Jumping the Border

By John Keeler Mitchell

With a draft notice hot in his pocket, Frank Bixler jumps the border to Canada in 1968, swapping the threat of the steaming jungles of Vietnam for cool Montreal. Frank’s Boston College paramour Brit Goldner joins him for the start of a new life that includes the safety of a new flag. Jumping the Border is an imagining of what their lives might have been like as they join more than 100,000 like-minded expats...but soon discover that their actions are now threatened by the arrival of pro-war Americans set on a violent response.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Keeler Mitchell
• Release date: Dec 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370685394

John Keeler Mitchell

Boy writer, train freak, baseball nut and movies guy. On the heels of too many years in aerospace putting words in the mouths of the movers and shakers, I now hit the keyboard for the people. Writing has become fun and constantly new.

Book preview

Preface

In the past 40 years, American armed forces have been an all-volunteer matter. But during the Vietnam War, being drafted to join the army – and serve alongside volunteers – fomented a reaction that had not been foreseen, particularly among the most likely candidates. Hence, the unique and troubling flight of many to nearby countries, among them Canada, which did not share the American government’s conviction that a Vietnam incursion was worth it. It’s been estimated that as many as 100,000 Americans crossed the border into Canada to sit out the war, most of them hoping for an eventual cordial return, which was slow in coming.

Jumping the Border is a story of two people who joined the exodus. It is not meant as justification of either side, but rather an imagining of fictional characters who were swept up in the drama.

Part I: North-Bound

Chapter 1

IT LOOKED BAD. The red lights in his mirror kept getting closer, and the sweat running down Frank’s sides kept getting worse. He glanced at his speedometer. Just a hair over 55. So far as he could recall, he had made no dummy moves, no illegal turns. He hadn’t hit anybody, for God’s sake. His tail lights were still working. Could some bitter bastard have reported his truck and license number to police south of the Canadian border?

His eyes filled with tears. You moron! What an idiotic idea! Do the obvious thing, they had said: Change the Canadian plates to your old New York plates, hit the road early and just drive. Nobody’s out there looking for you, they said. Just keep a look-out for those ridiculous small-town traffic laws.

Well, maybe they hadn’t been so smart after all, because from what he had seen, he had the road to himself – until now. I’m sorry, Brit, he thought. I’m so sorry. I thought I could do it. I should have had a better plan. I should have thought things out more clearly.

The only other car for miles was now less than a half-mile behind him and closing fast. He considered slowing down as a just in case’ move, but then that would be all too obvious. So maybe, just maybe…

And maybe it was.

As the car behind him approached close enough to knock the dust off his bumper, it suddenly swerved out into the left lane, red lights still blazing, and roared past Frank at 90. In the brief moment that both vehicles were dead even, the cop in the New York State Police car shot one of those looks at Frank meant to be intimidating – and it was – and then sped on down the highway.

There is a God, Frank breathed.

New sweat, but this time of the relief variety, the type that you get when you realize it’s not your ass they’re after. Frank watched as the trooper increased the distance between them and finally disappeared around a long, sweeping curve.

Safe. But for how long? He was less than 100 miles south of Montreal and he’d nearly shit his pants. Frank could envision it all: The cop would have pulled him over and recorded his license. After fifteen minutes -- while Frank’s trying to concoct a believable story -- the cop would have pulled him out of his truck and put the cuffs on him and taken him to the station for the questionable comfort and support of cell buddies who would probably violate him into the night...all more than 2,500 miles before he got to Montana, and long before he fell into the welcoming arms (he hoped) of Brittany Goldner. Unless, of course, the next set of red lights did not fly by.

Frank thought about his options for all of 30 seconds before doing a U-turn on the snowy road and heading back north to Montreal.

Go to Plan B.

* * *

Two months later, in March, Frank gave it another try.

This time, he reasoned, he’d stay in Canada for about four days all the way over to Montana, then drop south through some of the most unpopulated lands in North America. Once across the border he’d do his best to hustle over to Great Falls for his triumphant arrival. Frank hadn’t actually checked the mileage, but it looked like 400 or 500 miles more to go, so if he maintained a steady pace he could be there by the middle of the night, maybe sooner.

Now staring at the tiny checkpoint between Canada and Montana from a low hill a mile or two distant, Frank decided that it was a no-brainer: You drive up to the gate, show a driver’s license, keep conversation to a minimum – avoid all of the chatty pleasantries and jokes – smile lightly and go on through.

In a way, it was a classic entry to the United States, small and unassuming, with perhaps a half-dozen buildings scattered on the northern side of the border. At that point, Canadian Route 4 became Montana’s Route 191, an unremarkable road that courses through generally level countryside, then skirts portions of the Rocky Mountains on the way to Great Falls. Leaving Route 4 and moving on down 191, there were virtually no major side roads for miles. You topped off at the border and kept a light foot on the pedal and an eye out for the all-to-rare gas stations along the way. Beginning early in the day made good sense. He had done that.

Frank leaned against the Ford pickup, scratched his rump and pulled one foot up on the bumper. As he hooked his thumbs into the top of his jeans, he noted legs that seemed a bit disproportional for his height. A bit too long, he decided, making him appear what they once called short-waisted. Or was it the other way around? Well, shoot: call it all just about right for a guy in his early twenties, and never a threat to go above six feet.

His hands were ample, he thought, now turning both over several times. Women liked guys with ample hands, which along with larger feet, assumed a gratifying dick. Who was he to argue? He liked to say that he was proportional in that regard, and compared satisfactorily with other guys, as countless occasions in the fraternity locker room had confirmed.

He stepped back to the driver’s side of the truck and glanced in the mirror. You devil, he thought. But there was a three-day growth of beard, and he knew he’d have to remedy that before he saw Brit. Could be worse. He walked back to the front of the truck and considered the border again.

He got back into the truck. Behind him, dark clouds had begun to slip down toward the border from the north; he decided they would move more to the east. As spring approached in Saskatchewan it was like that: winter was officially over, but the threat of cold winds and snow never left. You get up one morning and the world had silently turned white. But not this time. Still, it was worth keeping the windows on the truck up, while the noon sun helped.

The drive on the Trans-Canada Highway from Montreal to a turn south on Route Four – at an impossibly named community called Swift Current -- had taken three days. Then it was part of a fourth day that began at three in the morning to get down to the border crossing.

The months apart from Brit had been way too long; but he could feel change in the wind. Call it signs of an impending reconciliation? Call it love.

What was the deal breaker anyhow? He had always thought of himself as an open and reasonable guy. You’ve got a couple of people who could not get along, call Frank. He had a way of bringing adversaries together, and better yet, without determining who was right and who was wrong. Happy endings.

So what was it?

Frank shifted into reverse and backed slowly out of a bare spot on the hill and down to the narrow dirt road that led to the main highway. More grinding as he shifted into first and moved on out to the pavement. He was alone on the road as he reached second, and then third gears.

Ahead was the invisible line that separated the two countries that had been determined decades earlier by guys wearing heavy clothes and deploying surveying equipment. Today there was only the wind and vagueness. Why here? he wondered. Why not five miles in one direction or another? The land was so desolate; what difference could it have possibly made? Frank laughed. People probably fought over this useless piece of shit. People always fight over useless things. Good god, that’s how wars are started. He has it and you don’t: Saddle up!

There was perhaps another mile to the checkpoint on a two-lane road that just as easily could have been the unencumbered main line to nowhere. It was a barren landscape. You could roll off the road and not hit anything for a hundred yards. Later there would be mountains to reckon with. But here? Kid stuff.

The first of a half-dozen houses sprang into view on his right, then a singular gas station that also had a section that served as a store. He imagined that something on the order of a post office was inside. Doubtless during those times when the snow was up to your ass the locals would gather here and shoot the shit for hours. Just like in the movies.

With the gas gauge on half-empty, Frank figured he could continue, but why chance it? He reached the entrance to a dirt lot in front of the gas station, made a swooping right turn and pulled up to a set of self-service pumps. He pumped ten metric gallons into the tank, and then walked to the station to drain his own radiator. A bell rang as he opened the front door – as if the owner would be unaware of the three people who might have stopped in any given 30 minutes.

The wooden floor creaked comfortably as he walked inside where light was provided mainly by windows on all walls. Ancient signs served as decorations and it was apparent that housekeeping was a minor concern. There was a woman behind a counter, ready to sell you all manner of candies, cakes, cigarettes, even condoms, should your testosterone hit epic levels – and opportunities -- in the next hundred miles. He located the one-size-fits-all restroom in the back, went in and relieved himself.

Back at the counter the woman smiled.

Headed south? she inquired with some cheer.

Frank looked at her, froze momentarily, and then offered, Uh, yeah. Right. I’m heading all the way to Great Falls.

Wow.

Yeah, I’m guessing that should eat up the whole day. Long drive.

Eh-yuh. When you get down to the mountains you’ll be all by yourself. No radio stations anywhere. Got any tapes?

A few. Pretty old, though.

I have a few newer ones, she said, and motioned to the right with her head. You can check them out if you’d like.

Frank paused for a few moments. No, I guess I’ll be okay. But he walked over to the display anyhow, and spent a couple of minutes thumbing through the stacks.

Then he walked slowly to the front of the counter. Those are the newer ones, right?

Based on demand, the woman chuckled, which isn’t all that much.

Frank smiled. I understand. Then he said, The checkpoint is open now, isn’t it?

24/7, the woman said. That’s the law. There are two guys down there. They split the hours.

"You know ‘em? Frank asked.

All my life, the woman said. Allen would be down there right now. He can be a bit cranky. Probably is right now, so I’d keep it short. You’d think that he’d enjoy an occasional visitor, but he doesn’t. I like him, but he has this idea that he’s responsible for the entire border, especially people coming this way, and especially the kids.

I’ll be brief, Frank assured her.

Well, at least be friendly. You’re young and that will help, especially when you come back. She paused. "You are coming back, right?"

That’s the plan. In a week or two, I guess. Frank glanced out the window of the gas station and noted that the sky was growing darker.

Okay, he started. I need to move along…

The woman behind the counter stared at him. Twenty-three dollars and eighty-seven cents. Canadian.

Oh, right. Frank set the paper money on the counter and counted out the change. Right, he said again. Canadian.

He gave her a hard look, turned and walked out the door.

Frank had found that it never went away. The resentment for Americans. Frank had dashed up to Canada in the late summer. That had been through Vermont at an equally non-descript place of passage. And in the half-year since, the attitude hadn’t softened much; not overt dislike, but neither was it cordiality. It was that constant feeling of being watched, sometimes followed by rude questions: Who are you, anyhow, and what are you doing here? And then the stare, as if you were required to answer for all Americans.

The Trudeau government, contrary to the assumption of most Americans, did not encourage the flight of war protestors. Here and there, politicians made noises about closing the borders to the young men who were fleeing the U.S. Frank knew that and had personally experienced the friction, especially in the light of his own actions.

He felt a sense of relief as he climbed back into the truck and resumed the slow drive to the checkpoint.

Given the nearly non-existent traffic, the small, one-story building that was used to monitor people moving back and forth across the border looked just sufficient to do the job. With windows all around, one guy inside could be aware of any movement in all directions, and the one guy behind a desk was doing just that. He watched carefully as Frank got out of the truck and walked toward the building. It was obvious that a bona fide gate was not necessary. If you decided to bolt across to a foreign country, local state troopers would have a lot of miles to apprehend the offender, plus they could take their time about it. Travelers were obliged to come to the officer instead of the other way around.

Frank figured it had to be Allen inside the building.

It was.

Allen made a single attempt at courtesy as Frank entered the building. Hey, young fella. Bring the snow with you? The smile was just visible.

Not quite, Frank answered. If you’re lucky, it should move off to the east.

Or follow you right down 191. Allen, apparently, was retreating to form.

Frank fumbled in his coat pocket, finally retrieving his driver’s license. He handed it to the border official, who was now leaning on the front of a remarkably clean desk. Without the letter opener and a stapler and a phone it would have had no evidence of human presence.

Frank…Bixler. Is that right? Allen asked in his most official and irritating voice.

Correct.

"And where are we headed today, Frank?’

For no more than five seconds, Frank was tempted to not answer – unless he thought he could get away with a terse Go fuck yourself – but he replied, Great Falls…Montana.

Great Falls. And it’s still in Montana?

Looks that way, Frank allowed.

Both sets of eyes met ever so briefly, and not kindly. Three seconds passed. Then Allen walked with some deliberation to a credenza at the side of the room, whereupon he noted the license in a large book. He smiled with satisfaction at the effort, walked back across the room and handed the license to Frank.

Now that was a surprise. Usually border agents on either side just look at the license and then cast an intimidating glance at the driver, make you wait for a few anxious moments, then nod assent. But not here. Officious Allen.

Okay. There you are, he said.

Thanks. I appreciate it.

It’s what we’re here for, Allen said. He paused. So, you coming back this way any time soon? Another pause. When you get tired of Great Falls?

Couple of weeks, most likely. Got some business to attend to.

Oh really?

Yep. Okay. Thanks again for your help.

And with that, Frank left Allen’s question to float away into the cold air as he walked quickly to the Ford. He ground into first gear once more, waved to this semblance of official law, popped the clutch and burned a couple of inches of rubber on Route 191 as he headed south into the United States of America.

Chapter 2

It was a long drive to Great Falls, longer than Frank had imagined. Once beyond the tiny border town the only evidence of life was himself. Frank knew that the loneliness would sink in when darkness approached. Time enough – for better or worse -- to think.

* * *

The deal breaker, if he could call it one, was probably on Frank’s side of the ledger. He was the one who had opted for Canada in the summer of 1968. He was the one who had decided that it would make good sense. He was the one who had woken up one morning and said it was the best thing to do, if only for his own survival. He’d used that word: survival. Brit had just laid there, surrounded by rumpled sheets. There wasn’t much she could say, he had to admit. There wasn’t much she hadn’t already said. But the conversation still beat inside his head…

You’re not me, he had said. You’re not a guy. I’m 21 and I’m exactly what they’re looking for.

You think.

More than that, we know. Jesus! ‘You are hereby invited to take a tour of Southeast Asia, all expenses paid, travel included, with all the Gooks you can kill.’

Well, yes, Brit had said.

Well, yes! he had roared, and absolutely ‘No!’

What can I say? Just go. I understand. I really do. I mean you don’t have a choice. Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids you gonna kill today?

Right. And not this one.

Endless conversations. Not a few tears. Hands in the air. Here and there, thrown dishes.

Just kids. Had they been 35, a modicum of maturity might have changed any and all outcomes. Accept that 35, or something like that, would have negated the whole thing. He would have been a legitimate old fucker, and the issue would have been moot.

Sure, Brit had been sweet. She did have his interests at heart. And she thought the war was a crock. She thought sending kids as surrogates for old men to battle in a land that most people regarded as over there was beyond reason. Brit had been with him on the marches. She’d even helped paint the stinking posters.

The relationship was a beauty, even though they managed to quibble about most things. It was that maturity thing again; they were growing up together. They had met at one of those frat parties, where the main idea was to get thoroughly wasted on beer, pot, coke and whatever else was handy and illegal. It hadn’t been much of a meeting; Frank could only remember writing her name on his arm with a Magic Marker, later wondering what he had to do with a guy named Brit.

Eric Simpson, a fraternity brother, had also made a play. But Eric’s move was a disaster, to Frank’s genuine pleasure, especially since Eric was one of those guys who parlayed his six-foot good looks to winning most competitions. Frank liked Eric, but resented his dominance when it came to girls, because it wasn’t so much the idea of winning that Eric enjoyed, it was watching other guys lose.

Following the party, he and Brit had pursued each other with growing fervor, yet it was weeks before the first time. Not that it was anything to write home about. She had one of those bras that hooked in the front, which was very much news to Frank. He had finally said, How do you get this thing off? and she had laughed almost to the point where she fell off the bed. And for anxious minutes his raging hard-on disappeared. Brit came to the rescue with the very first blow-job of his life – and there he was, wondering how she ever came up with that skill.

But the relationship had taken. They moved into a fashionably small apartment just off campus. His stereo, her bed, that sort of thing. They walked to classes together and assured each other that this was for keeps. Soul mates for life, they had told each other. The sex was constant, if not particularly inventive. Nutrition started with a bowl of cereal, then lunch at the student union, and ended with whatever their basic stove could produce.

Brit was tall, with long brown hair, like the actress he had seen in late-night movies, and with a voice that was also a close match: she had a way of saying You silly boy that Frank loved. He prompted it constantly.

Still, the letter had challenged it all. Frank’s grades at Boston College had slipped in the two previous semesters, it’s true, but he was trying. He kept saying that. But by the end of the spring semester in his junior year he’d blown three of his five courses, and that meant he’d lose his 2-S draft status and its