to get to the main terminal where we can buy our tickets to freedom. Freedom, Saskatchewan. Sounds like a CBC sitcom. We walk through a long corridor full of rows of silver lockers along the wall to our right and a line of square windows looking out on the lineups on the main bus platforms to our left. There's a crowd trudging along in little groups of ones, twos and threes, mostly students.

The sliding doors open onto the lobby of the historic two-story Toronto Coach Terminal building. There is an escalator to our right which leads down to the underground Path and the Dundas Subway Station. We cross the floor of a large waiting area which looks like a departure gate in an airport with lots of bored people sitting around in rows of green plastic seats. This area is surrounded by glass walls which look out onto the comings and goings of a fleet of buses.

Across from "Kramden's Kafé," there is a corral system of poles and red extendable strips which herd people towards the ticket counter. As it is not very busy right now, those of use who are looking to purchase tickets to continue our journeys just follow the maze back and forth, turning and retracing our steps till we get to the end. JC and I are third in line and it only takes a few minutes before one of the helpful, bored-looking ticket sellers is waving us up to her wicket. She is black with dark skin and her hair tied back in thin braids. She's rather portly and wearing the same unflattering light blue shirt as all the other ticket sellers, sitting on a tall chair in front of her computer terminal. We walk up together.

"Where you boys headed?" she says to us.

"We need to get to Saskatchewan," says JC. "Saskatoon, let's say." He says this almost apologetically and waits for her to tell him this is the craziest plan she's ever heard. Instead she just nods and types away on her keyboard, watching her monitor for answers.

"It's $210 one way," she says at last. "You get on the 4:00 bus to Sudbury, boarding at platform 11. Be there 15 minutes early."

"We'll take one each," says JC. I nod and concentrate on not crying.

* * *

We step outside into the gray light and gray slush of this dismal February day. Every time I think I'm getting used to my situation, something new will come along to make it feel real all over again. Buying bus tickets to a place far away from Jessica is the last thing I thought I'd ever do. I look at JC's face, which is as grim as I expect mine is looking right now.

We have a couple of hours to kill. We take a look at our surroundings, and right there, three doors from the bus terminal, is a barber shop. I look at JC and laugh.

"Looks like it's time, buddy," I say.

He looks fearful. "What about the hair dye?"

I point over at the next store, which is the Toronto Barber & Beauty Supply. "Yeah, we've got that covered, too."

"Oh," he says. He's looking more queasy.

"You want to check for the hair dye first?"

"Sure."

I look at my watch as we trudge over to the store, not in any kind of hurry. It's not even 1:45. Still two hours before we can board the bus. It feels weird not to be getting texts or phone calls. I wonder what Jess is doing right now. Mom? Ray? I feel like a penguin who jumped on the wrong bit of ice and just broke it off and floated away from home. Okay, yes, with my best friend penguin, but he's turned into a mope who's way too feather proud right now. I take a look up and down Dundas for cops before I open the door and walk into a store full of hair supplies.

We wander up and down the aisles long enough and we find a dizzying array of color choices: Chestnut Brown, Light Ash Brown, Champagne Blond, Light Butterscotch, Honeyed Amber, Rich Auburn, Fox Red, Strawberry Blond, Jet black... it is so hard to guess the perfect shade for working in the potash mine in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan.

"So, what do you think?" I say. JC is reading the side of the box of some color or other. "I think the accepted convention for those 'on the lam' is to find a gas station bathroom and color our hair in the sink."

He nods and puts the box back on the shelf.

"Okay," I say. "So you're not ready for that, yet. Let's get a couple of boxes for later and get our haircuts first." I pick up a box of light blond and dark brown at random and walk over to the counter to pay.

"Wait," he says. "Which one of those is for you and which is for me?"

I get a couple of twenties out of my wallet. "I don't care. You choose."

"Good, because I'm not going blond."

"That's cool, because I'll be having more fun."

I get my change and put the bag of hair color in my duffel bag and we are out of there. JC suggests we turn down Dundas and see what's down that way, but I think he is more interested in what is not down that way, namely a Barber Shop. That's cool, I guess. I'm trying to imagine the odds that cops are already scrambled with our photos here in Toronto. It's not like we're murderers or child kidnappers who still have our abductee with us. Would they really scramble a province-wide manhunt for a couple of cartoonists who effectively used extreme measures to seek a promotion from their boss? It's almost like a white collar crime, when I think of it that way. A workplace dispute.

So we walk along Dundas towards the back end of the bus station, me in my happy cloud of delusion, passing a couple of restaurants, a nail shop and another Barber Shop that JC pretends not to notice, looking up at the sky and swiveling around to look across the street instead, where there is yet another fucking Barber Shop. JC has stopped walking and I know he sees it, too.

"What's with all the haircut options, am I right?" I say. Somewhere a siren sounds but I can't tell if it's moving away from us or getting closer. I pat him on the shoulder. "Are you ready to do this, partner?"