'What did you do today?' is a question my mom might ask me... short, civil and only as familiar as I (the respondent) want it to be. For most people who've at least met before, it's an easy attempt to get to know one another. A conversation builder. Something to open up the sharing of one-self or point of view.. on the everyday things we all share. It (the question) can lead to more involved topics or deeper analysis and critique of what went on, or - as is the case for my mom and I - something to end in a few words of disinterested answer; so both parties can move on with their days, but also feign polite.
The same question, however, when posed from across a long wooden table by a couple of strangers in police uniforms - who may or may not suspect you of kidnapping and murder – sounds out in a tone that has you take a slightly more considerate approach in response.*
*The details of which, apparently of actual interest to these officers (or at least enough so as the three of us can sit together and scrutinize them for potentially many hours to come).
I am 17 years old and guilty; but only somewhat...
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FACT #1.
Wasaga Beach is a place that, at the superficial glance of a summer weekender, seems either a kitschy leftover of 1950s car culture or a place for shit-bags to drink and fuck lots-and-lots. Either observation is a perfectly valid one. And it is, in many ways, these two things that separates this place where I once lived from the countless other small and monotonous towns in-and-around the Georgian Triangle of Southern Ontario.
FACT #2.
The 1987 Ford Tempo is a great American automobile.
Mine was navy blue, and very much the piece-of-shit-hand-me-down-on-its-last-legs you might expect it was. It smelled, it screeched and it broke down; but it was a car. It meant not having to ride the bus to school everyday.
One of the back windows would never roll up all the way, but that was fine, because exhaust fumes leaked into the back seat constantly, most likely from the trunk (which was apparently unbearable to be in for long periods); so the fresh air was appreciated.
The power steering was busted - a surprisingly useful feature when making hairpin turns in suburban streets - and the automatic transmission would sometimes hiccup during shifts - which did a disservice to the Steve McQueen-in-'Bullitt' kind of vibe I'd be going for when chasing down 'runners.'
One time I ran over Tyler Brown in it, but the tires didn't have enough pressure in them to do any serious damage. I thought I had run over his head... but instead he got up with only a few scrapes and tread marks on his arm, and then punched me in the face.*
*He was a bit of a dickhead.
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The '87 Tempo was my grandma’s car really, and I only had it because she was suddenly too old to drive and I needed something to get to-and-from my co-op in; at a Roger's television station somewhere between where I lived and where I went to high school (Collingwood). But it was also an escape from small towns...
Despite all the mechanical issues, it got me to all-ages punk shows.. to proper movie theatres.. to friend's houses.. to more food choices, extracurricular activities and less boredom.
I loved that shitty car!*
*Without it however, I wouldn't be sitting at a long wooden table with the PO-lice and shittting myself trying to figure out just how much they know.
[to be continued..]
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