Tom’s red car – Objects in mirror are creepier than they appear

Tom Foote is a stalker, I think to myself, as I see him creep up behind me in his red Saturn. I take a photo on my cell phone through the side mirror as evidence, which is when I get the idea for this here blog thingy. We pull off at the next rest stop for a coffee and greeting. Back on the road, the comedy tour ensues. Myriad texts and photos are taken to entertain and document the journey, instead of actually watching where we are going.

Alex’s car from Tom’s P.O.V.

“Hi, Tom!”

“Guys, please look where you’re going – idiots.”

“48A.”

We get to exit 48A. Park my truck at the commuter lot. Pile stuff into Tommy’s ride. Check for passports. Double check. Check again. Gas up. Back on the road, on schedule.

“ABBA”

For entertainment, Tom has brought along The Best of ABBA – The Millennium Collection, with specific selections to share with me. He claims he bought it for his daughters, informing me that they were all into a musical called Mamma Mia, which is based on ABBA or uses their songs or something. But I think Tom just plain digs ABBA. The blonde girl, while very “70s” looking, is still pretty foxy, so it’s cool.

Other activities include practicing drum scores, ever-present rude jokes and making an hilarious (others might say, ridiculous) yarn of anything in sight.

“The Border!”

Uh, oh. 8:30pm. Lewiston Border Bridge. Don’t normally cross at this hour. Bummer. Traffic backed-up all the way on to the bridge.

“Border displeasure.”

“Tom naps.”

45 minutes at the border and finally we get through, kept busy by a round of border-crossing jokes, ranging from the ever-popular “eh, where’s John Candy, eh” to the more sophisticated “do you got any mooses in there” to “we bring you ABBA as peace offering to your country”. Not good, you chuckle to yourselves? Quite. We see a nasty storm awaiting us in the distance. I send Ken Constable, our host for the night in Toronto, a message to say we’re running late.

At about 9:30pm, a few `km’ south of Hamilton, driving in this wild downpour, we snap, and decide to record a little jungle music on my BlackBerry. (I’m hoping to sell a band sponsorship by mentioning BlackBerry in this blog)

“Uh. Are you people working, or what?”

A quick stop to grab some food at our usual. A closed store offers a silly photo op. A group of drunk, way-too-young-to-be-drunk, teenage girls stumble out of their limo and into the rest stop. We snicker. Prom season, it seems. Tom notices, and rudely points to a man who has something very wrong with his nose, or is perhaps just wearing a SARS/swine flu mask.

Back in the car. Dash up the rest of the way. Find Kenny’s Swank pad. Into the bar for a pint (which is handily downstairs in Ken’s building). Ken meets us on his way back from a party.

“Rockband, anyone?”

“Rock and Roll Tommy”

Beer and conversation flow, and we decide to get on Kenny’s Rockband video game. Tom and I are new to this but seem to score well, despite our inebriated selves.

“The Double-Balmoral.”

We crash out around three am (I mean, um, er, midnight, if you’re name is Doug Stronach), in plenty of time to be ready for tomorrow’s practice.
Breakfast. Practice. New music. Back in the car.

“Uh oh.”

“A Bit of Trouble”

Back at the border, we find ourselves laughing at the apparent doom that is overtaking the illegals in front of us who are trying to enter our country. We cross, with only a little bit of the usual “so let me get this right, you drove all the way from Connecticut yesterday, for a pipe band practice, and now you’re going back?” from our friendly countryman/border guard.

Back to 48A. My truck is still there, and not up on blocks with no wheels. Re-pack our stuff and say our farewells, and I’m homeward bound and only, um, er, 6 hours away from my bed. Sweet. Tom gets home about 30 minutes later. Bastard.

Double-vision

11pm. That is the “Connecticut Welcomes You” sign, typical when entering states. My camera phone captures it, blurrily, with striking similarity to how I’m actually seeing it at this late hour.

Home at 11:59pm. Record time. Work is only a few short hours away. I contemplate quitting the band.

The end.

Alex Robertson,
snare drummer,
Toronto Police Pipe Band (Grade 1)
resident of Connecticut, USA.