













  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
  THE THRILL SEEKERS
    by Joanne Reid
  =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  
  
    It was during the October crisis that we met them. We were 
  living in Montreal that fall, 1970, and we felt the barren fear of 
  the armed militia that stood on every street corner as we walked 
  around the old city, unable to afford to do much else. 
  
    We walked a great deal that fall, Sally and I. Especially on 
  Sunday mornings before the church crowd came out; it was so peaceful 
  then that we could forget that Montreal was a big city and in 
  trouble. It was during one of those Sunday mornings that we heard 
  the first of the "October Crisis." Someone had a radio playing and 
  we heard the news through an open window. 
  
    Next thing there were all those young men on the street corners 
  with guns nestled in their arms. Every time we passed one of them, 
  the middle of my spine cringed; what if one of them panicked or 
  thought we were the Rose Boys in disguise and berserk sent a bullet 
  ripping through our soft flesh. Of course, it never happened and our 
  soft young bodies remained intact while the armed men faded into the 
  background of walls and doorways, eventually disappearing totally.
  
    Anyway, around that time the first stages of disillusionment 
  began to settle in. The summer jobs we had lied to get were long 
  since over; we were not returning to university, having both 
  graduated with precious arts degrees. 
  
    "What bothers me most," Sally said, languishing in the window 
  of our apartment on Sherbrooke Street, "Is that it's so goddamned 
  dull. Deathly dull. Dull. Boring. I don't care if I never find 
  another job. Or another man. I just don't give a fat rat's ass." She 
  poured herself another glass of wine. It was a muggy fall and we had 
  taken to drinking very inexpensive wine while leaning out of the 
  kitchen window of our second storey apartment watching traffic stop 
  and start at the intersection below. We also kept an eye on the 
  people in the park across the street.
  
    Sally was the one who started the commentaries; the one who 
  got interest in the street; the one who made it alive when it wasn't. 
  She may have claimed boredom but she always claimed things like that.
  
    She was the one who spoke to the crazy man who, regular as 
  any civil servant, patrolled the bus stop, scolding in Yiddish the 
  people waiting for the 105. She would wave and call, "Lovely day, 
  isn't it," he would glare back, taking a few seconds from his 
  berating of commuters. Once, waiting for the 105 herself she smiled 
  at him from close range and received, as her reward, a surprisingly 
  warm smile, the only smile we ever saw from him. This particular 
  evening we were discussing whether or not we should move back to the 
  Maritimes when this red Corvette stopped for the light. I liked
  Corvettes then; I was quite young. I eyed the car and just as the 
  light turned green the passenger looked up and saw me. Sally was 
  away from the window refilling her goblet. He waved and I waved back.
  
    Sally moved toward the window. "Is our friend out there tonight?"
  "No. He's off duty for the day. It was a red Corvette."
  
    She shot me a look of disdain and resumed her reasoning for our 
  imminent return whence we had come.
  
    The Corvette passed by four more times before it hit another 
  red light. This time the passenger called up to me and I pretended 
  not to hear. The fifth time they parked the car on the side street 
  by the park. As they approached the building, one tall and lanky, 
  the other medium height and broad of shoulder, Janet whispered, 
  "For Christ's sake, you've really done it now. Attracted the 
  attention of murderers. And just as I was planning to go home." As 
  she spoke, she signalled out the window to the two men and shouted 
  down that we'd meet them there.
  
    The driver, the shorter one, gave us an okay sign and Sally 
  mumbled and muttered all the way down to the Greek restaurant that 
  we should already have been on the train to the Maritimes.
  
    I said nothing.
  
    As she opened the restaurant door, she whispered, "Sweet Jesus, 
  they know where we live. We're going to die here. I just know it."
  
    Up close the men seemed disappointingly ordinary. Out of the 
  Corvette, neither or them looked like anything more than a pair 
  of farm boys. I swear I heard Sally let out a little sigh; these 
  boys were not murderers, perverts, or interesting. Our fate did not 
  seemed destined, after all, to include front page tragedy that would 
  skyrocket us, posthumously, to fame. We sat with them and I 
  considered giving a false name but Sally introduced us before I 
  could say anything. Jim, the taller one, said he was from Missouri. 
  The other one was Rob.
  
    He drank four coffees and argued over whether or not we should 
  go downtown with them; finally we relented and invited them upstairs 
  for a drink. They paid for the coffees and Sally made a fuss over 
  some pastries in the glass-fronted counter, praising Al, the owner, 
  on his great food. Al was busy tucking packs of cigarettes on the 
  shelf behind the cash register. The dull-haired waitress made change.
  
    In the apartment the lighting was better and I could see 
  their eyes more clearly. Something warned me, when I looked into 
  Rob's eyes, that perhaps we should have left them on the street 
  where eyes like that belonged. They drank our last two beers and we 
  finished the wine we had open. Rob pulled a leather bag from under 
  his shirt and produced the makings for several joints, rolling it 
  expertly in one hand. I didn't know much about grass then but I 
  knew this wasn't just grass; this stuff has a real kick to it. 
  Sometime after the second joint, Rob suggested that we go out for
  something to eat but Janet flashed me her "let's stay here where 
  our bodies will be found sooner" look and I suggested we make 
  something to eat right there in the apartment.
  
    We did: stacks of peanut butter sandwiches. We watched the late 
  movie and smoked several more joints. Sally and I became 
  hypersensitive to their possible leaving. They were becoming a bit 
  of a bore. Finally Sally stood, stretched, and said, "I didn't 
  realize how late it was. I need my beauty sleep, guys. Time to go."
  
    They didn't make any motion to move so she said, more directly, 
  "Hey guys, here's your hat, what's your hurry." She was standing, 
  they were both on the sofa, and I was sitting on the floor between 
  her and them. Slowly it dawned on me that they were planning to spend 
  the night. With insight born of marijuana, I seemed to understand 
  that their plan to stay had more to do with inertia than with desire 
  for either of us. If Sally noticed any of this, she ignored it. She 
  opened the apartment door and said, "Goodnight, guys. Time to go." 
  There was an edge in her voice and they finally rose in tandem and 
  left. At the door, Rob said, "I'll call you tomorrow. Maybe we can 
  get downtown then."
  
    "Whatever," Sally shrugged.
  
    After they left, all pretense at weariness left us and we opened 
  a second bottle of wine. "Maybe they'll try to sneak back," Sally 
  said, "We better not go to bed just yet." But the Corvette was gone 
  and I pointed this out to her.
  
    "That car is an obscenity. A phallus on wheels. Why in the name 
  of God would you wave to someone in a Corvette?"
  
    "They were okay."
  
    "They're criminals. Dope dealers. Did you notice how they 
  planned to settle right in here?" I said nothing. She went on, 
  "Surely you could see it. They stay the night, then the next night 
  and in a few weeks they're running a full scale drug operation right 
  out of our living room. Then when the cops come, they're gone, and 
  we're in jail."
  
    "Of course. How could I have missed that? It was so obvious. 
  Oh, well, it would beat going back to Joggins and working in the 
  bank." 
  
    The next day we began to forget about the men and returned to 
  planning our lives. Just after six, Rob called. We'd been eating 
  soup and yogurt. Sally answered the phone in monosyllables. When she 
  hung up, she rolled her eyes, "They found a great little apartment 
  on Isabella. We're practically neighbours and they're coming to visit 
  around eight. Why did you give them our phone number, for Christ's 
  sake?"
  
    "I didn't." It wasn't difficult to figure out that they had 
  read the number off the phone set. Any idiot could see that.
  
    They came by around nine and we agreed to go for a tour of 
  Decarie Boulevard with them. The Corvette had been replaced by a 
  navy blue Ford sedan of some sort. Who noticed? Who cared? Back 
  before eleven, Sally smugly reminded me that she had known all 
  along that the Corvette was stolen.
  
    "First I heard of it."
  
    "It was so obvious, why bother mentioning it. But just for the 
  record, so was that car tonight. Guys like that don't actually own 
  blue boring cars. My God, that's something out of a blue collar 
  nightmare. I expected to find teething rings under the seats."
  
    "Did you look?"
  
    "I was afraid to."
  
    So it went for the next few weeks. A call every evening. Two 
  or three nights a week, a drive or dinner. Sometimes they"d drip 
  us off after dinner and say goodnight, sometimes they'd come in and 
  share a joint or two. Once we went to a movie. Always in the same 
  blue car.
  
    The last Saturday, they had just come to visit. Jim and Janet 
  were playing Scrabble. Rob was rolling joints. He finished and 
  putting away his makings, he looked up at me. "Can I stay the 
  night?"
  
    I said nothing.
  
    "I'll make it worth your while." I never did know whether he 
  meant in thrills or in cash. I moved to the floor to better watch 
  the Scrabble game. We smoked the joints and talked, sort of. Rob 
  didn't speak to me nor I to him. When they left, he hung back and 
  said, "I think you misunderstood what I said earlier."
  
    "Doesn't matter," I said.
  
    Alone with Sally, I raised the subject of going back to 
  Nova Scotia. "I mean, this is what our life has come to -- playing 
  Scrabble with fools. And boring ones, at that."
  
    "They are, aren't they. Once the initial glamour of the draft-
  dodging wears off, what's left?"
  
    "Draft dodgers? I thought crooks . . . dealers or something."
  
    "It's not mutually exclusive."
  
    "I don't believe it."
  
    "They are American. And the right age." She looked at me directly, 
  "Oh, hell. Rob asked me not to mention it to you because . . . oh, 
  I don't know. But he's worse. He's a deserter."
  
    "Bullshit."
  
    "He said he had to leave after killing a little girl in a rice 
  paddy. It was too much for him."
  
    "A rice paddy? Come on, Sally. How did he get from there to 
  here? Be reasonable."
  
    She wouldn't be reasonable.
  
                              *  *  *
    
    We didn't see the men again. At least, not officially. Toward 
  the end of November, I was on the bus going along Decarie when I 
  saw Isabella Street and got off the bus. I knew I wouldn't get the 
  job I'd applied for and I had promised myself that if this job 
  didn't work out, I'd go home. Jim had said their building was on 
  the corner of Decarie and Isabella. There was only one apartment 
  building on the four corners. I looked at the mailboxes, old names 
  on dirty cards, a blank, a fresh card that simply read "Smythe." I 
  rang the buzzer for five, the blank card. No reply. I tried Smythe. 
  If Smythe were new, he or she might have noticed the other new 
  tenants. Jim opened the door when I rang Smythe's buzzer and paled 
  at the sight of me. He waved to me, a get away signal.
  
    "What?" I asked.
  
    He came out into the corridor, "Go away. There's trouble right 
  now." He went back inside and shut the door. I left and never 
  mentioned it to Sally. At first I was frightened. Then embarrassed. 
  
                              *  *  *
  
    Sally was working again as a secretary in a law office. I went 
  home at Christmas. It was getting too cold to sit in the window so 
  it was a few weeks before we noticed the old man was gone from the 
  bus stop. "Someone probably put him in a home for the winter," Sally 
  said.
  
    "Or he died," I said.
  
    "It happens. He was old."
  
    "I'm going to go home."
  
    She nodded, "I think I saw Jim today."
  
    "Where?"
  
    "Atwater." She moved from the window. "He was waiting for a 
  subway going out when I came into the station. Across the tracks. 
  He didn't see me."
  
    "Was Rob with him?"
  
    She shook her head. "There was a pregnant woman with him . . . .
  Really pregnant."
  
    "Couldn't have been Jim."
  
    "Maybe it was. Maybe they were just a pair of farm boys after all."
  
    "Maybe the old man is in a nursing home."
  
    "Maybe." She sighed, "We'll never know."
  
                                 (DREAM)
  
  -------------------------------------------------------------------
  Joanne Reid is a freelance writer. After having dozens of magazine
  articles published, working for daily and weekly newspapers, she 
  shifted her focus to writing mystery and historical novels as well 
  as writing short stories in a variety of genres. She also teaches 
  creative writing. Email: jbreid@cyberspc.mb.ca or visit her page:
  http://www.freenet.mb.ca/iphome/r/reidpage/index.html or email:
  ===================================================================
  
