I'd still be stuck in Dryden in the beer of an evergreen bar, but out of the smoke of a paper mill dropped an airplane disguised as a car. A wild looking pair were the pilots unshaven and sneering and shifty, they were chewing on cold blue memories of beating on cars in the fifties. Their hung-over eyes needed plasma as I skeptically opened the door, "Jump in, said Walter, The Blackfoot, "We've always got room for more." It smelled like a hill billy whiskey still and I contemplated not getting in "We were all pissed up at the Ojibway bar, and Tom broke a bottle of gin." Well I weighed my memories of Dryden with a pound of desire to leave: desire is always a heavier load, I jumped in with an ounce of relief. And we drove, and we drove.... At one point far up ahead was a chevy, it was dragging both of it's heels and catching up we could see that there were weeds growing out of it's wheels. A quick tap-dance on the throttle and the hollywoods howled so mean; the places we were going, the places we had been Needless to say, on that flat dusty day, the ride wasn't as long as all of Elvis' songs pumping out of the four corner speakers; twenty four hours of oldies but goldies would make anyone wicked or weaker. But soon we'd left it all behind, the buses, the cars, and the truckers-- "Thanks for the lift to Calgary, men, and rock on you motherfuckers!!"
