We escape the Deli with our souls intact. Barely.
Mom communicates all that needs to be said in one word: "Burgers."
I'm relieved, the Drive-in looked a tad old, but not that bad. As we drove closer we noticed. . . AT LEAST 75 FRICKIN' PEOPLE LINED THREE ROWS DEEP AT THE WINDOWS. We drove down - the place was empty. We come back ten minutes later - it's the cast of 'High School Musical' with grips and drivers and demanding stage-mothers all vying for grease and cheese.
It's a sign. We give up. Well played Galway Bay. You've defeated two weary, slightly crazy travelers. From THE STATES. I hope you're happy.
Back in our room, with the door shut, curtains pulled, and air-conditioner blasting, we regain a bit of composure. By this time it's late. It may even be next week for all we know. Time has ceased to exist. I can't let the day end like this. I won't let the day end like this. It is up to me to salvage this vacation.
I struggle to my feet and journey the 10 steps to the motel office. As I walked I remembered our suicidal fly friend from earlier. I now understand. Perhaps Dave would take pity on me and smack me with a rolled up paper as well. No matter, all I need is something to sustain us. I think I saw a pop machine in there somewhere. Or it may have been a heat induced hallucination. I didn't care. Shirtless-old-dude may be my only hope.
I pull open the door to the office and a blast of slightly cooler air rolls over me. There is a woman behind the Formica now. Dave is nowhere to be seen, I don't know where he's gone . . . possibly back to the parallel universe from whence he came.
I am ecstatic to spot an upright glass-door cooler, like you would find in any grocery store, stocked full of muffins and bagels and fruit. Saved! I smile, go to the cooler and start loading my arms with all things fruity and carby.
"Excuse me," the woman says, none too kindly as I ogle an apple, "that's not for sale," and sucks a bit of food from her front tooth." (Yes, tooth. Singular.) It's for the continental breakfast in the morning."
WTF? CONTINENTAL breakfast? In a one-story cinder-block motel in Galway Bay, BC? Really? CONTINENTAL? I'm not ashamed to say that a small "Eeeep!" escaped through my clenched teeth and slid past my lips all Nancy Drew like. "Okay" I sigh, heavily. "How about the bagels and muffins?"
"Same deal.
It is then that I realize I may have to commit a crime. I wonder what the prisons in Canada are like? Probably much like the US, only they're polite when they rape you. I try a different tack. "You know, we're staying here tonight, and leaving very early in the morning. It wouldn't be a stretch to think that if we were staying later in the morning we would certainly be attending your continental breakfast. So . . . could we have our bagel and a muffin now please?"
The woman looks puzzled. "But they're for the breakfast in the morning," she repeats, as if this explains everything.
In my imagination, I'm pounding my fists on the side of my head. Or her head. Whatever. Yet I remain the very epitome of patience and international good will. "Okay. Look. If we were here in the morning, we could have all the bagels and muffins we wanted, is that right?"
"Well, within reason," she says.
I nod in agreement. "We certainly could have ONE bagel and ONE muffin, right? So, can't we pretend," I look at the clock on the wall, "that I'm just really, really early?"
I have hope. That's some sound, sound reasoning right there. I mean seriously, I'm not asking her to empty the till.
She narrows her eyes and says, slowly, as if talking to a complete idiot, "But those are for the continental breakfast in the morning for the motel guests."
Inside I scream and commit a crime of which I'm not proud. Suffice it to say that the Coroner would be quite surprised at what you could fit up a Canadian's wazoo. I could see no matter how persuasive I was there were no bagels or muffins on the dinner menu.
Fine. Forget the food. I try once again. "You know, all we really want is something cold to drink. How about the Cokes and Dr. Pepper?"
"That," she says with a smile, "I can sell you."
This makes no sense to me, but in order not to kill the positive momentum I've got going I say, "Great!", and pull out my wallet.
"Umm . . . All I have is American money, is that okay?"
I can't quite describe the look that passed over her face, but it was much like she had just experienced an ill smell in an elevator and heavily suspected it had originated with me. I'm a proud man, but this was not time for hubris or ego. I beg her to take my useless American money in exchange for three ice-cold cans of pop. (Yes I said pop. Screw soda. I'm from the Northwest. Deal with it.) I'm fixated on those drinks. That's really all I want. Something cold and familiar. After some hesitation, and a fair amount of disgust, she caves to my pleadings and accepts my pathetic American currency.
You ever tried to carry three cans of pop, sans bag, with a cane? I shall leave it up to your imagination.
Triumphant, like the mighty hunter returning to his clan, I bring the cold nectar-of-the-Gods back to your Mother. I approach her cautiously, warily. She has that wild look in her eye again, and her head still hasn't sprung back to it's proper shape. I drop to my knees and raise the mighty can of Dr. Pepper over my head. The provider returnith. Victorius. A kill of carbonated beverages as a supplication.
The offering appeases her.
"Okay," I sigh. "What do you want to do about dinner?"
"Well, I noticed some crackers in the bike. But not very many." She takes a long pull from her drink. "You know, usually I have all kinds of snacks. Beef Jerky. Peanut Butter. Candy. Cheese. More candy. Trail Mix. Nuts. A rasher of bacon. But you were the one that insisted on packing light."
I detect a hint of sarcasm and reproach in her voice. I know, hard to believe but it's true. I wonder just how long she's been waiting to make this particular point. Probably since we left the house.
She swirls vindication mixed with cold Dr. Pepper in her mouth and smiles.
The day is lost. I'm defeated.
We get the crackers and each of us take one - just one - for our evening repast. We chew slowly, in silence, and contemplate the day.
At least the bed is comfortable, and I has my Nets.
Tomorrow, I vow, will be different.
I mean really, could this trip get weirder?
*** the journey continues tomorrow. Or Monday. I have a busy weekend. Quit complaining. I posted a long one today to hold you over. So . . . yeah. Okay, gotta go. The phones ringing. ***
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