The Launch

Chapter Twenty-One

"Sacré crisse," says JC, ducking down in his seat. "Les boeufs."

I look over his shoulder to see out the bus window. "Cows? Where?"

"No, cops." He motions his thumb towards the Barrie Greyhound bus station as we are passing by the front of the building and I see it. A police station, right in the frickin' terminal. What are the odds? Worse, what are the odds that our mugshots are popping up on their monitors or printing off on their fax machine right now?

"Sacred Christ is right," I say, also sliding down in my seat because it feels like the right thing to do. "On a bicycle."

I look at JC, who is looking worried and pathetic with all his hair chopped off, sporting a conservative new side-parted hairstyle. I can't take him seriously. Out the front window of the bus I can see water and then we are turning right to circle around behind the bus station. The view of the bay from here is spectacular and I'm reminded of how beautiful this place is in better times. We hear the crackle of the bus driver switching on the PA.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Barrie. It is now 5:30. If you are going farther north, the same coach will be leaving north in one hour. 6:30, same coach, same spot. Thank-you for traveling Greyhound."

We pull to a stop behind the terminal building next to a green metal shelter the length of the bus. The sidewalks have been shoveled, but there is a good covering of snow everywhere, so we are definitely getting closer to the Great White North. People are gathering their things and getting off the bus and groups of shivering people stand around outside, some smoking, some just standing under other bus shelters, awaiting salvation. No police officer scans the crowds, bopping a nightstick against the palm of one hand or holding a photo up to the light. I look at JC. He is pulling at the wisps of hair behind his ears and looking shorn and pathetic, like a dog just home from the groomer. Wait till he gets his Chocolate Mahogany on.

He looks at me and says, "Let's just leave the bags and not even go inside. We'll walk across the street to the Thrift Store like we know what we're doing and haven't got a care in the world. No looking around like we're worried, okay?"

"Okay," I say, glancing around worriedly.

We walk down the center aisle of the bus, which is now almost empty, except for a couple of people sleeping. JC steps down onto the sidewalk and I follow him. He is walking across the platform like a roadie for a bebop group in the 40's, so I fall in beside him matching his groove, shoulders rocking with each long stride. He said not to have a care in the world. He looks at me and laughs, so I laugh, too, but I'm just doing it to look normal, not because I think it's funny. I'm too aware that we're passing right by the Police Station window and I really want to see if there is someone looking out, but I manage to resist the urge.

We pass under another long green metal bus shelter on a concrete island between two bus lanes and then we are crossing over Maple Avenue towards the Thrift Store. The last thing I said to JC before he noticed the police station was, "Hey, look. There's a Salvation Army right across from the bus station. How convenient is that?" And that is pretty amazing luck, when you think about it, so it's obvious to me now that for every piece of good luck there is an equal and opposite piece of bad luck about to happen. These are the forces at work in the universe, keeping things in balance. I wonder about all the bad luck I have had recently with no good luck to balance it out, though. Maybe Isaac Newton had it wrong.

When we have bebopped our way through the parking lot without a care in the world or a nervous glance over our shoulders, we find ourselves, for the second time in a week counting our shopping spree for Ray, in a Thrift Store. Our new reality for the next how many years? Following the signs to the men's clothing section, I look for coats and see there is a rack of a bunch of them against the wall. This is pretty small compared to the one in London. The smell of this place is like every Goodwill or Sally Ann I've ever been in, like a college student's apartment or sticking your head right into a laundry hamper. You could blindfold me and walk me into any one of these stores and I'd instantly know where I was by sense of smell alone.

The pickings are fairly slim, especially in my size. My dream coat for my flight from justice was either a thick red and black lumberjacket, a classic of the Canadian North, or a Navy Pea Coat with a black dockworkers cap, but I am out of luck on both counts. The fashion in Barrie seems to be polyester, poly-filled zip front bomber jackets with multi-hued swatches of material emblazoned over the arms and front in haphazard bits and pieces. They must have a Walmart here.

I pick one with navy, purple and red and take it over to the cash register to pay. JC is over looking at the books like he might actually buy a couple. Because "Flowers in the Attic" by V.C. Andrews is a timeless classic. I pay the nice Native woman the twenty bucks for the coat. I get her to cut the tag off and I just put it on over my Gore-Tex mountain parka. It sticks out at the bottom a little bit, but it's not too bad. Between the two of them and a good sweater, I should be able to get by.

"Hey, buddy," I say to JC. "You finding anything good over there?"

"No," he says. "You ready?"

"Yep."

I hold open the door and he joins me on the sidewalk. The Salvation Army building is sandwiched between two older-looking apartment buildings. We follow the walkway between the parking lots back to Maple Street and we can see Dunlop Street and also the bus station from here. I check my watch.

"We have 50 minutes left to get back on the bus," I say. "D'you want to get a bite to eat?"

JC shrugs, still looking towards the bus station.

"We probably shouldn't eat in the terminal building, just to be safe." I nudge him on the shoulder and point towards Dunlop Street where we came in on the bus. "C'mon. I noticed a 'Pharaoh's Pita' back this way."

"Okay," says JC.

The sidewalk on this side street stretches back towards the busy road, icy in patches and bare cement in others, and it seems like it is so far to walk. I'm no longer cold in my double coat, but I'm so tired. I look at JC and register the same look of fatigue, like we could eat, could get back on the bus and continue our escape, live on in the Prairie world of wheat and potash mining, or we could just call it quits right now and take the jail time in exchange for a really good night's sleep and not having to worry anymore.

It's probably only a block to the Pita place, but as a part of our overall journey, it seems impassable.