BLACK & UNLICENSED - EP. 2

Drinking hard, or hardly working? Wait..

I always say that a true friend is one you can reunite with after eons and feel like no time has passed, and that's certainly how I felt when I rejoined forces with my old friend: spontaneity. Working full-time had left us unacquainted; my only chances to unite with spontaneity had been on belligerent

(albeit routine) jaunts on weekends. Our drunken relationshipwas entertaining, but somewhat lacking. 

This changed quickly.

At the first mention of the word 'backpacking,' I backflipped out the back window of the kitchen I worked at whilst tossing my two-week notice (deftly folded into a paper airplane) at my boss,  thus sacrificing my bond to the dish pit for
at least a month.

I was eager to link arms with spontaneity and plunge off society's diving board - back into the ocean of freedom.

Shrimp, my soon-to-be travel partner, had conversed with me a total of three times in the past. One of those times ended up in us - gasp - sleeping together. Another of those times had resulted in us deciding to tether ourselves together for a month as we climbed and cavorted and crawled across vast and unfamiliar central American landscapes. The latter was, obviously, the most recent discourse.

Any travelling veteran can spot the idiocy of this decision. Travel partners should be meticulously chosen, if at all. Many prefer to travel in solitude and rely on the beauty and unfamiliarity of those they meet on the road to keep them socially satiated. In hindsight, I'm pretty sure I did realize the folly. The looming call of adventure, however, was working to convince me that Shrimp and I got along much better than we actually did.

Whatever - I had itchy fucking feet and I didn't care who I went traveling with or to where.

Today was our fourth time conversing. We met under the romantic overhang of my landlord's dripping garage and babbled relentlessly about a much more pleasant overhang of palm leaves and sombreros. We checked off our prerequisites, making sure to re-test our sexual compatibility. We rocked my van back and forth for a while as a farewell salutation, much to the displeasure of any innocent viewers who could be reading any travel journals I might write one daywrite about this evening. Alright. Compatible, to some degree. This wasn't a jackhammer splitting wet asphalt (jesus christ, sorry for the graphic metaphor. I told you that any readers would be displeased)but it wasn't like trying to screw in lag bolts with a Philips head either - we could have fun.

We'll get 'er started... I promise

We passed out together that night in my camper van, having packed our bags and readied everything for the morning. Well, we didn't sleep together, per se, but slept close to each other. Sort of. We weren't cuddling, but we weren't in different beds. I think we shared a blanket. Even if we had been in different beds, though, we wouldn't have been much further apart.

I quickly began overanalyzing sleeping postures and calculated our impending travel relationship. Her right shin grazed my thigh; she'd be affectionate but not too clingy. My back pressed up againsther shoulder and she rolled onto her back, bicep thudding ontomy side - there would be discrepancies, oh yes - many discrepancies. A snore - arguments. Two snores - fights. Three snores - uh oh. 

One of us would be dead by the first week.

Despite impending death, six AM rolled around and wereadied to ;eave. Blaring alarm clock shrieks rolled around the van. Me and Shimp rolled out of bed; jumbled thoughts rolled around my brain. We climbed into the front seats, my thoughts steadying themselves enough for me to realize how excited I was. Shrimp was up and at 'em; yammering excitedly about the prospects of the journey. My eyes were glazed and I felt like I was watching the world through a broken set of binoculars. 

Mornings were not my fortè, and this morning acknowledged that and chose to mock me. The van wouldn't start. I tried the ignition a good half dozen times in the stupid semi conscious state that everyone seems to fall into when their vehicle won't start. A million thoughts coursed through my 

mind. 

It's too good to be true. 

I'm dreaming. 

This trip's not happening.

Another episode of BLACK AND UNLICENSED: DESTROYING THE ASSROADS OF NANAIMO.

Shrimp's going to hate me. This is my fault. She's going without me.

I wish I was stuffing my face with boobs.

I'm an idiot. Why hadn't we checked the batteries?

Fortunately, Shrimp's morning amiability (or other such optimistic synonyms for excessive blathering) was inherited from her father who was more than eager to come jumpstart my van. He was there by quarter after - before the glaze on my eyes had even settled - we were at Shrimp's house by six thirty where I left my van parked, and her mom had dropped us off at the ferry terminal by eight. The sun had hardly risen. I mocked its slow pace and sauntered onto the boat, carried by an adventurous ego and lighthearted Shrimpy yapping.

The island waved to me as it always did when I embarked on another journey. I was awake enough now to grin a bit as Shrimp and I leaned against the ferry's upper railing, watching Vancouver Island shrink in size while forever retaining its majesty.

Goodbye, home. I'll see you in a couple months!

...so I thought.