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