Canada

There I was, spending my night like I’ve been spending a lot of nights lately; playing The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess. I had just finished the Temple of Time, which was possibly my least favorite Zelda dungeon I’ve ever played. It’s boring, repetitive and tedious. I spent most of my time going through the same puzzles, which were far too simple and straightforward. Also, considering its late stage in the game, the boss was far too easy. After finishing off the temple I ran around for a while to snatch up a few heart pieces and such while pondering some of the reasons that I disliked it so much. That was when my phone rang. I was a bit surprised to see that it was Sarah calling because it had been a while since we last talked, so I quickly wondered what it was she could want before answering it. This is pretty much how the conversation went:

Me: Hey, what’s up?
Translation: Hey, what’s up?
Sarah: Hey, not too much. What are you up to tonight?
Translation: Hey, I’ve got quite a bit going on. However, I know you never do anything or participate in social functions. You're doing me a favor.
Me: Not too much.
Translation: I probably haven't done anything in well over a week. I can’t be sure because it's hard to tell time without events or a schedule to help keep track.
Her: Megan and I are going to Canada and Ashley was supposed to drive us but she bailed so I was wondering if you could drive us back?
Translation: Get your shoes on. You’re crossing international borders soon.
Me: Hmm, I don’t know. I don't really see what's in it for me. Seems like work...
Translation: It's late and I’m kinda tired. Plus I’m playing Zelda...
Her: Well, you have had my Wii for a couple months now and I’ve let you borrow it for free.
Translation: Seriously. Put your fucking shoes on or I’m taking the Wii.
Me: Well, I am using it right now, so I guess I kinda owe you.
Translation: Yes, masthta.

After I had gotten off the phone and acknowledged that I am, in fact, a little obsequious bitch, I got my shoes on and fortunately remembered that I would need my birth certificate to make it over the border so I found that. She called me when they got to my house and as I got to the door to go outside, Sarah was standing on my porch with a large flag pole that I was told to store in my house as it may look a bit suspicious going through customs. I put it in my basement, which is where it still resides as she has yet to take it back, while she went back to the car, and once I walked outside I was instructed, through a series of vague hand signals, that I was supposed to go around to the back of the car on the driver side. I did so, got into the car, and realized that Sarah’s friend, Steve, was also going with us. I had met Steve once before on a night when Sarah, her brother and I all went out to a club. My interactions with him are not completely aware to me as some of the night was apparently removed from memory as the result of a few regretful drinks I decided to have that night. However, from what I could remember, I did recall that he was pretty cool and had a brilliant sense of music, which was quite fortunate for me, as he was responsible for choosing the music that we were listening to when I entered the car. He was playing music off of his iPod and, although I didn’t recognize barely any of it, I enjoyed almost all of it. We stopped at Meijer before getting onto the expressway so that Steve could purchase a Father’s Day card (this happened the night before Father’s Day). Steve, Sarah and I all went in while Megan stayed in the car. He quickly found a card and shortly after having a quick laugh over a certain someone’s attempted suicide, I received some spectacular news concerning a couple people that I vowed revenge against at a party a couple months back. The details must remain secret (in case someone actually reads this), but basically they did my work for my by ruining their own lives.

As we were walking back to the car I began to prepare myself for the musical bliss that I was sure Steve would continue to supply, but that luxury proved itself to be only temporary since Megan had commandeered the radio while we were inside. I was then forced to brace myself for the onslaught of inexplicably popular modern music which followed. I unhappily endured the noise for the rest of the drive to Steve’s house in Detroit, not too far from the Ambassador Bridge, so that Steve could drop off the Father’s Day card and also get his birth certificate. He also brought back a couple text books, which become important later in the story. After running that errand we headed to the bridge.

Once we get to the customs officer at the border, Sarah is talking to her and answering the questions that they normally ask. Then, when she asks if we have anything to declare, she says no, but Steve decides to pipe up for some reason. He announces that he has several textbooks currently in his possession including, but not limited to, a Japanese language book and a book on how to write an essay to get accepted to a grad school. As Steve made himself look more and more suspicious, I forcibly avoid panic and instead convince myself to enjoy the humor of the situation. She then asked a question that could have lead to catastrophe; when she inquired if any of us had any weapons, Steve, who is almost a black belt, nearly replied “yes,” in reference to his hands. Thankfully he avoided that urge, but we were still asked to pull aside in order to be searched. As we began to pull away to the customs’ office, I began laughing quietly while Sarah and Megan asked Steve, “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Once we had parked in the designated area we were asked to exit the car while they searched it for items of interest. We were then told to go into the custom’s building, where we had to give our identification and such to someone and then we had to wait in another room for a bit. Sarah was becoming noticeably panicked, while I maintained my traditional insouciant demeanor. However, if I had a standing bench warrant for my arrest, as I later learned she had, I suppose I may have been a bit more apprehensive toward the situation. Although, I don’t know if I’d be trying to cross the border under those circumstances either so I can’t imagine it ever becoming a problem for me. Regardless, after waiting for ten minutes or so we were informed that we were free to leave, and so our trip to Canada continued. While driving across the bridge Sarah and Megan joked around with Steve about things he should avoid while going through customs. I briefly consider the potential hilarity to be enjoyed by shackling Steve (he’s black) and claiming him as a slave on our return trip across the border but I decide not to share this thought with everyone else since I don’t know him very well and there was a myriad of reactions he could have to a statement such as that, a solid majority of which could be devastating to my well-being (remember, he’s nearly a black belt, and may actually be by this time).

Once we got into Canada and reached the main strip we found a parking garage and then started walking around to find an acceptable establishment to enter. Being a person who rarely partakes in excursions such as this, I was a bit surprised at the scene. I’ve rarely seen streets so packed during the day, let alone when it is nearly 1 A.M. The ladies finally decided on a club called Woody’s Outhouse. As we walked up to the doors there were a couple bouncers, one of which, a rather tall and large man, told us that the cover was $3 for girls and $5 for guys. However, when I passed him he said that it would only be $3 for me, possibly because he sympathized with a fellow “big ‘n fluffy person,” or perhaps because he recognized me as the unfortunate hapless soul who agreed to come with great reluctance and would later be responsible for these soon-to-be drunken teenagers. Or maybe he just thought I was a girl. No matter what the reason, Sarah paid for me anyway, so I really didn’t care. Before we even got inside I recognized a noise similar to that I had heard a lot of in the car and I, once again, greatly disapproved of these sound waves forcibly entering my ears. Once inside I discovered dozens of people “dancing” to said noise. The reason for the quotes is because I don’t consider what those people were doing as dancing, but I realize that my opinion does not align with the opinions of most. Also, I’m not clever enough to think of another word to accurately describe it. Personally I consider the engagement in such activities more appropriate while under the dominion of psychotropic drugs much more potent than alcohol, but hey, that’s just me.

The girls quickly made their way to their bar and ordered and drank quite a few potions while I cautiously discerned my surroundings. Steve, meanwhile, had managed to disappear. Soon after they decided that they wanted to “dance” and tried to coax me to do the same, which I had no desire of doing given the absence of the aforementioned drugs. No, I had decided long ago that I was there merely for observation. I did agree to escort them to the “dance” floor, where I remained for several minutes, standing awkwardly in a sea of movement around me, to better perceive the experience. Then I decided to take a seat at the bar and grab a drink for further reflection, which lead me to several realizations.

As nearly anyone reading this will be aware of, I haven’t had the greatest luck in regard to relationships, due in part to a deep-rooted insecurity dating back to even before my first serious relationship which tends to cause problems. And then there’s my reprehensible desire to try to chase after the women I’ve lost. I was recently guilty of such stupidity once again just a couple months ago when I started seeing one of my ex-girlfriends for, arguably, the third time. We had not been talking for several months prior to this when she decided to initiate a sabbatical from our radio silence and called me. After things went south once again after only a month or so, I decided that I was correct in thinking that I shouldn’t be associating with this person for several reasons. Immediately following that was a major, but short, depression that ended when I made myself realize how much better off I had been since we had stopped communicating. But in the past couple weeks I’ve been thinking about her once again which has caused a minor clandestine sadness, but being at that club reminded me of the pivotal differences that made us so incompatible. I’ve obviously been unaware of her actions since we stopped talking, but back when we dated she went out occasionally. This night made me realize how appreciative I am not to be involved with someone who willingly participates in activities such as this, regardless of frequency. I guess I share the same feelings about dance clubs and the inclination to feel like a “hate camel” as Bill Hicks.

While I was thinking about all of this, I was also doing a cost comparison of the Coke that I had gotten from the bar. I believe that they served it to me in an eight ounce glass, filled mostly with ice, so I’d make the generous estimate that there was actually only about four ounces of Coke in the glass. That drink had cost me $2. Based on my estimation that the glass actually only contained roughly four ounces, after some simple arithmetic, that would mean that Coke cost roughly 50 cents an ounce. Now, I would imagine most people would compare the cost per ounce of that drink to perhaps a 20 oz. Bottle or a 2-liter since those are common volumes that Coke can be purchased in. I, however, decided to compare extremes. I had gone to 7-11 earlier that same day with my friend, Mikey, and he filled something called a Team Gulp, a one gallon red monstrosity whose name implies that it is meant for several people, perhaps a “team,” but he has been known to tackle the challenge himself. I own one of these myself, which has fondly earned the nickname of “Truth,” while Mikey’s goes by the epithet of “Justice,” but I had forgotten mine at a friend’s house a few weeks back and still hadn’t gotten it back yet so Truth did not join us on this journey. For those of you who are a bit rusty on your customary unit conversions, one gallon equates to 128 ounces. That is 16 times the amount of liquid that could potentially fit into the glass I was drinking from at the bar, and around 32 times the amount that was probably actually in the glass. Subtract a few ounces for ice and not filling it all the way to the top, and we’ll say that he actually only put about 116 ounces of pop in it. He paid 99 cents for this, plus tax, which came to a total of $1.05, which is the same price as freedom. He actually only paid $1 because the cashier just took five cents out of the penny tray to avoid having to make change for $2, but just to make it a more accurate comparison, we’ll say he actually paid the whole price. So, assuming that he had 116 ounces of pop and paid a total of $1.05, by dividing the price into the volume, we get approximately 0.00905, which would mean that he actually paid less than one cent per ounce. Now, dividing that price into the estimated 50 cents I was paying at the bar indicates that the Coke I was more than 55 times more expensive than the pop from 7-11. And this was without even having any alcohol added to it. I, once again, acknowledge that I am a little obsequious bitch, and then I move onto other thoughts.

(Note: I may be wrong about the price of the Coke at the bar. It may have actually been $4, but decided to give them the benefit of the doubt in order to avoid mistakenly making a greatly exaggerated comparison.)

When I realized that I was doing a mental cost analysis of a beverage, I knew I was bored as hell. Then I heard a most amicable sound; it was the unmistakable tune of “Sweet Home Alabama,” and once I had taken a moment to ensure that it was in fact that and not Kid Rock’s atrocious plagiarism “All Summer Long.” This was the first song that I could actually recognize as music since the last song Steve had chosen in the car. Unfortunately, the victory was short lived, as the DJ decided to mute the song whenever the words “sweet home Alabama” were being sung so that the drunken blob of people could all simultaneously screech their own rendition of the lyrics. The song was also cut off quite short, only having been on for a minute or so, before being replaced by more noise that I believe goes by the name “Soulja Boy,” or some ridiculous nonsense like that. The girls returned to the bar to have a couple more drinks and they were quickly accosted by to guys that had been standing near the bar for a couple minutes. They talked for a little while and the guys bought them all a few rounds before returning to go flail their bodies about on the “dance” floor. It was then I realized that I had been reduced to deafly watching soccer and baseball (two sports I don’t like) highlights in a Canadian bar while sipping on an exorbitantly expensive Coke. For the third time I acknowledged myself as a little obsequious bitch and decided to try to make the best of it. I feigned enjoyment while watching sports replays, hoping that this would trick myself into thinking I was actually having a good time. This plan failed immediately, and instead I just sat there and was forced to listen to some of the “music.” It was then that I devised the theory that most modern music had been haphazardly scrawled across blank pages of sheet music by Helen Keller.

The girls returned not too long after with their newly attained admirers, who bought them a few more drinks. Now, before this night my suspicions about nightclubs had only been postulation, but based on the circumstances of the people I was with and their actions I had attained confirmation and I composed this definition: Nightclub - a place where outside relationships seemingly don’t exist and the bounds of fidelity are stretched to their very limit. I wonder about what kind of borderline infidelities my ex may have committed while I was her non-boyfriend while she was out, with complete male strangers using her as the equivalent of a glorified, human humping pole. Then, once again, I feel relieved for having been removed from that situation.

Thankfully by this time it was approaching closing time which meant I would soon be able to leave the wretched place. The girls were still “dancing” so I decided to order another Coke. It was at this time that I had the good fortune to look down at the floor and see a Canadian $20 bill and, since most people had already left the bar, I assumed that the person that dropped it was already long gone. I picked it up, ordered my Coke, and when I tried to hand the $20 to the bartender, he waved it off and walked away. Within moments I had found $20 and gotten a free Coke. I felt like I was being rewarded for the suffering I had volunteered myself to endure. I finished off my Coke and then me and the gals headed out to find Steve, who had apparently escaped off to a pizza shop. Along the way I got to witness the dichotomous effects of alcohol; Megan and Sarah had been reduced to drunken blabber while two guys were yelling at each other on the street, one screaming at the other “Go back to fucking Michigan!” It was strange to see blissful honesty an arm’s length away from ignorant rage with both scenarios being a result of the same substance.
Once we had found Steve I generously offered to treat everyone to McDonald’s with the money I had found before leaving for The States. After we finished eating we headed for the tunnel back home which, as it turned out, was extremely busy. Megan complained about having to pee the entire half hour that it took to get through the damn thing, and when we finally did we luckily breezed through customs and stopped to let her go to the bathroom. After that both Megan and Sarah were asleep which allowed Steve to exercise dominion over the music we listened to, which I greatly enjoyed. His musical tastes can be described as nothing short of wonderfully eclectic. I had the pleasure of experiencing music spanning nearly every genre and style and made me realize how disappointingly narrow my knowledge of music is. The remainder of the trip was spent in this fashion, with Steve providing the music and me grooving to it, until arriving back at Oakland around 5 or 6 A.M. where I was finally able to get some rest (but decided not to sleep and instead jotted down some notes about the night that I wanted to write about; in retrospect, not the best choice.)

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