#edmerica

The sky’s dimming as train pulls into station. Walking back, I see Tony’s tent by the water, his scraggly self rummaging amongst it’s innards.

“Tony!” “Ed? What are you doing back here man?” “They denied me. Sent me packing. Not allowed through.” “WHAT? Those fuckers.” “Yeah. They say I need plane tickets or train tickets. An itinerary for my travels.” “Woah, woah, woah. That’s no fun. What are you going to do now then?” “Well, I’ll get an itinerary, I guess. Something bogus. Then try again.” “You know, I’ve got a buddy I reckon could sneak you across.” “What? How?” “In a boat. Under cover of darkness.” “Yeah…? Wait. No! That’s kinda fucked!” “You’re probably right. They monitor it pretty tight anyway. You can’t even go halfway over Lake Ontario. They come out with helicopters and blow you back over.” “Okay then maybe I’ll stick with the road!” “Well then we’ve got to get you your artillery!” Artillery? I think I heard him right. I begin to correct him but think better of it. I like the way it’s occurred to him. Bus tickets and planned routes acting as paper artillery against the border police. The weapons I have to wield if I’m to break through their officious barriers of bureaucracy.

Later, as we’re walking along the beach, we see an orange glow from within the trees at the top of the beach. The light spills out from behind the trunks, a whispered invitation spread across the sand. Lulled by the glowing trail, we venture in and find ourselves in a small clearing, where two men sit perched on camp chairs before a campfire. An open crate of canned beer stands to one side of them, torn cardboard hanging limply from it's neck, empty cans scattered at it’s base. Next to it is a cooler full of meat and a pile of finely cut wood. The older of the men has messy grey hair poking out from under a tattered baseball cap above a face of pale, but hard and weathered skin. The sleeveless plaid shirt, denim shorts and hiking boots look as old as him, loyally worn as a uniform and a second skin. The younger man is huge. His body is swollen and massive but holds itself loyally round his frame, hulking up where it can and leaving room for his limbs to move freely.

“Hey guys!” “Ey, ey. Who have we got here?” the older of the pair asks. “A couple young bucks found our spot? Our Friday night cozy. Every week we come here to meet, to drink and throw some meat down our throats. You see this big fucker here? Pops the scale at 280lbs these days. You wouldn’t know it, but he used to be a right tight 180.” “Yeah, I did. I climbed a mountain in Argentina like it was nothing. Ran right up it.” “Ha ha! It’s true. But now he just sits round guzzling beers and cock.”

Hang on. Where did that come from.

“Oh yeah, that’s half the reason we come here. It’s our rendezvous. We come down to Marie Curtis' garden and give each other a lip roast,” the elder says. “I mean I downright love giving a blow job, getting my lip’s round this dude’s pecker.”

He is absolutely nonchalant saying this. I’m not really sure what to think, but as I would later find out, this park is notorious for it’s homosexual activities.

“That's not all he's good for though. Hey- show them the trick with your eye.“ "Sure,” he laughs, standing up and grabbing a beer bottle from the cooler. He jams the bottle cap into his eye and squints hard. Like a great hairy knuckle, his eyebrow clamps down on the end of the glass neck. One sharp twist of his fat wrist and the cap releases a cloud of mist over his forehead with the satisfying pop of a piston. He spits the cap to the floor with his eye. “What the fuck!” “Ha! Fuck yeah!” “Now down it- upside down!” “Ha ha ha. Yeah, yeah, look at this,” he says, passing the beer to the elder. He gets on all fours by a tree, flips himself up into a headstand so his body is flopped against the trunk and his head's ground into the sand at it's base. One h's ready for the manoeuvre, the elder puts the beer in his mouth where he holds it with his teeth. He sucks the liquid into his mouth and up to his spastic and heaving Adam's apple, traces of froth spilling round his lips while his face quickly reddens. Soon enough the bottle is empty and he drops it from his mouth. “Ye-preaghh,” he splurts as his body slips off the tree and crashes to the ground. He rolls and shuffles himself into a sitting position, laughing and coughing, froth still bubbling down his chin. “Ha ha ha, give me another beer,” he says, picking up the empty bottle and hammering it on the earth.

His feat of true male power has bonded us all for the night and we sit round the fire drinking plenty of beer and talking plenty of tripe. I lose track of who's who- the fire take's on a persona, sitting in the middle, enchanting us with his ancient presence. The beer becomes a character, our trust in him so complete that he can bring out the truest versions of ourselves, utterly at ease with one another, even though we've only just met. At some point the elder presents a bulging joint of weed which serves only to increase the confusion. As we smoke, the shadows bounce across the trees, dip into the darkness and jump back out to dart between those bodies making grand gestures to one another and the flame, to feed it's writhing, smoky dance. It's becoming increasingly harder to tell what is what and I feel my tongue roll up inside my mouth and refuse to come out, unsure which beings it should be unrolling itself toward.