Canadian Abduction

"Hey, don't we know that girl?"

"Um, what girl?"

"That girl right there, BP, that Native Girl taking a stroll down the road!"

"Oh yeah... she does look vaguely familiar. Shall we stop the car and throw her in the trunk?"

"I think we should!"

I slow Ethel Mertz down to a crawl and pull along side the mottled black haired girl. She is looking up in confused disgust at the buildings around her as she walks with a school-issued map in her hands. Ms Iowa rolls down her passenger window, and I jokingly yell out, "How much?!" The girl whips around to witness our shaded faces. Lowering my eyes over the reflective midnight sunglasses perched on my nose, I gauge her expressively fearful face and say, "I asked how much?"

Stepping back a pace, then two, the Native Girl is speechless under the yellow, green, and red fall colored trees on the side of the library. Ms Iowa opens the blood red car door. Stepping onto the side walk, and slipping off her wool scarf followed by lifting her sunglasses, she states states, "Didn't you hear what I said, Native Girl? Get in the car NOW. We're taking you to Canada before classes start on Monday. Consider this the beginning of the end."

Native Girl, realizing we're from the same school releases a pent up sigh of relief, then climbs into the back seat. I ask her, "Where is your dorm? We're leaving now; you need three sets of clothes, a credit card and ID, plus a little naughty streak." I wink at Native Girl in the backseat.

Cheering up and relaxing, Native girl gleefully asks, "Oh, can I bring a friend along? He's so much fun." We agree, and we pick up pleasantly plump Montana Boy, then head north toward the canuk boarder. Once we're past the inspection station, I tell Ms Iowa to dig in my bag and find a red wig I had used for Halloween once. Immediately Montana Boy grabs it, securing it messily on his head. Passing a trucker, he proceeds to blow the corn fed delivery man juicy kisses through the window. It's going to be a wild night.

Arriving in Montreal, we promptly find an overpriced hotel room with 1/2 walls. Apparently, the French Canadians are more into the communal theory of sleep enhancement. Frolicking among the denizens on Rue Ste Catherine, we approach a drag queen dressed as Celine Dion (whom just happens to be the savior of Canada).

Looking at her dress shaped like the titanic, we greet the misshapen pop star, "Bonsoir," and hand her a flier to an underground party. In garbled french, she starts pointing with her lipstick down the street, esophagealy hacking out directions for us like she'd smoked for the last 80 years. Just then, in a drive-by icing, a midget in drag puts a large blue cardboard item shaped like a heart covered in rhinestones into the drag queen's hands. Someone throws more ice onto the Celine Dion look alike and starts chasing her with a shark. The drag queen puts a whistle between her lips and starts blowing, holding the blue heart above her head. Someone flips on a copy of "My Heart Will Go On", and the drag queen skips down the street lip-syncing.

Apparently, we had just been the victims of a random and brutal street performance. Looking at each other with curious faces, our mouths ajar, we all start laughing, and start looking for the underground party again.