Urban Camping 101

            “Is he calling the cops? I don’t even think this is that illegal. I mean you can’t even tell where the boundaries are . . . Yeah, he’s almost definitely calling the cops. We should probably g- why am I not wearing shoes?” I realised about here that I was talking to myself. Megan was still asleep, blissfully unaware that she was about to wake up in a stranger’s backyard.

            This was mid-September. To explain how I got to this point, I need to back up a few months. I had worked my first season as a tree-planter the summer before. Around March I had lost my job as a fund-raiser and didn’t have a lot of other work prospects. As a twenty-three year old aspiring writer and musician pursuing a philosophy degree, the closest thing I could claim to an employable skill was a reckless disregard for my own well-being. That was when I found out about tree-planting. The planting industry is always seeking eager young go-getters with little concern for their health and safety and a lack of familiarity with Canadian labour laws. A quick Google search will turn up hundreds of pages telling you what a horrible, nightmarish, mentally and physically taxing job it is. On the other hand you get to spend three months living in the woods with a bunch of hippies. The fact that this latter point counted as a plus in my mind probably goes a long way towards explaining my lack of other job opportunities.

            I also couldn’t afford rent for May and the planting camp offered a marginally more socially acceptable form of homelessness. Up to a certain age you can pass off the kind of life I lead as ‘adventurous’. Eventually though, if your permanent living space for a good chunk of the year folds into a bag, you just become a vagrant. I’m really hoping that line still lies far in my future.

            Anyway, the thing to take away from this is that for three months I lived in a place where I was not subject to even the most basic social norms. When you live and work with the same people twenty-four hours a day, certain boundaries fall away. Tree-planters have a reputation for being a fairly reckless bunch, but you really need to consider the conditions you’re living in out there. All the contracts were in B.C. and Alberta, so I was half a country away from anyone who’s opinion of my behavior I particularly cared about. It poured rain nearly every day that season, so a prison cell would really have been a welcome respite from sleeping outdoors, and the only possessions I had for anyone to take away were a beat-up pawn shop guitar and my tent. Given the circumstances I think even the minimal amount of respect our camp paid to the laws and customs of the towns we visited was admirable.

            The first sign of how out of touch with civilization I would become was on a day off about six weeks into the season. I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflective glass of the truck window as I was about to walk into a restaurant: face streaked with mud, unwashed hair sticking wildly out in all directions, and the beginnings of a scraggly beard. I took a look at myself and without a hint of irony thought: “Man, I look ridiculous without my top hat on.” 


            There’s no easy way to explain the state of mind I was in by that point. In camp, all filters between brain and mouth gradually erode and the stresses of the job lead to a strangely bi-polar mindset where you can go from absolute misery to nearly delirious happiness in a span of minutes. I think part of this is the mind trying to distance itself from pain. At moments when every digit is numb from cold and the rain and mud has penetrated through to your very soul your vision blurs and the landscape takes on a strange oneiric quality while your brain tries to make sense of what is happening. This can’t be real you tell yourself. You can not possibly be working through a two hour long hailstorm in the middle of July scrambling up a steep hill to plant trees for ten cents each. No sane person would do this. It has to be some kind of bizarre lucid dream. And so the pain fades away. It’s not real. And then the laughter starts. The mad, delirious laughter as you realize it’s all some crazed dream . . . Really, planting does some strange things to you.

            After three months of this life, we were let loose again into the world without warning. I’d imagine the feeling was something akin to what drove the old man to suicide in the Shawshank Redemption. Tree-planting is a strange experience because it somehow offers a tremendous sense of freedom within a strictly regulated routine. For three months you wake up at the same time, your meals are waiting for you, you’re in the truck at the same time, you perform the same motions for ten hours and then you’re back in camp for dinner at the same time. Even your days off are structured around a few key chores that need to be done (Laundry, shower, food), and then suddenly at the end of the season, you’re free. No schedule, no obligations. For someone who was already pretty bad at planning, this sudden lack of structure was nearly disastrous.

             I had nowhere to be and nothing to do until the end of August, when I needed to be back in Ontario for my best friend's wedding. I hitched a ride to Kamloops, hoping to go from there to Kelowna and find a job cherry picking. Originally I had been planning on going to Calgary, but the ride West was leaving faster and had better music. It would take me surprisingly long to remember that this was not how people made decisions in the real world.

            When I arrived in Kamloops I had one very important thing to take care of before heading to Kelowna. I had to be fitted for a tuxedo for the wedding. I knew there was a Moore’s in Kamloops, but I had no idea where it was, so I asked to be dropped off at the Greyhound station. I then found out that the store was on the top of a very large hill overlooking said station. I paid for a locker to stow my dufflebag in, but I couldn’t fit my guitar into it. Now, the planting season had just ended. I hadn’t showered in a few days, hadn’t shaved or cut my hair in much longer, and the cleanest clothes I owned by that point were still covered in a semi-permanent layer of dirt. The guitar case I carried was also fairly beaten and battered. It was early August, and it was a hot day in Kamloops. If you’re not familiar with the area, Kamloops is basically a desert. Because I am great at making decisions, I started up the hill to Moore’s with no water. It was a steep hill. It took me about a half hour along a winding road to reach the top, by which time I was covered in sweat and completely dehydrated. I stumbled into Moore’s disoriented and confused. One of their salespeople immediately ran over to me. I half expected him to tell me that vagrants were not welcome in their establishment. Instead, he asked about my guitar, what kind it was and what kind of music I played. This was the first time in three months I had been on my own out in civilisation, and I felt like I was being accosted as the man talked to me and tried to help me around the store. It may have just been my fragile state of mind at the time, but he really seemed to be almost aggressively friendly.

“What kind of guitar is that? You know I play a bit myself. How long have you been at it?”

“Um, uh – I need to be fitted for a suit. My friend is getting married.”

“Oh, ok. . . Well, you’ll want to talk to the woman in back there about that. What kind of music do you play though? Are you from around here or just passing through? I always like meeting other musicians in the area”

“Just, uh – well, I mean, I just need this suit. His wedding is pretty soon and  - well, you know, maybe some water too, would be great. I just climbed a really steep hill.”

            I don’t know if the Moore’s in Kamloops caters to a different sort of clientele than I had imagined or if they’re just incredibly well-trained in maintaining a professional demeanour, but nothing about my dishevelled appearance or incoherent babbling even made the guy bat an eyelash. He just calmly directed me to the back of the store, like a very kindly version of the stone-faced guards outside Buckingham Palace. Nothing could phase him. He kept pressing about the guitar and what kind of music I played. I mumbled something about the Rolling Stones and he set off on a long diatribe about Keith Richards while I stared wild-eyed around the store, trying to orient myself amid all these clean people with their expensive clothes. They wouldn’t last a day out in the woods.

            I finally made my way to the desk at the back where I managed to stammer out that the thing was I really just needed to be fitted for a tux for my friend’s wedding, which was happening back in Ontario but I was one of the groomsmen and the groom had arranged for my measurements to be sent back to the store there and yes, I’d had a confirmation number or something of the sort at some point but it had been stored in my phone and the thing was I had just spent three months living out in the woods and at some point in there my phone had stopped working, but I had a name and was fairly sure about the date of the wedding and yes, I knew it was pretty important, especially being in the wedding party and all that I really should at least know the date, but I was a bit out of sorts at the moment, again having just spent three months more or less off the grid and could we please just get this over with? The woman at the desk was surprisingly patient with me. After she’d finished with the measurements she suggested that I should maybe get something to eat if I could. They could always make some last minute adjustments to the suit if I put on a bit more weight in the coming weeks. She also mentioned that I should probably get some sleep.

            I really hadn’t anticipated a trip to Moore’s feeling like such a harrowing ordeal. I had been into small towns near camp a fair bit over the summer, but I was usually wrapped in a cocoon of at least three other equally dirty hippies and being on my own again, in society no less, felt a bit strange. This was just Kamloops. In a few weeks I had to return home to Toronto. In a roundabout way what I’m trying to explain here is that readjusting to life in the largest city in Canada after that first season was Difficult.

            Megan was the only other person from the camp who lived anywhere near Toronto, and I immediately got in touch with her when I got back to the city. I needed to speak to someone who understood What It Was Like. She invited me to come with her to a keg party near her parent’s place in Etobicoke, a suburb just West of Toronto. You form a strangely close bond with people when you work as a tree-planter. A bond that sometimes makes other people think you’re crazy when you’re at parties and exchange litanies of bizarre injuries like claw hand and Christmas Toe as though you just came back from a war. As we became increasingly drunk and isolated from people who were sick of hearing us talk about schnarb* and j-roots*, we decided we needed to do something to re-create the feeling of planting life here in the city. We should go camping.

            The Greater Toronto Area is home to roughly ten per cent of Canada’s population. As you might imagine there aren’t a lot of prime wilderness areas around here. We could just set up a tent in Megan’s backyard, but that would hardly feel like an adventure. There had to be at least a park somewhere, something with some green space. Megan remembered a park near her parent’s house that she said backed onto an empty lot where they had planned on building some new homes but that was currently vacant. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it was about as secluded as we could hope to get in the city.

            We stumbled back to Megan’s house, got a tent, and trekked out. I still don’t know at what point in this process I lost my shoes. I still don’t know how we ended up where we did. To be honest all I really remember is finding an area where there were some trees around, getting the tent mostly set up (I don’t think we bothered with the fly or pegs) and immediately passing out.

            I woke up the next morning feeling at home. Grateful as I was to have a warm bed and regular showers again I still really missed camp life. For a moment I was able to pretend that I was back in the mountains of Alberta, surrounded by all my planting friends. Sobriety has this awful, jarring way of returning you to reality though. As I rose and looked outside I realized we had set our tent up not in the wilderness we were dreaming about, or even in the relatively secluded city park or empty lot we thought we had settled for, but some guy’s backyard in the suburbs. He was standing in his driveway ten feet in front of me and he did not look impressed.

            We locked eyes: me staring bleary-eyed and hung-over through the mesh top of the tent I had inadvertently set up on his property in the dead of night, he refreshed after an early-morning jog, standing outside his safe suburban home, calmly calling the authorities. It was like looking in a funhouse mirror, each of us reflecting what the other could have been, if only we had made a few different choices. “We’re not so different you and I”, I wanted to tell him. “In other circumstances, we may even have been friends.” As I stumbled barefoot out of the tent towards him though, squinting against the harsh sunlight, and he backed towards the door of his garage, ready to make a run for it, I realized this friendship was not meant to be. At six feet tall and only a hundred and fifty pounds, my appearance doesn’t generally inspire fear in people, but I guess I can’t blame the man for thinking the scraggly looking guy who had inexplicably set up camp in his backyard might be dangerous.

            In our defense his house did back on to what at least appeared to be public property and he didn’t have a fence. The boundaries weren’t very clear. The large house and busy street should probably have tipped us off that we weren’t exactly isolated though. We dismantled the tent in front of an audience of Sunday morning church commuters stopped at the large intersection we had somehow missed.

            Respectable Homeowner was still staring. All I could offer by way of explanation was a confused look and shrug that told him I was as baffled as he was about how this happened. “Strange sometimes the places you wake up right?” my look said, “happens to the best of us.” There was no sympathy in the glare he returned though. It was clear he had never been on the other side of this situation. I ambled past him barefoot, tent under my arm, doing my best to avoid eye contact.

            I don’t think this is what most people my age have in mind when they talk about having to do a Sunday Morning Walk of Shame.

---

*  Planters will know what these terms mean. Everyone else, take my word for it that you don’t care.

One Man Against the World

“That’s fine then! I just won’t sleep in the house anymore! You’re right!”

“That’s not what I meant…” It’s really not what she meant.

“No, you said you don’t want me sleeping in the spare room anymore, so I just won’t sleep inside at all.” This was really not what she meant.

“All I said was that you shouldn’t sleep in that room if you can’t clean up after yourself. You just can’t leave half-empty food containers everywhere…That’s all.”

“Well you won’t have to worry about that anymore because I’ll just be sleeping outdoors from now on. Like a dog!”

This was an actual discussion my parents had with each other while they were both adults. I have to confess the fight was at least partially my fault. After I moved out my parents converted my old room into a combined spare room and office. Which really just meant an office with a futon in the corner that my dad would regularly pass out on after doing paperwork. The fifteen second walk across the house to his actual bedroom suddenly seemed overwhelming when there was a perfectly good bed just behind his office chair. Last summer I found myself temporarily homeless for a few days between subletting my place in Toronto and heading out West to start my job tree-planting, so I went to my parent’s house and stayed in the spare room. The first night I tried to shift the pillow over a bit on the futon and found it was stuck there. Glued somehow. I yanked on it until it finally ripped up from the bed. It turned out that a spoon with the congealed remains of what looked like chocolate pudding on it had been adhering the pillow to the futon. I don’t know how long ago my dad had left it there but it was stuck hard enough that it had nearly torn the fabric of the couch coming up.

                I tried to just wash the pillow myself but my mom noticed it and the argument above soon ensued. Naturally my dad blamed me. If I had just slept on the pudding cushion and let him deal with it later everything would have been fine. Unlike some parents my dad has never shied away from pointing out just how many of the fights he gets into with my mom are mine or my siblings’ fault. This might have been more traumatic in my childhood except that the kinds of arguments my parents regularly got into were so absurd as to border on the cartoonish.

There was, for example, the time my mom had to spend twenty minutes on the phone talking my dad down from buying a car load of what he swore were “real Armani suits” off a guy in a gas station parking lot. He called back three times. The price started off at $1500 and gradually worked down to just under $1000 when my mom finally made him stay on the phone while he got in the car and drove home. He walked in the door visibly shaking and sat down at the table with the kind of sombre expression usually reserved for funerals. “Kids” he addressed all of us, eyes downcast. “I want you to know, you could all. . . all . . . have been wearing brand new Armani suits right now. Each of you. But your mother just would not let me.” I don’t think he ever quite forgave himself for giving up on that deal and may still hold a bit of resentment towards my mother all these years later. The point is that these are actually the kinds of arguments my parents get into on a regular basis. While being adults. So the pudding incident wasn’t that out of the ordinary.

What was a little shocking was that my dad decided to actually follow through with his threat to move out. That same evening he set to work dismantling the futon (It was one of those annoying pieces of Ikea furniture) and moving it out of the house. It’s revealing of some of the intricacies of my father’s mental processes that he decided the garage did not constitute part of the house. Maybe he saw sleeping in the garage as a clever loophole that would allow him to save face without risking a raccoon attack. In his defense it does get a bit drafty in there and opposums have been known to wander in when the door isn’t properly shut, but most people would say if you’re surrounded by four walls and a roof you can’t really claim to be sleeping outside.

Whatever point he may have been trying to make grew increasingly obscure as he moved most of his worldly possessions into the garage. Setting up the futon seemed reasonable enough. Even the space heater was somewhat understandable. But if the idea was to inspire some sense of shame in my mother for forcing him outdoors at the tail end of a harsh Canadian winter he probably should have stopped shy of a full entertainment system. By the time he had set himself up he not only had his desk and futon out there, but a laptop, speakers, television, DVD player and radio alarm clock. There was only one outlet in the garage and so he’d had to plug a couple power bars into each other to get everything working. By the time night came on he was ready. He would stay out here in the garage and my mother would be made sick with regret over asking him to pick up after himself.

It took about two hours for everything to go horribly wrong. At around one in the morning all the power went out in the garage. His set-up had blown a fuse. He could have just bundled up with some more blankets and gone to bed. He could even have replaced the fuse and gotten by with just the space heater plugged in. But in that moment I like to think that, like the great Greek tragic heroes, he realised he was being punished for his hubris. He had wanted too much. Rather than test his luck with the Gods further he gave in. Or maybe the thought of staying in the garage with anything less than three forms of simultaneous entertainment just seemed unbearable. In any case, he immediately set about dismantling the futon by flashlight. I know about this whole process because my brother’s room backs onto the garage. He was woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of my father swearing and throwing parts of the futon around the room. As he moved each part back into the house he carefully opened my brother’s door with as little noise as possible and walked gingerly through the room, then immediately started yelling, swearing and banging things around as soon as he got back into the garage, as though the door were some sort of soundproof barrier. Dismantling and re-assembling the futon by flashlight took over an hour. Then he had to move everything else back inside and set it up. By the end of it all he probably got a worse night’s sleep than he would have if he had actually just set himself up in a tent on the front lawn.

He never mentioned moving out again.

A Trip to Remember

“Okay, what in the fuck just happened?”

Everyone makes stupid decisions when they’re drunk.

“Don’t worry about it.”

This is in fact one of the major appeals of alcohol. Rationality is always stopping us from doing the really fun things in life.

“I was nearly just crushed to death. Why shouldn’t I worry?”

The problem with most people is that they fail to follow through on those drunken decisions when the awful, blinding light of sobriety returns.

“Oh, that. Yeah, Andrew almost missed an exit and had to make a quick lane change. Sorry. Shouldn’t happen again. I figured you were talking about the vague sense of hopelessness in the air. That’s just us passing through Oshawa.”

This was the series of messages back and forth between me and Andrew. I was in the back of the U-haul we were driving across the country, trying to figure out why him and Greg were trying to kill me. It was the winter of 2010 and Greg had just gotten a promotion requiring him to move from Toronto to Halifax. Offering a free trip to Halifax is a great way to get help moving. Originally there were to be three of us on the trip; exactly enough to fill the cab of a U-haul. Then, for Greg’s going away party, a bunch of us pitched in and bought a keg. Somewhere between tapping the keg and waking up in the bathroom the next morning, I’m told that me, Greg and Andrew decided our friend John had to come with us. I don’t remember many of the details of the conversation but I’m pretty sure there was a girl sitting in a large fish tank next to us at the time. It’s all a bit hazy. John had only been out East once, at a time when he was too young to remember, and we decided he needed to see the coast again. It would be great. Just the four of us on an old-fashioned road trip. What the Hell did it matter if there weren’t enough seats? Greg didn’t have that much furniture. There’d be plenty of extra room in the back of the truck. We could even take turns switching up so each of us would get a chance to actually see part of the country we were driving through.

                Most people would wake up the next morning to the cold touch of porcelain, and take the advice of their rotting insides and pounding heads telling them this was a terrible, terrible idea.

Most people who made it beyond that would still have turned back at the moment we lifted the rear gate of the U-haul, revealing a giant red and white sign telling us that carrying passengers in the back was illegal, voided all insurance on the vehicle and carried a serious risk of injury or death.

The few fool-hardy enough to continue on, pack the truck, and climb in would almost definitely have changed their minds after that first disastrous test run.

Because Greg’s job had him more or less constantly on the road, he still hadn’t moved out of his parents’ house at that point. His mom tends to worry far too much about things like ‘safety’ and ‘the law’, so we decided it was best not to let her know what we had planned. We told her John was just there to say goodbye and that we were gonna drop him off down the road at the bus station. So all four of us crammed into the front seat, waved goodbye, and immediately pulled into the gas station parking lot across the street where we went about re-arranging. For seating, we tied an office chair and an old armchair to the wall of the truck with some thin rope. We decided the safest way to test the arrangement before getting on the road was to do a few loops around the parking lot and then see if the guys in back were still alive. We bought some cheap walkie-talkies so that whoever was in back could quickly let the guys in front know if anything started to shift, and, well, crush them to death. The walkie talkies barely worked at all, but they had pictures of Buzz Lightyear on them and I think his presence watching over us gave us all a sense of comfort.

                I think we might have played rock paper scissors to see who had to take the role of Guinea Pig. Me and John might also have been forced into it on the grounds that we would probably be the least missed if anything happened. Again, the details are a little hazy. In any case, the two of us ended up in back for that first trial. The office chair, being on wheels, immediately started rolling back and forth as far as the rope securing it would allow, and John soon tumbled to the floor. A few loose items threatened to jump into us as the truck rumbled along. I had been prepared for things to slide. I hadn’t anticipated the violent shaking, the fact that occasionally a good portion of the trucks contents would become temporarily airborne when we hit a slight bump. I think all that flew forward was one heavy box I managed to stop just before it could crush my head against the door of the truck. Greg’s mom had helped us pack up, assuming, not unreasonably, that we weren’t going to stick two people in front of the giant pile of furniture. As such things weren’t quite as secure as they probably should have been. Really, given how reckless even that first, slow spin around the parking lot was, being thrown to the ground and nearly taking a box to the head was getting off pretty easy. In addition to that we hadn’t realised when planning the trip that the back of the truck was unheated and the thin walls provided very little insulation. It was the middle of winter and even the few minutes that first ride took were almost painfully cold. There were also no lights built into the back, and the door could only be opened from the outside. It also had to be locked with a padlock while the truck was moving or else it would fly up. This meant that if anything did happen we had no way out, and I doubt many people would have thought to look for stow-aways in back while clearing the wreckage.

                This had clearly gone beyond a fun story about following through on a drunken decision. Driving across the country like this carried a very real risk of arrest or serious injury. There were a few moments of silence in the parking lot staring at our Buzz Lightyear walkie talkies while we considered this. We knew what the responsible thing to do was. We bought more rope.

                I know you’re thinking we should have given in, but it wasn’t really an option that point. It wasn’t just a matter of stubbornness. John lived a solid twenty-five minutes in the wrong direction, so dropping him off would have meant an extra hour on the road, and traveling any farther than we absolutely had to in this reckless and dangerous manner would have been completely irresponsible. Also, the front of the truck was really uncomfortable with three people up there, and having a person riding in the back alone would have been stupid. The buddy system was the safest way to go.

                So, we tied down everything we could, doubled the rope on both chairs to keep them in place, and left a poking stick next to the office chair to push back any stray items that looked like they might be a hazard. We also had a huge pile of sweaters, sleeping bags, and blankets to keep the passengers in back warm and a smaller pile of drugs to keep them distracted from how horrible being locked in the back of a dark, cold, windowless moving truck was going to be. We were ready to go.

                I wish the rest of the story was more exciting, but from there it was actually a pretty typical road trip. We did get some odd looks in parking lots from anyone who saw pretty much any part of what we were doing. There was also that time Andrew nearly killed me and Greg by swerving violently across two lanes of traffic and off the highway when he realised he had missed an exit and was about to cross the border into America. And the time Andrew kept me and John locked in the back for five hours while he drove around a small town in Quebec trying to find his way back to the highway because he didn’t want to have to admit that he’d gotten us lost (We had agreed to switch out every three hours max because it was actually dangerous to be in back any longer with the cold). Really if you factor out Andrew’s incompetence it was all fairly routine. If anything, everyone probably drove much more cautiously than they otherwise would have. Part of this was because we didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Most of it was because we weren’t entirely sure at any given point just how many laws we were breaking, but we didn’t think any cops who opened the back of the truck would take it easy on us.

                We got Greg moved in safely and had a fun couple days seeing him off in Halifax. Even after the conditions in the truck, the two-day Greyhound trip back to Ontario still managed to be less comfortable.

Fucking Bus People.  

John

“Well, first thing’s first, we’ve got to get you laid!” He smiled, revealing a mouth full of rotten yellow teeth. His name was John, and somehow I had ended up wandering around an unfamiliar town in the Okanagan Valley just after sunrise with him as my guide. John was a Bus Person. I had spent the last few weeks traveling around the West coast on Greyhound after finishing my first season of tree-planting. For those of you who have never had the pleasure of riding on a Greyhound bus, you should know that their vehicles function primarily as mobile asylums for the mentally ill and socially maladjusted. Most of these people don’t really have anywhere to go. Greyhound just happens to be the cheapest and easiest way to get Anywhere-But-Here. They’re not bad people and for the most part you just end up feeling sorry for them. 

Then there are The Others. The Bus People. There was the guy who called a fellow passenger a retard, then rolled himself a huge joint and got everyone delayed for half an hour while the driver kicked him off the bus for trying to smoke in the bathroom. Then there was the guy who switched into the seat next to me to let me know that the woman who had just gotten off the bus was a ‘working girl’ and had given him a ten-dollar blow-job five feet away from me. Finding myself regularly in the company of people for whom this is not only socially acceptable but brag-worthy behaviour led to one of those moments of self-reflection about the life choices I’d been making (If you actually keep up with what I write on here you’ll notice this has been a recurring theme in my life the past few years). The Blowjob Guy also offered me a copy of Playboy to replace the novel I was reading, which he thought looked really boring.

“Sorry if I’m buggin’ ya. I’m just such a people-person ya know? Can’t stand to sit there by myself.” He got kicked off the bus about twenty minutes later after trying to smoke a cigarette in the bathroom. This is a surprisingly common event on the Greyhound. I could probably fill an incredibly disturbing book with Bus People anecdotes, but the point is that John was one with this clan.

I first met John at three thirty in the morning, wandering through the streets of Salmon Arm. I had caught a late bus between Kamloops and Kelowna, thinking I would sleep on the ride or in the station when I got there. Had I checked the schedule more closely and realised there was a four hour stop-over in Salmon Arm in the middle of the night, and that the bus station there would be closed I probably would have found somewhere to stay in Kamloops. It was about five degrees Celsius when we arrived, and I was in a t-shirt and shorts, having packed all my warm clothing away into a bag that was locked up under the bus. I paced around the city trying to keep warm. That was when I met John. John had also been on the bus and had elected to spend the duration of the stopover drinking alone in a 7-11 parking lot. We recognised each other from the bus as I walked by. Naturally, I pretended I hadn’t seen him and immediately turned around and headed back to the bus station, figuring sitting outside alone in the cold was a better option than being forced into a conversation with a guy I could only assume was a mentally unstable alcoholic. As lonely Bus People tend to do though, he decided to follow me, looking for some company until we got going again.

When we got back to the bus station I immediately pulled out a book, hoping this would be enough to deter any conversation. It was an introductory philosophy book a friend of mine from the planting camp had given me.

            "Philosophy eh?” John started, bending over to read the title of the book. “I used to have a philosophy.” I nodded and smiled, hoping he wouldn’t feel a need to explain. “It was . . . Weed . . .” And here, he looked up into the sky, and became quiet, as though making a truly profound statement “. . .Is everything.” He paused for a few moments. “I don’t really believe that anymore though. Can’t smoke too much. Gotta be responsible for my kids.” John looked to be in his early to mid-twenties, and like I said, I had found him drinking alone in a convenience store parking lot in the middle of the night, so the talk of responsibility and children (plural) came as a bit of a surprise. I would learn later that he had two children by two different women. He had been in Kamloops visiting the mother of his first child, and was trying to persuade her to move with him to Kelowna, but it was a difficult process because she didn’t understand that he needed to be a good husband to the mother of his other child as well. He had started wearing a condom now when hooking up with women at the bar, he explained, so at least he wouldn’t have to worry about getting stuck taking care of a third family. I thought I had escaped him when we got back on the bus and he left me to hit on a woman who seemed, from what little of their conversation I picked up, to be unhealthily obsessed with the Twilight book series. I was more than happy to leave them with each other, though I hoped for his children’s sake that John didn’t get her pregnant.

              When the bus stopped in Kelowna, John waited for me. He stood at the front of the bus and when I stepped off he grabbed one of my bags.
“Well, where to now?” he asked. I wasn’t sure how to react.

“Uh, well, I was actually planning on heading out to the cherry orchards, trying to find a job picking for a couple weeks. . .Thanks for the help, but I can really handle the bags myself.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I don’t really have anything else going on today anyway. You know where you’re going?” I had to admit I didn’t. “I know this town and all the bus routes by heart. I’ll get you going in the right direction. You know which orchard ya want?”

“Yeah, but…Well, I’m probably gonna try to find an internet café or something first anyway. I’ve been kind of out of touch and need to send some emails. I can probably find directions online.”

“Oh, well there ain’t any internet cafes around here but I’ll take you to the library. You can use the internet there free.”

“Thanks man, but really, I can find my way myself. I don’t want to waste your day making you help me around.”

“Nah, man, its cool. I got nothing else goin’ today and I can use the internet too anyway.” I wasn’t getting away from him, and he wasn’t giving up my duffel bag. “Oh,” he added, “the library doesn’t open till ten today though, so we’ll have to find something else to do for the next few hours.” I had no idea where I was going, and while John was a bit strange, he seemed otherwise harmless, and since he wasn’t going anywhere anyway I figured I might as well take his offer to help me around. We grabbed a coffee and walked to the waterfront near the library. He asked to borrow the guitar I was traveling with. He thrashed on it while clustering his fingers randomly around the fretboard in a bizarre manner that made me think he had never actually played a guitar before. He mistook my confusion, and, frankly, fear about what he was doing to the instrument, for admiration, perhaps even intimidation at his level of skill.

“Yeah, man, my friends are always amazed at the shit I come up with. I’m just always making up killer shit like that. I don’t even know where the shit comes from. You’ll probably pick it up one day man. I’ve been playing for years.”

                He kept playing and I looked out over the water, doing my best to ignore the horrible sounds he was making. The Okanagan Valley is beautiful and the sun was just beginning to rise over the water as we sat there. Even the cacophony next to me was imbued with a sort of beauty from the sight, and the feeling of freedom that goes along with giving up the few things you didn’t want to lose.

“Oh shit!” John suddenly stopped playing. “I don’t know where my phone is! Could I borrow yours to call it?” I didn’t think much of it, and handed my cell over. “Yeah, sure.” I would later regret this. He called himself and fished his phone out of his backpack while it rang. “There it is.” He started typing something in while he handed my phone back.

“So, what else is on the agenda for today after the library and orchard?”

“That’s pretty much it. As long as I get a job I’ll be camping out in the Valley tonight and hopefully start work tomorrow.”

“Cool man, cool. But ya gotta come back into the city for at least a bit tonight. There’s nothing going on out in the orchards. I’ll take you out.” And here he smiled, and said the terrifying words that started this story. “We’ve got to get you laid! Man, three months in the woods! I bet you’re dyin’ to get some pussy!” I had to get away from this man. I didn’t even want to think about the kind of women John probably hung around with. Based on the stories he’d been telling me, I had the horrible thought that his overwhelming hospitality might endear him to try sharing one of his girlfriends with me. We went to the library, and then he escorted me to the bus loop where I would meet a connecting bus out to Westbank, where the orchard I was looking for was. He showed no sign of having anywhere else to be and I thought for a moment that he was going to follow me all the way out to the orchard and maybe even apply for jobs with me. When we got to the bus loop though he finally handed over my bags.

“Well, this is where I get off. Gonna spend the day huntin’ for an apartment for the other wife to move into. I’ve got your number though. . .” (He had stored it when I let him call himself earlier to help find his phone . . .Shit) “So I’ll give you a call and we’ll go out later. Get ya some action” It wasn’t a question. This man was determined to get me laid. “And hey, if its easier you can just meet me back here around six. I’ll be around.” The thought of John trying to help me pick up women terrified me, so I made a mental note to be anywhere in the country by six o’clock besides that bus loop.

                The orchard I was looking for had been recommended by one of my tree-planting friends. Her directions included about a 2km uphill hike from the nearest bus stop. It was August and as afternoon came on, it got unbearably hot. I hadn’t brought any water and by the time I crested the hill I was completely dehydrated and feeling dizzy. When I found the orchard I was invited in for juice, but they told me there were no jobs to be had. The weather had been terrible and the season had ended unusually early. So early in fact that it barely even got started. The orchard had taken a huge hit in sales. They offered to let me set up my tent on their property for a couple nights if I wanted, but also mentioned that there might be work in a few towns farther south in the Okanagan. After getting contact information for a few other orchards and chatting with one of the workers for a bit about some mutual friends we had through planting camps, I decided to head out and try my luck elsewhere.

I realised after hiking back to the bus stop though that I had no idea where I was going. I couldn’t remember which bus I had taken out, or even which direction it had been moving in. I couldn’t remember any significant landmarks or buildings around the bus loop I had left John at. I was completely lost and “the place I left John” surprisingly wasn’t an area of town most of the bus drivers were familiar with, so asking for directions proved a bit useless. I tried asking how to get to the library, but of course I didn’t know which library. There were even two Greyhound stations and I would have just gone to the closest one but I had left some things in a locker at the one I arrived at. I was dehydrated, tired, and lost, but I had a daily bus pass, so I went by trial and error, riding around the entirety of two routes before I picked the right one the third time and made it back to the bus loop . . . at six o’clock. Shit. After getting lost so many times what should have been a twenty minute ride had turned into an almost two-hour journey. John was there waiting.

Now, I realise I could probably have made some excuse to get out of hanging out with him that night. He gave me the impression of being very persistent, but realistically if I had just said I wasn’t interested in going out anywhere there wasn’t much he could have done. It might have been a mildly uncomfortable encounter, but a normal person could have handled it. My socially awkward brain[1] told me my best course of action was to put my head down and make a b-line as fast as I could in the opposite direction of where I saw John standing. I had looked in his direction just long enough that I knew he had clearly seen me. I was  kind of hard to miss at that point, with the muddy, beat-up guitar case, ratty clothes and generally dishevelled appearance. I realised that if he caught up to me now and I had to explain why I was running away from him as though he had been hunting me the situation would be far more uncomfortable than it would have been had I just stopped and talked to him. The faster and farther I went the more awkward I was aware it would be if he did decide to try and catch me, which led to me going faster and farther to make sure that didn’t happen. I know. I have problems. I’m working on it. The point is, I was in a town I didn’t recognise, and was deliberately getting myself lost in it by moving as fast as I could in a completely erratic pattern. By the time my brain calmed down enough to realise how insane and stupid what I was doing was I had been wandering for about ten minutes, didn’t recognise anything around me and had no idea how to get back to where I’d started.

If it wasn’t apparent already, I should mention here that after three months of living in the woods, I probably looked crazier than most of the Bus People I was talking about earlier. Hell, after three months of living in the woods, there’s a good chance that I was as crazy as most of them. Life in tree-planting camps could not be more removed from life in the city, or even in small towns. All social decorum gradually erodes when you’re living constantly in such close quarters with other people. Planting camps have their own vocabulary and culture, unrecognizable to outsiders. The point being, the people giving me strange looks and crossing the street as I wandered through the city were probably right to do so. Wandering wild-eyed and confused through a strange town, covered in sweat, grime and shame, I had become one of the Bus People. I finally found someone willing to talk to me, who guided me back to the Greyhound station and thankfully chose not to follow me there. I caught the first bus south because this experience had taught me nothing. John called and texted me weekly for about three months afterwards. All of his messages consisted solely of two words: “what’s up?”

Fucking Bus People.

---

[1] I know this doesn’t make my behaviour seem much more rational, but remember I had been living in the woods for three months at that point and had experienced basically no human contact outside of the forty or so people living in camp, so my sense of ‘stranger danger’ had been severely exacerbated. Even I’m not normally this crazy about dealing with other humans.

Introduction

So at the recommendation of a couple friends I decided to try this blogging thing. I want something to force me to write regularly and from living as something of a social delinquent I've built up a wealth of stories that I hope some people might find entertaining.

If you enjoy anything you read here, or at least don't hate it enough to leave the page and do something more productive it'd be great if you could tell me so I know I'm not just talking to myself.

Names will be changed in every story I post on here and sometimes small details may be changed to protect identities, but if you think you recognize yourself and don't want people to know about the horrible, horrible things you've done talk to me and I can either remove the story, edit you out of it, or turn you into a much more honorable and attractive version of yourself.

If you are an officer of the law or concerned citizen worried about any of the potentially illegal activities detailed in these stories, rest assured that they are probably all grossly exaggerated.

Thank you.