 |
| ART IMITATES MAX: This is ChatGPT's response to my request for a rendition of Max and his new pal on the roadside near Burwash. |
As I was leaving, I stopped to tell one of my hippie pals what I was up to and I asked if he wanted to come along for the ride to Toronto.
He--let's call him Max--said "sure" and hopped in.
We were about 50 minutes south of Sudbury when Max and I got passed by a huge old sedan; the kind everybody believes dads drove in the '60s. We were right near a place called Burwash, which, at the time, was home to a recently shuttered provincial prison farm
Along the side of the highway were signs reading a version of: "Do not pick up hitchhikers."
Once in front of us, the driver slowed down a lot. So I passed him. He sped up, passed me, slowed, and I decided enough was enough.
I braked, steered to the shoulder and stopped. So did he.
A slender guy with long dark hair and moustache emerged from the driver's side; Max all but leapt out of our passenger door and went to greet the stranger.
After a few seconds, Max did a 180, and grinning, walks back to tell me: "He's got coke and wants to trade it for some weed. Open the trunk."
I had no idea.
My pal was carrying a whack of grass. It was not something I was happy about, especially on this trip; with me heading to my new magazine job.
Trafficking weed was serious. Instead of just stopping near Burwash, we could have wound up doing time there.
Here's what happened next.
I said, "Max, if you're doing a drug deal, I'm outta here."
He said, "Really?"
I said, "Really."
He said, "Open the trunk."
I did. He fetched whatever stuff he had, shut the trunk and I watched Max and his new business associate get smaller in my rear-view mirror.
That was the last I heard from him. For months.
One afternoon, I was in a place called Rower's Pub on Harbord Street with my new boss (and by then, friend) Jim Cormier and in walks tall skinny Max! The last place I'd seen him was Burwash. By the time we were in Rower's, I'd actually gotten to know Jim well enough that I'd told him a few Max stories. So Jim was sorta happy about his in-person appearance.
Max stood in the Rower's doorway holding a rifle. Max and guns were certainly not a thing. He was and I'm sure still is the world's most passive pacifist.
Turns out he was carrying the hunting gun because it belonged to one of his pals and he was just delivering it. As friends do.
Again. Good thing there were no cops around. But all that came of the Rowers encounter was Jim and Max getting to know and like one another. They were both at our wedding a few months hence. Jim was with his girlfriend Cindy and I forget Max's date's name. I met her for the first and only time at the wedding.
I asked Max how he and she met.
Max said, "I was walking westward on the north side of Front Street in front of the Royal York; she was walking east on the south side, you know, in front of Union Station.. And our eyes met."
Me: "Your eyes met? Front Street's very wide Max. It's huge!"
Max--with that same grin I recognized from the side of highway 69 all those months ago: "Right?"
I could write Max stories all day.
After I described the old movie The Mission to him, Max observed "my favourite movies are the kind you would enjoy even if you are blind or deaf."
One time, back in Sudbury, when I was a reporter at a newspaper called Northern Life, I was invited to a press conference to hear the recently returned-to-earth Canadian astronaut Marc Garneau. I invited Max. During the question period, Max raised his hand and asked "has anybody researched what astronauts dream about when they're up in space?"
I cringed. Oh Max.
Garneau politely laughed and said, "No I don't think so."
That was 40 years ago. Last week, I Googled "what do astronauts dream about?" There's tons of material on the topic.
Max was ahead of his time.
Why am I telling you about Max and the astronaut now?
Because I think (hope) Max might see this blog and get in touch. And he'll give me something to write about.
No comments:
Post a Comment