There's no big bang and there's no big mess

I've been known to do stupid things or undertake gambles that I should not dare contemplate. Last night, as me and Max parted ways with Vince at Mexicali Rosa's, I exclaimed 'Oh yeah, I've got at least enough gas left in my car to take us to Casselman. We'll gas up there." As it turns out, my claim was correct. As we approached Casselman, I was beaming with pride, happy to see that my barely-considered presumption was turning to fact. What I did not bank on however, was that a mess of cones and construction work would confuse the hell out of me and make me drive right past the much-sought-after exit. As the reality of what had just happened settled in, I thought to myself: 'alright, this is a minor setback. If I made it this far, I can surely make it to the next exit." This is where things go slightly awry and my idiotic assumptions turn to... well, idiocy.

My car runs out of gas, pretty much in the middle of nowhere. Fun. So me and Max do the only thing we can do: we start walking to the next town with our arms extended and our thumbs shooting up to the sky. A few minutes go by and a moderately large transport truck stops on the side of the road abit up ahead of us. As we hastened our pace and set out towards the red glare of the truck's rear lights, we contemplated the scenarios that could potentially unfold as we'd open that cabin hatch and greet the faceless person inside. We arrived at the conclusion that friends should never ever hitch-hike together, because you never know when some sicko will pull a gun on you and force you to give your friend a blowjob as payment for the 'ride.' This would, without a doubt, ruin a pretty good friendship, but I digress. As we climbed into the truck, we weren't greeted by a depraved sex-fiend, nor by a machete-wielding maniac or any of the other uninspired stereotypes that we'd pitched on our brief trek to salvation. Nah, it was just a terribly nice, mild-mannered old man delivering newspapers to Montreal. He gladly gave us a lift to the next town over, which happened to be Maxville. We talked about the weather and gas prices. It was classic.

We were deposited at a gas station; an Esso if I am not mistaken. Now we needed fuel, this much was certain. We walked into the store area, identified the clerk and asked him if we could buy a gas container. He told us they didn't have any more, which was definitely a problem seeing as we weren't going to run back to the car with mouthfuls of fuel, nor were we going to do the old hand-cup trick. So we did what any self-respecting young men would do: we rummaged through garbage bins in search of makeshift containers. My fuck up and fate had reduced us to the level of raccoons. After a bit of fruitless foraging, we struck gold by finding a cage filled with empty windshield washer containers. Me and Max each grabbed one and pumped a few litres of our coveted substance into them. After paying, we walked back to the highway, plastic jug filled with gas in one hand, Kinder Bueno in the other. As we got to the highway on-ramps, Max picthed a brilliant idea. He suggested we run all the way across the highway, and then attempt to hitch-hike back to the car. And run we did, only to find ourselves in a pinch when we realized that both sides of the highway were separated by a treacherous swamp... a dark, treacherous and murky swamp. After much struggling, we emerged on the other side clutching our precious liquid, feet and pants drenched in gross highway swamp water. We resumed our walking and signaling. It wasn't long before a small firefly-esque car pulled up to the side. The usual debate about what exhuberantly gruesome method of murder would be employed against us by the car's driver was had.

As we sat down in the tiny automobile, the man in the driver's seat greeted us: 'Hi guys, I'm G but you can call me Che... As in Che Guevarra, he's my idol. You guys really smell like gas.' As it turns out, the man's name was actually Girison. He was a Guatemalan-born naturalized Canadian. He'd escaped Guatemala when he was young, after a stint in the Guatemalan Army. The high levels of repression and unmeasured violence he saw made him crave for better living conditions. He was a contractor who mainly did landscape work, but he'd had a career as a chef before. He also recounted the tale of how he became a homeless man living on the streets of Ottawa after his wife and four children had left him. He picked himself up and out of a life of poverty and hard drugs, started his own landscaping company and became the man he is now. He offered us Cuban cigars, but we declined because our gas covered hands were something of a liabiity, not to mention the fact that neither of us smoke. As we barelled down the highway towards my derelict automobile, our man Girison treated us to ultra-loud Eminem, 50 Cent and Kanye West.

We got to the car and we emptied the contents of the windshield washer containers into the gas tank, spilling quite abit on the ground in the process. Girison waved around a pair of bright orange construction pants at oncoming traffic in the meantime. He was trying to make us visible to oncoming cars so that no one would accidentally run us over while we fumbled around with makeshift gas containers. With the deed done, my car sparked to life and we were ready to resume our return to Montreal. We whole-heartedly thanked Girison for his help and kindness, to which he replied with a wink : 'Don't thank me, thank the big guy up top!' We quietly drove off with a business card for a landscaping company in our hands and a pretty neat story to tell in our heads.