Two Greyhounds

Pointe a Calliere, Vieux Montreal. A woman is leaving the museum with two dogs on a leash. Their thin stripped-down bodies look familiar. We watch for a few moments as they sniff at distractions and strain at their Y-shaped lead. "Greyhounds!" says Yasemin.

My mind turns on the word. The Greyhound from Terrace pulled into the depot at dusk. Prince George was a rough town. The southbound bus didn't leave till midnight.

At a booth at the Depot cafe, I put my guitar case under the table, placed my order. Draining my coffee, I paid my bill and walked away. Remembered my guitar, hurried back. It was right where I'd left it.

In Quesnel, a sloe-eyed James Dean impersonator sat beside me. He was wearing those fashionable shiny black shoes with the elastic panels in the side and the crease marks across the vamp. The heels were high and narrow, like on cowboy boots.

I pretended to be asleep. At dawn we rolled into Cache Creek. He pointed to a poster in a shop window. "I know that girl," he said. "She's a model." Then he put his hand on my knee.

At the rest stop he followed me across the parking lot, caught his heel in a storm drain. He had to take off his shoe and stand on one foot to pull it free. I watched and laughed. Now I had the upper hand.

Back on the bus, he chose a different seat. Pleasantly alone with my thoughts, I rode the Greyhound with an empty seat beside me.