The Girl from Chicoutimi

               

They claim that if you can remember the nineteen sixties and seventies you really weren’t there. Well, I was there and, although the memories aren’t all happy ones, I still remember most of it. I suppose the fact that I chose alcohol over LSD, magic mushrooms and the host of other drugs being introduced and bandied about accounts for the stuff that is still floating around in the deep recesses of my aging brain. Most of my friends, at the time, were into smoking pot and hash. I don’t even smoke tobacco so it made for some uncomfortable moments at parties when joints would come out and every one was expected to sit in a circle and share the disgusting little spit soaked bundles. I didn’t want to be a party pooper so I developed a ruse that made everyone think I was taking part. The success of the deception had a lot to do with what I would say. I always tried to appear anxious for a turn, reaching out and saying things like, “Don’t Bogart that joint” or “C’mon, gimme some.”  When I got it into my hand I would pretend to inhale heavily on it, hold my breath for an extended period of time then turn away so no one could see me exhale, fake a couple coughs then turn around and say “Good shit man!” It worked every time. What the hell ,it was the age of Aquarius, the world was changing, the streets were full of bead draped long haired hippies dressed in fringed leather vests and tie dyed moomoos. They played their banjos and auto harps and sang about world peace and free love, demonstrated at every opportunity and looked like they were having a hell of a good time.

I considered myself situated on the periphery of their movement. I wasn’t really typical, my hair was merely longish and I had a full time job. I also didn’t buy into everything they were advocating.  I wasn’t naive enough to think that a bunch of kids with flowers in their hair would ever be able to slow down the enormous American war machine;  however, the free love aspect of the thing did have a certain appeal and it seems that I was not the only one who took the pledge on that basis because suddenly the once staid, conservative City of Toronto seemed to be turning into a modern day Sodom and Gomorra with gratuitous sex rapidly replacing the hand shake as a form of greeting.

It was during the first few months of that growing revolution that my wife at the time decided to take off to parts unknown with our infant son in hand.  I supplied the reason- I had been a bit of a rascal. I’d been roped into marriage at the age of nineteen when the rabbit died and I guess I felt that I had somehow been robbed of my formative roving years and that that afforded me a certain license. Anyway, as a result, I found myself single, footloose and on the surface, fancy free. I was not alone in my situation: several male friends had coincidently also separated or divorced around the same time. We formed an alliance of sorts, meeting regularly at local bars and drowning our sorrows in booze and allowing an all too willing cadre of free spirited women to cheer us up.

Believe it or not it’s true:  you can get too much of a good thing and that was the way I was feeling one Friday night in late summer as I sat with my friends around a large barrel-shaped bar at a downtown water hole called the Coal Bin. We were on our third jug of beer and, with the arrival of the off-duty secretaries from the surrounding office complexes, the place had started to liven up. There had already been a bit of excitement, a university jock had lost all of his front teeth to a single punch from a diminutive philosophy major during a dispute over one of the local lovelies and for similar reasons a man at the next table had taken out his lighter and ignited the tie of the man seated next to him. Just another night at The Coal Bin and although my friends were still into the madness and were out on the dance floor hoping to cut a weak one out of the herd, I had had enough. I got to my feet and waded through a sea of come hither glances on my way to the back door. I pushed the metal bar under the sign that read Emergency Exit Only and stepped out into the cool night air. The door slammed closed behind me and that was that, there was no going back. There would be no more easy women for me; I was hanging it up for good I stopped to urinate in the dark alley behind the club before walking out to the first well lit street then headed south toward the lake. In my inebriated condition I was thinking of making my way to Sunnyside Beach where I could get some sand between my toes and clear my head. I made it to Front Street and was about to turn west when the huge granite façade of Union Station loomed up in front of me. I stared at it for a while before it dawned on me that a train trip might add some real substance to my hasty escape plan.

I groped in my pocket for the huge wad of bills I had cadged from the till at the stables before I left for the evening. It had only been partially depleted by my freeloading friends at the bar so I was solvent and ready for anything. I entered the enormous marble hall and made my way to a ticket booth. There were a couple of people ahead of me and while I waited my turn I had momentary second thoughts about my plan. I was starting to sober up and thinking maybe I should just go home and sleep it off, but I dismissed the idea, it wasn’t that simple. Since I had become single, my little house beside the stable had become  party central. Lots of nights I would return home to find the place in full swing and have to fight my way to my bedroom through throngs of people I hardly knew. I stepped up to the wicket determined and ready to go. I was slowed down a bit when the clerk asked me where I was headed. I had to pause a moment- I hadn’t thought that one out. “Oh anywhere,” I blurted out, “Where’s the next train heading?”  He looked at me strangely for what seemed like a long time then said, “You look like you should go to Montreal but you better hurry, the train’s about to leave.“ I pealed a few bills off my wad, grabbed my ticket and took off running for platform # 5. Twenty minutes later I found myself lounging in a reclining chair peering out of a smoky train window watching the lights of Toronto disappear. I dozed for a while then woke up with a taste in my mouth like the bottom of a canary cage so got to my feet and staggered down to the bar car. Hair of the dog seemed to be in order. I was on my second Comfort and Collins when she appeared.

I turned from staring at my own reflection in a darkened window to discover a pretty black haired twentyish looking woman sitting by herself at a table at the opposite end of the bar. I hadn’t noticed her arriving. She had her hair pinned in a tight roll at the back of her head and was wearing a pair of those heavy horned rimmed glasses that were fashionable at the time. I found myself staring at her and caught her briefly return a glance over the top of the dog eared paperback novel she was reading. In keeping with my recent vow of celibacy I turned away and stared out into the darkness trying to figure out how far I had travelled.  

When I finally looked up to catch the eye of the bartender to order another drink, it seemed to be just him and me in the bar now, the girl had gone.  He knew what I was drinking and while he was putting it together the door to the ladies room swung open and the mysterious dark haired lady reappeared but now the glasses were gone and she had let her hair down.  As she sat down we exchanged smiles  and then she opened her book, pretending to read.  As I sat nursing my drink and exchanging furtive glances with her, I realized that she would have no way of knowing why I was being so standoffish- maybe she would think I was gay or maybe more importantly, because when I heard her speaking to the bartender they conversed strictly in French, she might think me a snobby Anglo.  My new attitude toward women aside, I felt it important to clear the matter up. I called the bartender over and asked him to invite the lady over to my table for a drink and some clarifying conversation. I didn’t want any misunderstanding about my sexual preferences and maybe I would ,in a small way, be able to bridge the gap between the two solitudes. The bartender cautioned me that the young lady spoke almost no English but as I looked up at him and he now appeared to have two heads, I figured that his caution was academic because after a couple of more drinks I wouldn’t be able to understand her in either official language.  After a bit of feigned reluctance, the girl allowed herself to be escorted to my table. After I got unsteadily to my feet to greet them, the bar tender took it upon himself to conduct an elaborate introduction.

I jabbered away at her in English for a few minutes while she nodded and smiled then we reversed the procedure and I nodded and smiled at the beautiful French she was lisping in my direction. Clearly the conversation, however enjoyable on my part , was going nowhere. That’s when the bartender decided to intervene; he took a seat in the booth next to us and with nothing else to do, decided to become our interpreter. He seemed to be taken with one of us and I wasn’t sure if it was me or the girl. Thereafter as we sped our way toward Montreal he was our constant companion facilitating our conversation while I plied him with drinks that he quaffed surreptitiously after checking the aisle for roving conductors. In what seemed like a matter of minutes we were pulling into Central Station with plans for the future becoming imperative. Since I had become a little unsteady on my feet I had to impose on my two new friends to get me off the train and find me some suitable lodgings.

I don’t remember much about our arrival and my departure from the train, just hazy snatches of being assisted by the girl and the bartender through what seemed like a long tunnel until we reached the check-in booth of a hotel.  From that point until the following day I can’t remember anything that happened.  I woke up naked in a huge bed in a luxury suite.  Later I discovered I was in the Queen Elisabeth Hotel. Before opening my eyes completely I groped around under the covers to see if I was alone. I felt a little disappointed that the girl from the train wasn’t there but greatly relieved that neither was the bartender. Then the alarm bells in my head went off and in a panic I dragged myself off the bed and started looking frantically around the room for my clothing. I found my jeans hanging over a chair and, praise be to God, my wallet and money were still in my pockets. Apparently my two new friends had been good Samaritans, getting me to my room then leaving me to my own devices.

I wasn’t  feeling very well so I decided to take my aching head down to the restaurant that the brochures on the desk said were located downstairs just off the lobby. I needed liquid and lots of it but there would be no more hair of the dog for me. As I examined my pale face and bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror I swore my second oath in less than twenty-four hours, no more drinking - I was done with it – it was over with- I would never touch the stuff again. I took the elevator to the main floor and headed for the restaurant. The place was crowded and there seemed to be only one small table available at the back of the room. To get there I had to walk past the breakfast buffet.  The sickening, greasy smells of overcooked bacon, ham and eggs wafting out of the heated counter were almost too much to bear.  Somehow I managed to get to my table without puking then hailed a waiter and ordered a large glass of ginger ale. The first glass was followed by several more and then something happened that I have never been able to explain. It seemed that the ginger ale was reactivating whatever alcoholic residue that remained in my stomach from the night before - my headache was gone and I found myself drunk as a skunk again. Over the years I have shared the story of this phenomenon with many learned people but they always say things like, “It couldn’t have happened, there is nothing in the literature to support it, etc.” I always reply, “Well, if I wasn’t drunk again, why did I stagger out of the restaurant and, noticing a horse drawn carriage parked outside the hotel entrance, immediately go out and engage it, bribe the driver to sit in the passenger seat then take reins and the whip myself and set off on a wild two hour tour of downtown Montreal?”

Having explored most of the inner core of the city, much to the relief of a traumatized coachman, I decided to go back to my room for an afternoon nap. The neon lights of a darkened city were casting a dim glow through the hotel window when I was startled out of my slumber by someone tapping me on my shoulder. It was the girl from the train; she must have kept a room key for herself.  “Get up. C’mon; you get up we must go.” “Go where?” I inquired. “You gave money, I got tickets, we must go now.”  Not wanting to seem overly inquisitive but conscious of the fact that I did not have a passport and my funds were not inexhaustible, I ask once more, “Where are we going?”  “You know,” she said purring, “Chicoutimi!” Before I was really fully awake, I found myself being assisted, almost dragged, out of my room,  ushered down to the lobby where I settled up for my stay then taken back to Central Station, all the while wondering, “Where the hell is Chicoutimi?”

I was still numb as we boarded the train and the conductor escorted us to a small private compartment where the fold down bed was already made up. “A bit presumptuous,” I thought to myself. I was about to comment on it when the train suddenly lurched ahead so instead, I pushed a crumpled two dollar bill into the conductor’s hand and sat back on the bed. As he closed the door he gave me a sly wink.  I knew I was going to have to do a lot of explaining to my little French mademoiselle and it wasn’t going to easy considering the language barrier. I had to make it clear to her that I was not up for any hanky panky. I was fairly confident that I had not forsaken my vows the previous evening at the hotel and was not about to be tricked into anything now. I was just launching into an explanation that involved more gesture than sound when she put up her hand and stopped me short. Then reaching into a bulky cloth bag she had been carrying with her, she pulled out a bottle of wine and two plastic glasses. I could have simply said no at that point and put a stop to the whole thing but what appeared out of that bag sort of astonished me and gave me pause. She was gripping the neck of a stubby little green Mateusz bottle. How could she have known that that cheap bubbly had been my choice of vino for several years? In fact, I had been collecting the spent bottles for some time in the hopes of one day gluing them together to replicate a fancy screen I had seen made out them at a U of T frat house.  Not wishing to hurt her feelings I accepted a glass of the pink sparkling pop-like stuff and we toasted each other, she whispering a lengthy phrase in sexy French and me with a “Here’s mud in your eye.” I guess the girl was anticipating a long trip because as we drained that bottle, another appeared out of her bag. As the train chugged on through the night and the hours passed we amused ourselves laughing at stories we told each other even though neither of us understood a word the other was saying. She seemed to be eyeing me expectantly but I was more concerned with how I was going to get those empty bottles back to Toronto to add to my collection.

I finally started to nod off; I had a headache and a tremendous bout of heartburn so I thought I better lie down.  Somehow I had to explain to her that I was feeling ill and wanted to be left alone. I resorted to gesture again and that was a fatal mistake.  I cupped her face in my hands and looked directly into her eyes for a moment then released her and with an anguished look on my face touched my aching head then pulled both hands up against my chest maintaining the same distressed look. I’m not familiar with American Sign Language but it seems I might have inadvertently conveyed a message of undying love. She responded instantly with some unseemly advances and before I realized what was happening, she had me on my back on the bed and was having her way with me.  She was very strong for a girl and there was no way I could fight her off. I was compromised but there was no way I was going to give her the satisfaction of my active participation, a gesture that went largely unnoticed since the violent rocking of the train seemed to be doing all the work anyway.

When I woke up the following morning, the train was creeping to a halt at a mist shrouded station in the heart of a town I presumed was our destination. My companion was seated on the side of the narrow bed we shared already partially clothed. She was crying and when I put my arm around her in a forced effort to comfort her she pushed me back roughly and mumbled something about going to confession. That explained the cross that had been dangling in my face during her recent relentless, unwanted assault.  “Maybe this standoffishness is a blessing,” I thought to myself as I retrieved the clothing that had been ripped off me and tossed around with careless abandon. “Typical,” I thought,  “All that abuse and now I’m the bad guy?”  She continued to avoid me for several minutes- not easy in the small confined area we shared.   Secretly, I was looking forward to the inevitable slap in the face that would end our tryst and set me free. Unfortunately that didn’t happen. Her conscience must have taken hold of her because, still weeping, she suddenly threw herself in my arms and started uttering what I assumed was an apology. What could I do? I let her lead me from the train and down a few blocks through the center of town to an old but well-kept white clapboard three story house. She took a key from under a brick by the door and let us in.  I don’t know how it was accomplished but somehow she made me understand that we were in her parents’ house and that they were both away at work somewhere. She didn’t need to spend much time making me understand what she was about when she went to another room and then reappeared with a rosary in one hand and a hat in the other. “You stay, I go confession.”

I didn’t feel very comfortable being left alone in a strange house but she wasn’t gone long, apparently the church being close by. In retrospect, that would have been the ideal time to make my escape but I still wasn’t thinking very clearly and didn’t really know where I was, so I stayed. In fact I stayed for three days. During that time, with the help of the few people we met that spoke a little English, I was able to piece together some background on the strange lady from Chicoutimi. Several months earlier, seeking fame and fortune as a model, she had responded to a bogus advertisement promising work in Toronto.  There was no work and she found herself alone and stranded in a strange city. Somehow, just as the last of her scant money had run out, she met a young bilingual photographer who hired her as a model. They developed a relationship and shortly after she moved in with him. They lived together for several weeks and during that time she wrote home to her parents saying she was engaged and looking forward to bringing her fiancé home to meet the family. She showed me several photos he had taken of her during that time, mostly in the nude and quite fetching. When, at some point, she received an invitation to her cousin’s wedding back home, she suggested to her photographer friend that they both attend but he had seemed reluctant. On the eve of what she thought was to be her triumphant return home he had unceremoniously dumped her. She took the train home alone and that was when we met.  After leaving me at the hotel in Montreal and going to stay at an aunt’s house for the night she came up with a plan that would save her the embarrassment of showing up at home empty-handed. If I was still to be found willing, I was to be her photographer’s replacement. I guess not knowing that I was a reformed man she thought she had better throw in a few fringe benefits as an inducement. I played along, met her parents and was invited to use a small bedroom on the first floor off the kitchen. There I slept alone, during my entire stay, under the watchful eye of her father. I only had the clothes on my back when I arrived. The weather was getting a little nippy so I was forced to buy some warmer duds plus I needed a suit for the wedding. I played my part at the nuptials and things went off without a hitch except when the man taking the pictures asked my advice concerning, lighting, depth of field etc., I had to fake a coughing fit to get away from him.

It was at the reception after the ceremony that things began to be a little uncomfortable. For the last day or so my presumed paramour, for the life of me I can’t remember her name, had been floating meaningful glances in my direction. Now as we sat at the head table she was all over me playfully grabbing my leg or nudging me when I was supposed to clap or laugh at the French only speakers. We sat beside the parish priest who had presided at the wedding and he kept giving me knowing winks. The confessional obviously was not as sacred and confidential as I had been led to believe. The realization that something more than I had bargained for was afoot occurred when the bride tossed her bouquet.  My girl made a leap worthy of a professional basketball player, snatched the flowers out of the air, pulled me into her arms and, at length, redefined the meaning of a French kiss for me. Later that evening, back at her house, just as everyone was heading to bed she took me aside and whispered. “I come to you in morning, they still sleep.” That’s when I knew I was in real trouble.  The lady was getting serious. She had heard the wedding bells and set her cap. Of course, even if I had been receptive, this would have been awkward for me; technically I was still married to someone else. And so it was, with the Girl from Chicoutimi’s best interest at heart, I waited until, in the wee hours of the morning, I heard the whistle of the departing milk train in the distance then slid the window open, gathered my few belongings and took a French leave.