it was a good deal, in an obvious way. As to the bevy of local charges, well, every one of us was a runner and no one planned on being around for the hanging.
Having done their duty, the Y.K. coppers cut us loose. False promises to appear had been duly recorded and everyone prudently went about his business.
Our business was in O.T., down on the shores of the Great Slave Lake. Our beer had been confiscated for evidence but it was an ordinary setback and not really a problem to obtain more, not even at 3 A.M. In Y.K., back in ’76, the coppers had set – tolerance, zero – even, for a ragged collection of barfly miners, deliberately bent on lewd and vulgar behavior. The law must be enforced. Life went round.
There were comedies. Certain incidents became glowingly important and took the lonesome from the sad futility of a man having to do time in the North Country. Prime motives for a man going north may have been a lost love and a dream broken and left behind, a helpless frustration or a shameful greed. An array of reasons but always seeking. I’ll keep writing.
One splendid evening, I happened to be sitting back, in the Strange Range Hotel, heavily sedated and bumming service, when I entered upon the company of a cute and fresh – cut whore. She told me her name was Nicole and she had impeccable tits. I chatted her up. “Girl. In this town people don’t carry cash. Everyone’s credit is passable. Cheques in Y.K. are legal and binding and good as gold.” The witless tart went for it. I assured her novice pimp that I was the man to handle his girl for the evening and that he should sit back and drink beer and in a short time I would return with his girl and a roll of dirty money. I gave the weasel a ten – spot. I took the pretty young maiden by the hand and we were on our way to the Giant Mine camp, for laughs, cheap tricks and general degradation.
The girl set herself up in an unoccupied unit, in one of the bunkhouses, hung out her shingle and proceeded to defile and debase herself. My, but that girl was a welcome bit of fluff and entertainment.
Now, while she never really did pull the Giant gold train, she did manage to satisfy 6 or 8 gnarly and snarly miners, old – timers too bush – bugged to appreciate the finesse and delicacy of the occasion.
Meanwhile, a mighty throng of us degenerates and perverts had gathered next door, to celebrate and drink beer and sing ribald songs. I was falling out so heartily, at one point I was actually concerned for my life. Hell, my heart was racing and beating hard and fast and death from side – splitting laughter seemed a legitimate possibility. Trauma leading to death from cardiac arrest, as a result of violent and rollicking conduct? I ruminated on it and studied on it and let it go.
Whatever would happen would happen. Those moments were beyond my narrow control. Because, who, on this great and green planet, could possibly crack a fat, while writing a fictitious name, on a worthless scrap of paper, to a whore? Not me.
At 12 P.M., the very next day, she pounced on me. Accosted me, Right On Main Street. She had just come flying thru the doors of the local bank. She had herself a fast look, right and left and there I was, helpless. She was seeing mean and evil. She commenced to scream and shout and jump about. “Motherfucker! Bastard!” She was some hot. “Cocksucker!” She was a rare beauty. “Son of a bitch!” She called me everything but a gentleman. “Asshole!” She was somewhat meaner than a stepped – on snake and all during this screed and denunciation she was waving a fistful of thoroughly good – for – nothing and useless paper in my face. People were stopping to stare and listen. “Animal! You fucking animal!” It was an extremely rude and graphic sight to behold, in Y.K. at high noon, in ’76. I felt unclean.
What I wanted to do, was, smack her a couple of good ones upside her head, rip her clothes off and fuck her righteously, there on main street and in front of all those townspeople.
I should have lit into her with a lengthy discourse on the ignoble wages of sin and how it was her lot in life, to suffer the indignities of being a woman, for being a woman.
What I did, was, hang my head, smile meekly and agree with her at the depths of depravity and beastility some men would sink to and stoop, to hold – up and hi – jack a real sweet girl like her. She walked away.
For a brief moment I felt like a nazi. But only until the cheap and wanton strumpet was around the corner and out of sight. Then I snickered and did a quick 2 – step, at having played a cruel and nasty trick on the deplorable little harlot.
I had no shame. I used that girl. I suppose she could have taken the whole ordeal as an object lesson, truth of a worldly nature, experience being the best teacher and solid reinforcement. Perhaps the empty – headed bimbo and her white - slave master profited in another way. Maybe today, her and her pimp run an exclusive cathouse or 2, somewhere across this great land Canada. Credit cards and cash certainly. No cheques accepted. Who can tell? Not I.
There were no drugs to be had in camp. “No dope – No hope,” said some of the men. I agreed with that stalwart assortment of desperadoes in Y.K. in ’76.
A poker game was hastily convened and the marks were invited and after a night of wild stake and wager, destiny decreed I should make the flight to Edmonton. Not only did I have all the hard line cash in my pocket, I had the cook’s return ticket as well.
There I was, the same morning, a mite delirious to be sure, standing shakily in front of a female ticket agent by the name of Darci, looking mean and babbling incoherently about how I had to make Edmonton for a conference and pretending to be somebody else. The girl never understood my jabber and gab and it was a damn good thing she never saw my eyes. I was wearing mirrors at the time and only a supreme effort let me see thru the glass and the hot crystal tears that burned so badly.
Had the girl have realized and recognized my near – terminal condition for what it was, the D.T.’s along with a cross – assortment of various neurotic disorders, well, she would have alerted security, which would have advised the coppers and if they would have let me on the plane, an emergency would have been created en route, the plane would have been diverted to an unassuming and unimportant airport and I would have been dragged off, scratchin’ and bitin’, to be dealt with, in some backwoods community that still believed in the rope.
Honestly though, the young girl had only wanted to be rid of me. I was an embarrassment and I was upsetting the respectable passengers. Hell, I needn’t have uttered a word, just that an uncontrollable rapture had come over me, to say something in relation to her normalcy and at having to deal with normal people, a circumstance which will never be part of my inner world and which I will only ever humorously be part of.
Y.K. Airlines let me board the plane but I was branded and the stewardess, Alex, refused to serve me alcohol of any persuasion. She wouldn’t even talk to me. I endured that flight south to Edmonton.
From my many years of prowling the streets of Edmonton, I had come to know an array and assembly of unsavory characters, many of whom would have been considered outlaws, as most of them had lived their lives in close covenant with the laws of Canada. Therefore, it was a simple matter to do a hare footed scramble thru back streets and byways, score and after 2 beer in the Royal Hotel, I was set and back on that same steel bird and going north, 4 hrs. later. My flight bag was crammed and jammed with a kaleidoscope of colorful hops and hopes and my sudden appearance back at camp was cause for much delight and jubilation and I was a magic man in 1976. I’ll roll some more.
How long did this madness go on? How long did I work that tomb and coffin? Maybe 2 mos. It has never taken me long to revert to my true calling, of being a heretic dissident or a maverick extremist.
One startling morning, deep in the mine, I had the good fortune to injure myself, in a non-life threatening kind of way. The shift
