My Yahoo!

The Story of The Crush, Act III.

Somehow, time’s flown and it’s late. We decide we’ll go to Thirteen Pennies or Coins or whatever the hell the fancy late night version of Denny’s is in Seattle. We ask the doorman on the way out where it is. He gives us vague directions. Xxxx isn’t sure either; she hasn’t really gone out much since she arrived in town. We *think* we know where to go, but it’s hard to say.

As we’re driving down Queen Anne in her Saab (nickname WaSaabi), we see a sign for the highway: I-5 South Portland, I-5 North Vancouver.

Maybe it was an idea implanted from the Polish Economist/Truck-driver/Chinese Immigrant Smuggler, but this is what Xxxx said next:

“Wanna go to Canada?”

How could I say no? (Do I ever say no? Especially to a girl?)

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An hour later, and we’re only halfway to Canada.

The problem with impulsive adventures is that sometimes the impulse can wear off before the adventure really begins. A lotta time passes, no indie kids to observe and make fun of. Still, the conversation is going well.

I think we’re both expecting the other to call off this adventure. We’re both game though.

I’m 90% sure it’s a date, but that little 10% is sending out worries about humiliation and ‘getting the cheek’. BUT, we’re going to Vancouver, we don’t have a hotel room, and I’m praying that we’re “stuck” with a room that only has one bed.

110 miles can pass pretty quickly when you’re with a brilliant, gorgeous girl, even if you’re not entirely certain as to whether you’re on a date.

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We get to the border. I’m mostly certain that I have no drugs with me. I wonder if Xxxx has a Chinese immigrant hidden in the trunk.

The Border Mountie (snicker – Canadians are so strange) asks us for our drivers licenses.

“Where are you going?”

“Vancouver.”

“Business or pleasure?

(Pleasure. Pleasure. Pleasure. Pleasure. Say pleasure.)

“Pleasure.”

“How long will you be staying?”

Xxxx looks at me. I look at Xxxx. We both look at the Mountie.

“A day or two?” (I say it like a teenage girl unprepared for a quiz.)

The Border Mountie regards us. I wonder if she suspects we might have a family of Chinese immigrants in the trunk.

To Xxxx: “Have you been drinking?”

Xxxx: “A couple of beers a couple of hours ago.”

Mountie girl shines her flashlight on me. “And you?”

I’m too worried about the non-existent drugs and non-existent immigrants to make up a lie. “About the same.”

To Xxxx: “Get out of the car.”

Xxxx gets out of the car. The Mountie tells her to walk away from the car about 20 paces. I’m thinking this is bad, we’re going to end up having to drive back to Seattle, and the night’ll end with a hug in the Saab before I go up to Radcliffe’s. Ack.

I watch anxiously from the Mountie watch Xxxx via the Saab’s side mirror.

Xxxx walks like a champ. Well, saunters, actually. But A straight to B, nonetheless.

The Mountie: “Get back in the car.”

Xxxx does so.

The Mountie: “Have a good time.”

I’m not entirely certain, but I think the Mountie winked.
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