Loose Cargo

By Keith Lowry

Loose Cargo //

A collection of stories that couldn't have less to do with one another.

America Calling

It's 1969. Two dudes. Two trips. Too much, man. 

The lure of the open road, the bright lights of Vegas & LA, the beauty of southwest America, a glimpse of M

• Language: English
• Publisher: Keith Lowry
• Release date: Aug 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9783981979053

Keith Lowry

Retired freelance cameraman/field producer/ author

Book preview

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Nineteen sixty-nine was one bewildering year. Nixon was inaugurated as the 37th President, the Vietnam war was still raging, the not so secret bombing of Cambodia had commenced, the Manson murders were committed, ABC premiered the insipid Brady Bunch series, and the Archies hit #1 with their horrid song, Sugar, Sugar. As if that wasn’t enough, fifty million viewers tuned in to The Tonight Show to watch Tiny Tim get married. All in all, more than enough reasons not to be heading south of the border… and yet.

Trip One

The Brass Ring

A warm, dust-laden breeze blowing in from the desert, hit my face the moment I climbed out to stretch my legs. Promising to stay within sight of the gas station we’d stopped to fill up at, I hadn’t strolled more than a hundred yards when the short burst of a siren announced the arrival of a police squad car.

What’s all this about? I thought as I turned to see an overweight State trooper, on leave from an episode of the Dukes of Hazard, struggling to get out of his car. Hitching up his trousers, he gave his best shot at a swagger, waddling around the front of the car to approach me on the sidewalk.

Well now, he said, with a scowl, setting his Smokey the Bear hat firmly in place. What chou all doin’ in our here town boy?

A quick scan in both directions detected no tv show pranksters posing as telephone repairmen or casual pedestrians, leading me to conclude the figure before me was the real deal.

"Well officer, I mused to myself, as a thousand potential responses flashed through my head. I think it’s pretty certain I didn’t come here for grammar lessons." Less than eager to see the insides of a small-town jail cell, I decided to simply tell him I was just passin’ through, gesturing to the gas station.

Youse got any ID witcha, boy? he asked, making a point of resting his right hand on the gun holstered at his considerable hip. With my only identification a driver’s license, I dug it out of my wallet and handed it over.

A Canuck huh? he sneered, before slowly handing it back. Lemme tells you somethin’ boy, he continued, clearly assessing whether hassling a foreigner was worth the paperwork it might entail. We’s don’t like your kinds of long-hairs here in Texahoma. Youse all just best keeps movin’.

Soon as we tanked up, we’s be on our ways, I mumbled with just enough western twang to not get me arrested, tipping my non-existent hat before heading back towards the station.

Having witnessed the entire scene from the safety of the driver’s seat, Ron was quick to ask, What the heck was that all about? when I got back to the car.

Man, that was something straight out of Easy Rider, I told him. Talk about a stereotype. I thought guys like that only existed in bad television shows.

I wouldn’t take it so lightly if I were you, Ron warned, as he started the car and pulled out of the station. Especially considering how you look. These small-town sheriffs, or whatever he was, don’t have a red-neck reputation for nothing. He could have easily hauled you in on some trumped-up charge. And guess who wouldn’t have hung around to bail you out, he concluded, as the town disappeared in our rear view mirror.

How I’d come to find myself in that one-horse town, began on a cold, December evening, five days prior. I’d just finished dinner and returned to the confines of my bedroom to relax and read the paper, when the disc jockey on the radio announced that he had a special message for any listeners who might be interested in going to California. I immediately dropped my feet from atop an old wooden office desk, and leaned forward closer to the radio.

Hey, listen up all you would-be adventurers out there, he said, after a short commercial for a local hardware store. Darryl ‘the Man’ Manning, your man of the moment here on the ‘Before it’s Too Late Show’,’ has got one heck of a deal for you, he continued, lowering his hyped-up radio voice a pitch. A buddy of mine is planning on heading to Los Angeles in a few days and is looking for someone to share the driving and cost of gas. He says he’ll be gone for two weeks, so anyone out there interested in trippin’ down to LA on the cheap… give me a call here at the station. Coming up next, a song from Winnipeg’s own Mr. Young’ off of his brand new solo album.

To discourage crank callers, Manning had purposely neglected to give out the station’s number on air. As the final notes of The Loner were fading out, I found myself dialling the number I’d found in the phone book, not having given much thought to what I was doing.

Hi there, You’re talkin’ to Darryl ‘the Man’ Manning, he answered, in a smooth professional delivery. Who do I have on the line?

We’re not on the air are we? I asked, surprised by the familiarness of his voice."

"Not unless you’re callin’ from another station, he joked. What can I do for you?"

I’m calling about the offer you just talked about… the guy who’s looking for a co-driver.

Right on, my man. LA here we come. I take it you’re interested?

Yeah, I think so.

That doesn’t sound terribly convincing, he said rather tersely. Look my man, I don’t want to waste my friend’s time if you’re really not sure.

No, no… I’m interested, I assured him. I’d just like to know more about it. When he wants to leave; what he thinks it’ll cost. Stuff like that.

Okay then. If you give me your number, I’ll pass it along and he’ll call you back.

Any idea when? I asked.

Probably tonight if I know Ron. He’s looking to leave in a few days so if you guys hit it off, it may be a done deal.

Uncertain about what I might be getting myself into, I nonetheless gave him my number, convinced I could always back out if the guy turned out to be strange. Resuming his professional voice, Darryl ‘the Man’ thanked me and hung up.

Just as predicted, an hour later I received a brief and perfunctory call, during which Ron introduced himself and suggested we meet that same night. Twenty minutes later, a car honked out front and I looked out the window to see a blue and white, Dodge Charger idling under a street light, its tail pipe spewing a huge plume of exhaust out into the cold winter night. I didn’t know a lot about cars but one needn’t have been a car buff to sense that the beast rumbling in the street below, was one fast car.

"Who the heck buys a car with an all-white interior?" I thought as I opened the door and climbed into the over-heated compartment. Did you just come straight from work? I asked.

No, Ron replied, acting as if the question had been meant as an insult. Why do you ask?

No reason, I lied, thinking the white turtleneck, sports jacket and plaid slacks briefly exposed by the interior light, had made him resemble a door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman. I guess I didn’t expect you to be driving something like this, I said, fumbling my way through an answer. Do you work for a car dealership?

No, he said, slipping the car into gear and driving off. I happen to be the assistant manager of the toy department at Gambles out on Regent.

Uhh huh, I answered, convinced things were not getting off to a good start.

I started when I was nineteen, he said, without being asked. And worked my way up to where I am today in only six years.

The news came as somewhat of a surprise. Not so much his employment record, as the fact he was twenty-five. Given his sartorial accoutrements, a bit of a paunch, and a slicked-down receding pompadour that would have made Elvis jealous, Ron could have easily passed for someone well beyond that age. Ten minutes later, as we pulled into the parking lot of the Red Top drive-in and searched for a vacant stall, it came to me that what with my being a long-haired eighteen-year-old, currently between jobs, "perhaps this wasn’t the best of matches."

So let’s get down to business, Ron began, once we’d given our orders to the squawking hostess at the other end of the speaker outside our window. You realize we’re talking over 4000 miles there and back, don’t you? That means we’ll be in each other’s face for long stretches. I’m not exactly a blabbermouth, and I sure hope you aren’t either, but we’re still gonna have plenty of time for chit chat. Any ideas on what we should talk about to see if we are even remotely compatible?

Politics and religion, I answered jokingly.

Are you religious as well? he asked, pointing to a St. Christopher’s medallion dangling from the rear-view mirror.

Well, I began hesitantly, aware that the wrong statement could scuttle the trip before it started. I do believe that some sort of deity must exist because someone or something has to take responsibility for all of this. I just don’t give much credence to the version the Christians have concocted. You’re not Catholic are you?

He shook his head and any concerns he might have had about my religious orientation appeared to have been mollified by my confession. Over the next half hour, comparative tastes in music, movies, television and books rotated through the conversation, with nothing emerging that could seriously endanger our potential coupling. What I wasn’t about to reveal was that I probably would have pretended to be a zealous missionary, avid Monkees fan or rabid consumer of Harlequin romance novels, if it would have helped to close the deal. So strong was the lure of LA at that moment, that even the sight of several eight tracks, which to my dismay included Gary Puckett, The Cowsills and Bobby Sherman, was not enough to deter my intentions.

In hindsight, it seems odd, not to mention foolhardy, how little concern was given to the fact I was about to agree to embark on a two-week journey with a virtual stranger, placing my well-being in the hands of someone who for all I knew could have been a psychopathic cannibal. But that night such cares were absent. What I did find myself wondering, as Ron briefly returned to the subject of his profession, was "Why someone would ask a perfect stranger to accompany them on such a trip? Doesn’t this guy have any friends?"

Not many people can appreciate how difficult it is to run a toy department, Ron was explaining in all earnestness.

I can imagine, I told him, at a loss for more pf a reply.

It’s no piece of cake, I can tell you that.

Hmmm,

As I sat there listening to him rattle on about the trials and tribulations of work, doubts over the wisdom of being in his company for two weeks began to chip away at my resolve. In the end however, it was simply the alluring prospect of travelling to the City of Angels, while simultaneously avoiding the depths of a Winnipeg winter, that won the day.

Sure enough, three nights later, there I was loading my knapsack into the trunk of the Charger at 10:00 pm, with plans to drive through the night. Partly because of the hour, and partly because there was still an element of uncertainty as to whether this was really going to work, conversation between us remained sparse in the time it took to cover the seventy-five miles to the border and cross over into America.

*

Themericans

As a youngster growing up in Canada in the 1950’s, there had been a certain fascination about all things American, whether it be it music, movies, magazines, or the latest trends. As far as music was concerned, Winnipeg had had its own array of good rock stations, but there was always something special about huddling under the covers with a little Mitsubishi transistor, tuning in to the staticky signal of late-night WLS in far off Chicago, that somehow almost felt illicit. American television was equally magnetic, serving up such delights as Leave it to Beaver, Horse Opera and The Lone Ranger, while Canada’s offerings included programs like The Friendly Giant, Mr. Fix It and Don Messer’s Jubílee. But viewed through that flickering prism, it was difficult to judge just how accurate the portrayal of Americans really was. It was just assumed they were a unique blend; sometimes buoyant and inspiring, as in their having gone to the moon; sometimes dark and depressing as in their grim adventures in Vietnam. Once old enough to drive however, our fascination with all things American translated itself into the urge to see for ourselves. That meant cruising down to North Dakota or Minnesota for the weekend. It didn’t matter how small or lacking in atmosphere a town might have been, the mere fact it was in the U.S. of A. somehow made it all seem so foreign. It didn’t take long to discover just how foreign.

Amongst the peculiar habits witnessed on those weekend excursions, one of the strangest was how teenagers would pack themselves into every available car, and proceed to cruise up and down the main drag in endless loops, honking and waving at each other as they passed. Although many seemed content to carry out this ritual for half the night, we usually only observed it for fifteen minutes before heading off to the bars, where unlike Manitoba, the drinking age was eighteen.

Evening gents. What’ll it be? a balding, middle-aged bartender had asked, his formidable, tattooed forearms resting on the bar.

A couple of beers please.

We have a lot of beers fella. Which one you interested in?

Unable to differentiate one brand from another, a glance to a neon sign above the bottle-framed mirror helped solve the problem.

Two Millers then please.

"Tap or bottle? he wanted to know, stepping over to the pumps with two empty glasses.

Tap is fine, please.

Jesus, you certainly are a polite little dude, aren’t ya. the man chortled. Where you all from anyhow?

Winnipeg.

Heard of it. Where is it exactly?

Try 150 kilometres north. In a place called Canada.

Fortunately not all Americans we encountered on those trips were as geographically impoverished as the muscular bartender. Somewhat paradoxically, among those we did meet, many had revealed that a weekend in Canada, assuming they could find it, was something they looked forward to.

Fast forward several years to a youth hostel on the shores of the Dead Sea.

So tell me then, a former Rhodesian, on holiday in Israel with his wife, asked rather haughtily. What’s the difference between Canadians and Americans? I always thought they were one and the same.

I’d met Martin and Sarah on a bus from Jerusalem, bound for the Red Sea port of Elat. Lured by the prospect of floating in the warm waters of the Dead Sea and exploring the nearby canyons, we’d decided to make a stopover in Ein Gedi for a few days. After a full day of adventures, the three of us had spent the evenings on the stony beach below the hostel, talking and staring up at stars that looked close enough to touch. Despite not having known him very long, I’d sensed a conservative edge to Martin. Thus it came as no surprise when the question about Canadians emerged one morning while we were in line for the buffet breakfast.

Well for one thing, I began, over the din of clanging plates and cutlery. Assuming there’s no difference between us and them is like lumping all German-speaking nationalities together. An assumption, by the way, I wouldn’t suggest making to a mixed group of said nationalities. It simply implies that the Swiss, Austrians and Germans are all the same.

If the frown on Martin’s face was any indication, my point had fallen short of its mark. Take this room for example, I said with a sweep of my arm. If all the people here were Americans, chances are the noise level would be considerably higher.

And? Martin asked.

And, I echoed, sensing he was still not convinced. Certainly not all, but a good many Americans are convinced the USA is simply the greatest country in the world. There are plenty of reasons for thinking that way, but the problem is that a small but vocal minority have used that to develop an insufferable superiority complex, one which has often translated itself into actions detrimental to other people, not to mention countries.

You sound like you’re running for something, Martin said with a grin.

Let me finish, I protested. For years, Canadians have been forced to listen to glib pundits drone on about how intimidating it must be to grow up in the shadow of the ‘great giant to the south’. We’re often cast as this quiet, reserved folk, who purportedly suffer from an intense, inferiority complex. I can tell you, I, nor any of my friends, ever felt under such a cloud of intimidation. The simple truth is that neither condition is warranted or deserved.

So you’re saying Americans are braggarts and Canadians are humble? Martin asked with an air of defiance. I always thought nationalism, be it American or Canadian, was the last refuge of a scoundrel.

Listen you two, Sarah interrupted, poking Martin in the ribs, effectively closing the door on any further rebuttal he might have been considering. "I’m