Saltwater Tibs Versus American Justice

In journalism there's what happened and then there's the REAL Story.

I wrote all this out on the backs of old yellow bank deposit slips. I occasionally find my account balance on the back of them, sometimes i write through them sometimes i write around them, I don't know why.

Wednesday night had ended on a keen note. My artistic efforts had payed me a sly sum of 20 BP Dollars. Mr. Tibs gains ground. A pint of Crown lies in wait in my belly; a predator of my senses, filling my head's bloodvessels with pulsating magic. Tomorrow's hangover, but I would have ten hours to recover on the bus, I was off to see Ms. Tea.

I hopped the bus at 7. The driver, an old veteran of the road, could probably smell the drunk but didn't care. I moved to the back of the bus. I didn't want to bother the only other passanger: an old woman on her way up the line, to halifax, and perhaps her grave.

At the ferry crossing we picked up some more wanderers, mostly ball cap wearing viking types. There was one middle aged woman, her face like the rocky coasts, travelling with her two loud, foolish childern. They stared at me while I slept.

We trickled along the TransCanada: a young man sat behind me. He listened to his music loudly, and I got to groove to his RHCP. When we finally arrived in the 'nish I was famished. I got off the bus and grabbed a coffee. While I waited for the bus to return I struck up a conversation with some fellow travellers who were kind enough to pass this poor boy a smoke. One, a man who had just turned 61 last week, had been thumbing his way across Newfoundland. An old hippie type who had a great taste in music and a serious apprication for Willie Nelson. His compadre was a cod blood, heading to Shediac on buisness, and had already spent 30 hours travelling. He wasn't going to make it tonight and he wasn't too impressed. I plucked a few strings to pass the time, and recieved no complaints. Thanks for small miracles.

I had a transfer and my Chili Peppers friend struck up a conversation with me. By the end of it he passed me a small plastic baggie with laughs wrapped inside. He couldn't find his black suitcase, but it didnt bother him. He had to get to Hali to see his dad. That seemed strange until he asked me my age. "I can drink in the States." I replied, maybe I shouldn't be bringing up this ancient history. He was but 15. I was astonished, he reminded me of John Clutch, bass player and all. When I switched busses and got settled the driver came to the front and asked "Is this bag anyone's?" It was black. Poor bastard.

The ride to was smooth. I passed most of the time being engrossed with an american novel about europe.

Wait a minute.

What the fuck was I doing on this bus crossing the border? Had I lost all sense? Time gave me space to explore my thoughts, my worries. In the end I decided that, OH WELL, at least I'd have an adventure to write about. The highway became arduous and I lost my breath. I couldn't retain it, or my anticipation.

"The don't take kindly to rum-runners in these parts." Someone said behind me as the RCMP inspected us. Walking up and down the bus, searching for something. They never said what, I found that kind of rude.

So I had arrived in just another town with big box stories, or at least that's what the highway told me. I then hopped in a cab to head to a hotel. Being a street savy, medicinal acid-freak I ask the local driver what events were happening as he would know the hot spots. Apparently, on a thursday night, the Rodeo club was the place to be. Line dancing and budwisers, not my kind of gig. He gave me a card for his friend's tattoo parlor, he did the best ink in town. I walk into the hotel, approach the front desk and instantly get The Raw Deal. Apparently these third world drug investors don't take kindly to people of my stature. The manager asked me if I was sure I had the right hotel, apparently their clients don't usually take the bus. Elitest Swine. Fuck these People. I turn to leave and as I close the door behind me i hear:

"Saltwater?"

I snap back. My neck hurts, cracked a twig. Her voice rises and sinks like the pacific. We embrace like old lovers.

We went down to the hotel's resturant, a strange spot, stuck between a rollarcoaster and a golf retreat. We ordered a bottle of wine, vintage 04, straight out of the california wineo-industrial complex. I ordered the ribs, she ordered the seafood pasta. I hadn't seen her since Montreal. We had a pleasant dinner, and got drunk off the wine. I am an admitted drunk and a lightweight. She, being a cute little french-canadien woman, was as well. We spent the evening flying over car exhaust and holding on tight to the steel patterns woven into the ceiling.

Whatever that means. Something about skiing?

**Transcript Section Missing**

Dammit! Why can't I find last week's deposit slip?!? Life's full of large gaping holes of nothingness, huge chunks of the narrative that simply go missing, or aren't remembered or weren't even there to begin with. Anyway, upward and upword.

The way back was quicker than I thought. Ever notice that? The trip to a place takes forever, the return not so much. The Road. Someday I'll write a book about it, someday soon. Love. I write enough about that as it is.

I am a self contained elixer of energy. Ebbing and flowing with the rotation of Pluto, filling the gaps in the awkward silences that always want to bear arms, but are disarmed with a smile. You are my time. Together we make an equation, but it never gets solved. Solve for X.

From the Judge's Robes,

S. Tibs

Part One


It didn't begin this way. This is by far the very MIDDLE of the story. But you've got to start somewhere.

It's Saturday Night, I eat, drink and be merry... but something has me wary.
The day had been spent plucking around a mall in brown ski pants, foraging for wonderous items our imaginations could never have had concieved. And why would they? It was useless junk anyway. And maybe it was this that had me most ill at ease. The profiteering and whoring of our lives into packages. Wholesale life, Coke tastes great.

After finally reaching a decision we made a precision movement to the south, or what we thought was south, since it was downhill. We kicked and hacked our way through a sweaty mob; those Saturday Morning Warriors eager for the first hint of gold, frankincense or a trip to see a middle-of-the-road actor's mansion in Big Sur, California.

We tossed some rocks and hit some pins to pass the time. Were we bent? Were we twisted? Only the Lord, who passed away yesturday, could really answer that. I can say that appriopriate measures were being taken by all members of mall security.

Finally, to the east, which was actually north. We exited the building, and it appeared that, in our absence, the weather had changed into bullshit. Many cars, whizzed to and fro, and some sat. Idle. Their fumes doing us no good. The engine, like an energenic puppy pulling on its leash, wishing to be free, and its hopes dashed by its master's foot firmly on the ground.


Part Two: The Suburban Eatery


We entered early, hoping to claim the most comfortable seats for the oncoming apocalypse, but waited instead. My mind was being occupied by the many possiblities of six (or was it eight?) colours. I began putting my "DO NOT WRITE BETWEEN THE LINES" education to good use and after a fashion, and a Schooner, I finished with an elaborate yelp. The waitress was impressed. I could enter my prize into the contest, if I was of legal age, and if I provided my phone number. I told her I didn't have one, foolishly not believing in those sorts of things, and said I'd give her my Agent's. So I signed it for her:


Saltwater Tibs
Age: 7
539-3207


Now with my feeling of accomplishment firmly beneath my feet I sat back down across from my companion, one Creon Fetcinni, and gaged the gaggle of goons. My back was sore, for we had not recieved our coveted section, and were placed instead within the eye of a terrible hurricane. I could not stand it. Earlier my Agent had sent me a request through the grape vine, so I had an obligation to see what sort of tumbling tulmult of shit he had brewing for the evening, and I used this as my excuse to bail.


Part Three: The Morning


I had arrived and with the passage of time found the king's treasure trove complete with crown and stout. I was welcome to it, as it was to me. Now with the fire in my belly I was ready to confront the horrors of the evening. My Agent informs me they would be sifting through the Saturday Night Discount Bin looking for ill-humour and good fun. I was not so inclined. This barbaric ritual went back to our forefather's time, and was nothing new to me. The sky had not lifted, the wind had not receeded from its vicious chariot so I gunned it over to my apartment, to unwind and rebend.

I found myself in a niche then. In a locked away, cloistered cell in my mind. Teetering over the edge again, wondering if tomorrow, there would be a tomorrow to live in. Egads! Is this what I've been reduced to? The Fear. The Fear of no tomorrows? Of not waking to see the freshly washed SUV's barrelling down the street at unsafe speeds, or to never buy my next can of flavoured sex musk? The Fear seems to be the fashionable trend these days, many hot young brunette's wearing tightfitting jeans and stylized belts are its cheerleaders. After all this is the generation, prophesied long before it was born, for doom. Yes, many people seem to be jumping on the emotion rollarcoaster these days. When they're up, the missles are overhead. And when they're down, they're in the trenches. But maybe I should disarm this mind bomb before it implodes in 5..........4.........3..........2............1........


Part Four: The Morning, Part Two


My Agent calls.
"Tibs, do you know where Hammerstien went?"
"What?" I reply, he knows I wouldn't have left this building since last seeing him. His voice sounded slurred, perhaps it was something in the air?
"He went for a piss. Never came back."
"Never came back?"
He interrupts. "I went running for him, feet soaked, carrying women and children. It might have been those flesh eating zombies, or worse, the police."
"Look I'll be over right away, we'll organize a search party, get MacArthur on the horn." And I hang up.

Outside the weather has changed. The rain and wind have stopped. The ice, gone now from the harbour for about sixteen hours, is but a dim memory. It is damp and warm now, almost humid. I keep thinking, Is this right for the coldest part of the day? I pick up my pace, as I approach his door a voice comes from the darkness "Who's that trying to get into my house?" I look over my shoulder and see Farrus coming at me with drunken determination.
"Jesus man, It's Tibs! Farrus, have you seen Hammerstien?"
"Hammered? yeah."
"No you goof! Hammerstien. He's missing!"
"Christ, let's get in and get this sorted out!"
"Be quiet, I think there may be women and children sleeping."
"I understand."
We enter into the porch light and climb the stairs to their apartment. We cross into the living room and there sits my Agent knee deep in gin.
"MacArthur's out cold! Farrus, Hammerstien's missing!" He says at an excited whisper.
"Have you tried Lucky Lucy's?" Farrus replies.
"No! You know I avoid that witch like the plague."
"Alright. I'll call her." He dials.
"Tibs, come in, drink this." He hands me the half empty of gin. "Sit. Let me tell you what happened."
He goes into great detail about his departure from the bar, about Hammerstien needing to urinate and not having the decency to go to the side of a building.
"So he just pisses there, under the archway! The trolls [read: police] were shooting down the road after him. I couldn't find him afterwards."
"Worthless swine!" I exclaim.
"Ok. Ok." Comes Farrus as he re-enters the room with the portable in his hand. "Hammerstien is fine, he's at Lucy's."
"Well, thats a relief. This general can now retire."

Crisis Averted.


Part Five: The Walk Home


On my way home there is an army base.
On the other side of the road is the Imperial fuel dump.
These things don't happen by accident.


From the Judge's Robes,
S. Tibs.