Alberta bound

It was 1979 or thereabouts. Just got out of my first stint in rehab. Nice place. Elvis went there more than once. In fact it was a favorite amongst the Hollywood and Memphis crowd. But there I was, thanks to a generous employee benefit plan and a doctor who was really easy to bullshit.

Rehab was a lark. They keep you stoned on the finest pharmaceuticals. Instead of scoring sketchy stuff from some dirtbag at the pool hall, you've got a registered nurse shooting government approved Demerol into your butt cheeks. 

Last thing the discharge nurse said was y'all come back now, that door swings both ways. Learned later that she wasn't joking, but at the time I just wanted to get on with life.

No sooner am I out and about than my buddy Terry comes up with a plan. He figures the best thing for me after a nasty divorce and rehab and all is to head out to Alberta and make a new start. While I felt a bit guilty about checking out on my employer after that lovely vacation, I took the bait.

So I gave my notice at work, dumped the contents of every drawer in the house into a hockey bag, left a note for the mortgage company pinned to the front door, and off we went.

Had to make a couple of modifications to the trusty Impala, the one with the Corvette motor. Terry wanted to take his Harley out with him, and since it was the dead of winter that meant trailering it out. Had to put on a hitch. Terry also thought a CB radio would be a good idea.

Departure day comes and we're Alberta bound with a CB in the car and a Harley out back. Had the recently released Gordon Lightfoot tune "Alberta Bound" on the cassette in repeat mode. We soon got into a rhythm. Terry had a taste for the Seagram's VO, so while I was driving he'd be sucking back the whiskey till he fell asleep. When he awoke, we'd trade places. He'd get behind the wheel and I'd get behind the VO. Only thing we ever used that CB radio for was to get directions to the next liquor store.

Somewhere in Saskatchewan we hit a spot of trouble. Middle of the night, middle of a blizzard, and a wheel-bearing goes on the Impala. Front right if I remember. First we thought it was a flat tire. We changed that tire in -40 blizzard conditions. Drove on a half mile and concluded that wasn't the problem.

Hitched a ride into the nearest town and checked into a motel. Had to wait till morning to get a tow truck. I dump all the crap in my hockey bag onto my bed. I got everything I owned in there, everything out of all the drawers, including whatever frilly underthings the ex had left behind.

Terry's watching this, and all of a sudden he gets a bit nervous, "Yo, what's up with the bra, dude? That ain't pantyhose, is it? And what the f#@k is that???"

Pretty sure Terry slept with his back to the wall and one eye open that night. Maybe didn't sleep at all. Can't say I blame him. After all, your buddy just got out of rehab... what other secrets might he have?

We got the bearing fixed next day. Motored on to the finish line with Gordon and Seagram's and the trusty 350 passing everything in sight. Alberta here we are!

I only lasted a few months in Alberta. Took that nurse up on the door-swings-both-ways deal. But from what I hear, Terry's still out there, and doing well.

Good trip, dude.