Silver Vans

The first inkling of trouble was not so much the normal lack of subconsciously feeling any vehicles passing in the opposite direction with their sleep-inducing noise passing rhythmically through the atmosphere. It did not quite disturb my road sleep, which, like a nursery tune, was soothing and peaceful in that place within the mind where the purring motor presence tells you that you have not left the road and crashed. The lack of noise that crept into that reassuring space of "Are we there yet?" world of car sleepers awoke me rudely from an on-again-off-again deep sleep. So I began to arise from slumber in the passenger seat of our black Dodge Nitro. Widespread Panic's Live in the Classic City CD played to the rapping beat of someone's hands that were not mine upon the wheel.

Arising from slumber and opening your eyes is a major commitment to accepting that there may be a reality you awake to that may not be a warm, cuddling feeling. No, a bad feeling that all was not well awoke me from some inner space of escape from such revelations, and I guessed I should have just accepted that moment of cosmos foretelling and prepared myself for what was forthcoming.

After all, many times in the past, I had understood that something, not necessarily what, was going to happen prior to it becoming a reality. It was a mixed blessing that worked upon its own schedule and not when I willed it to, like picking a winner at the racetrack or slowing down just before a speed trap. No, my gift was more a sporadic intrusion, and it now was intruding.

I, now semi wide awake and not wanting to leave the peace of sleep yet with eyes open, scanned the road, saw no approaching traffic, and felt relatively safe from any head-on collision occurring.

I said, "Hi, hon," speaking to my wife who was driving or at least tapping intensely upon the steering wheel with the focus of a professional driver bodyguard escaping a terrorist trap. "How it's going?"

It seemed a pretty lame question to ask, but I was a concerned passenger, interested in her driving well-being and wondering what had pulled me out of an enjoyable road nap on a summer afternoon. After all, weren't road nap outcomes supposed to be "Are we there already?"

"Damn silver cars," was the only answer I received back.

This muttering of annoyance from my wife totally woke me to the fact that we were slowing down to that point of full slowness, that state of one hoping things would speed up again but looking like it was going to become full-fledged stopping. That hopeful thought was entirely lost as we came to the untimely stoppage. I mentioned an untimely stop for anytime you stop while still in your lane on a highway. It was untimely and indicated that something was wrong up ahead, like a traffic jam or a driver dying within a vehicle and requiring immediate first aid.

At the same time, we had rapidly caught up to the vehicle in front of us, a silver van from Alberta, according to the red and white license plate. It had braked for the stopped B-Train chip truck in front of them, who was trying to air horn its way out of the way of whatever was in front of us all blocking the road. The mass of the chip truck blinded us to any visual heads-up of what was happening. Because this all was taking place just short of the crest of a hill, I assumed more vehicles were stopped in front of us upon the famous Crows Nest Highway.

While I could discern little from the passenger seat, I did notice large numbers of crows and magpies sitting upon the power wires, a sure sign of free wildlife food nearby. It was easy enough to find upon this stretch of road, where various suicidal animals from deer and rattlesnakes to wild turkeys threw themselves in front of all manner of vehicles clipping along at a hundred kilometers an hour.

Did someone hit one of the suicidal deer that offered itself up to replenish the ravens, mocking birds', coyotes', and bald eagles' appetite daily while destroying dinosaur-powered vehicles? I wondered.

Whatever was stopping us, the B-Train chip truck blocked our view like the closed curtain upon a stage awaiting the start of a play. The fact we were stopped in a non-passing zone only added to the drama. The wife added to the tempo of her steering wheel drumbeat, much to my dismay. So with the wisdom of husbands worldwide, I awaited for the curtain to rise.

Traffic from the west whizzed by us in the opposite lane, mocking us with their passage with that "Hey, nothing wrong with our lane, suckers!" dipshit smile, unhindered passing vehicle drivers and passengers gave to stalled or stopped vehicles as they raced to their next unknown junk food destination.

Generally, this twelve-mile strip of highway from the lake to town flowed like the wind without any stoppage, but today, we had reached a foreboding event and had now come to a complete stop in our lane with all forward progress stilled.

Silence filled our Nitro even over Widespread Panic playing loudly about a chainsaw to the spouse's impatient tapping upon the now-useless steering wheel. When one was driving, the steering wheel was like an anchor that kept you solidly within your seat through turns and swerves, while the passengers moved side to side as if on an amusement park ride, a ride my wife had pointed out to me many times from the passenger seat that I subjected her to on winding country roads. Now the Nitro's steering wheel was more a stress release object in danger of being abused.

So as my wife swore as only she can, intoning her mantra that some Albertan driver in a silver van coming to buy up BC land was causing the whole thing, and since we stopped directly behind such a silver van, I decided that silence was a blessing for me to continue with as a strategy right now until we could see what had occurred.

Then with husbandly wisdom, I would move us on, offer to drive while she relaxed, or take care of the problem in that way of husbands everywhere. Getting her out of the driver's seat was unlikely because it was her metaphor of the steering wheel being an anchor, and once she was anchored, I had to be very fast to regain the driver's seat. Generally, this occurred in that age-old drama of "My bladder is larger than yours." After a quick move during a piss break, the anchor was mine.

We had stopped at one of the many scenic spots along this stretch of the Crows Nest Highway, the provincial road now leased to a private company to maintain in that version of private contracting that leaves one wondering if the road would be there once you head back home.

The company that maintained the highway under an owner who did not live here acted sporadically for the care of the road when they felt like it. In fact, we had stopped directly opposite the entrance to the company's gravel pit. Here established for many years was a much deeper pit that was used to dispose of animals that did not cross the highway in a safe and sane manner. This carcass pit had the dead carcasses in it for the whole Boundary area and attracted scavengers of all kinds to a natural buffet of roadkill.

If you would get stopped on a highway, it was a good thing to at least be able to observe the interaction of man, machine, and animals, all working together for their common good. Obviously, the various birds and coyotes that were enjoying a meal paid us little attention. After all, we were stopped dead, and no one was shooting at them, nor causing them any alarm.

For some reason, every time I passed and looked at this scenic wonder, very visually noticeable from the highway, I thought of the auto body workshops fixing the damage from the collision of machine and animal or ordering parts that would not be in until next Tuesday. I thought of the insurance company working overtime, figuring out how to do the repair as cheaply as possible while the poor motorist was left wondering, "Why me?"

Okay, I did experience this once, or was it twice? You see, there was this interaction of the civilization and the wild happening in a carcass pit, spurring the economy forward in these troubled economic times upon their meeting on the asphalt byways that connected us all to the common good and bad. You might have noticed that I had not yet continued my spousal conversation, heeding my inner foreboding powers. Inner thought was the better part of valor right now.

Just as I was understanding this profound thought, I noticed a Pacific rattlesnake choosing that moment to slither up from the depressed shoulder of the road to bask upon the very thin asphalt shoulder the Crows Nest Highway in these parts was so well known for. He was directly opposite my side of the Nitro. It, the more peaceful member of the rattlesnake family, nonchalantly stretched itself out and began sunning itself, as if winter had just ended and this was the first warm day of spring. The rattler did not seem in any way bothered by the stopped line of cars and trucks that had now stretched as far as I could see behind me.

Just to make what I thought would be safe conversation, I mentioned the three-foot-long Pacific rattler to my wife, thinking she would enjoy seeing this wonder of nature herself. Instead (and my powers of foretelling did not once again warn me of any danger in this action), the wife calmly took in my explanation of nature's majesty, and then she volunteered me to get out of the vehicle, pick up what looked to me like a very contented and comfortable snake from its warm tanning bed upon the shoulder of the road, and walk with it to the head of the stopped line of traffic. If there I found an Albertan silver van or car that was the cause of holding us all up, I should politely knock on the driver's window and, when they opened it, drop the formerly contented snake into their vehicle.

You might now see why I was maintaining a meditative silence, for my loving spouse had come to believe that she was under a curse that silver Alberta vans and cars were on the road to annoy her to no end. I, of course, could only mention that silver was obviously the favorite color of Albertans, and in no way was this directed at her. If you are married, you can understand how the spouse did not take this wisdom to heart, and I was generally only rewarded with a "Not tonight, asshole" look for not following her advice on how to deal with this crisis.

Now there was certainly nothing wrong with Albertans. Okay, so they did use more of their scarce water supply than was prudent while pumping oil from the earth or separating it from sand while getting very rich doing it. Maybe their idea of pollution was more of the Texan school of business, "Do it than not if you can make a buck." Not to forget Albertans had a unique culture, which was very well seen at closing time at their favorite watering holes. True to their credit, they did have beautiful concert theaters, ice rinks, auditoriums, the Stampede, and, not to forget, the Rocky Mountains. As well as more silver-colored vehicles than seemed necessary according to my wife. All of which were trying to destroy her.

Still even with their faults of driving like beheaded chickens running loose, dropping a rattlesnake into their vehicle seemed a little harsh to me. I mean, ever since the continual recession, hadn't we all become brothers and sisters?

Now that Albertans themselves had become aware of just how much their petroleum industry was polluting their new richness, they had questions. Had this oil boom thing caused them to live in a "Is the water safe to drink?" province while their government had no regulations to control corporate rape and pillage of their Wild Rose province. Not getting many answers, they were escaping Alberta in droves and moving to BC, where real estate agents felt like it was like Christmas in July.

Most of these escapees fleeing in silver vans and cars traveled up and down the roads of British Columbia. At every stop, they jumped out to buy every lot, acreage, home, and trailer they could at high prices. Now this had been good business for those who owned the above-mentioned properties, but it had made it impossible for young British Columbians to be able to afford a home, lot, acreage, or trailer or even to be able to rent one.

Thus, the red-and-white Albertan plate had come to symbolize danger in BC, and the silver vans and cars that traveled the roadways of BC thirty kilometers under the posted speed limit were viewed as a cancer directly related to those fine banks, holding companies, mortgage houses, and other economic powerfully morons who had generally destroyed the good thing BC used to be and now complained about it.

To those of you who think I am saying BC was no longer beautiful, that was not the message. Personally, it was Albertans driving slower than necessary on BC highways because so many Albertans took their driving lessons in a flat lot behind a Canadian tire store. Anyone who could actually drive in Alberta was too afraid to take whomever he or she was teaching to drive out on a real road.

My cousin Harry lived very close to the Albertan border, and he explained it all to me. Now in all fairness, although he would not admit it, Harry did most of his shopping in Alberta because they had no sales tax and BC does.

Harry, a very aware economist, was not fooled by political propaganda and figured that the best way to deal with Albertans was first to shop there and then set up tollbooths on the Albertan/BC border and charge every non-BC vehicle fifty dollars a load to enter beautiful BC. So far, his attempts to convince his local MLA that this was a good idea had gone nowhere, but as he said, "Just wait till the real costs of the Olympics or whatever 'Hey, look at this, and don't worry!' great events have to be paid by the taxpayers." And he knew his idea would be seen in a better light. So far, Harry had not convinced too many besides family during weekend craft beer tastings.

Now where Harry lived, the number of homeowners from Alberta was three times the number of BC homeowners. Because they only came in the summertime or around Christmas, they had little use for increasing taxes, and so when a referendum came up to improve the water or sewage systems, build a hockey or curling rink, or buy a new fire engine, they turned up and voted against it, which had really pissed off cousin Harry as he had five kids at home and would like them to have some of the Canadian dream besides all the beer you could drink.

So Harry, who ran a construction company and had that kind of face that you knew was telling you the truth when he gave you a quote and invited you to please get another, knew that his two next biggest competitors always charged Albertans three times the price for anything and did get a lot of Albertan business.

Harry had a neighbor from Alberta who always told Harry that he and other BC folk who wanted all these expensive tax-funded extras should move to Alberta where they already existed and sell their parcels to Albertans who didn't need them. Harry's neighbor annoyed most of the locals because you could not have a conversation with him that he did not ask if you were interested in selling him your home and land if the price were right. Harry stewed over this every time I called him to say hello to see how things were going.

Then one night after all the Albertans left town after voting down the buying of a new fire engine for the volunteer fire department, Harry had just about as much as he could take. So Harry went next door and dug down to the sewage pipe between his neighbor's home and their septic tank and smashed it closed with a large rock and covered up the hole. Being winter, he said it was easy to hide the evidence with snow.

Harry waited for summer to come, and sure as there was more alcohol in Canadian beer than American, it only took two days, which Harry was amazed at, before his Alberta neighbor found that what was normally flushed down the toilet was now coming back and flushing onto the floor of his bathroom.

Well, as Harry explained it, he asked if his neighbor knew where his septic tank and field were. It was a question that not many people could truthfully always answer right away. So once it was established that there was a flushing problem and no one knew the location of the tank or field, Harry brought over his backhoe, dug up the yard, drained the field and septic tank, and installed a brand-new system in the amazing time of two summer weeks. Being a fully certified septic tank installer authorized by the BC government no less, the Albertan neighbor was out twelve thousand dollars, plus tax. Harry eventually bought the property from his neighbor when the neighbor's oil cottage industry collapsed from the bank holding the mortgage at a good deal.

Now the wife knew all about this, and using female psychology, she said, "If Harry were here, he would take that rattler and dump it right into what has to be a silver Alberta van or car."

Fortunately, I took two years of psychology in college, which, if nothing else, removed me from falling for ploys that challenged my manhood. So while thinking that Harry might do something I would not, I patiently explained to the wife that, under the federal protected status of endangered animals that the Pacific rattler enjoyed, I was not going to mess around with violating any federal statues, laws, or regulations. No, thank you, madam.

While I thought this was one hell of a retort, she opened her driver's door and looked me in the eye. Saying nothing, she got out of the car without another word, came to my side of the car, eyeballed and grabbed that contented rattler, and started marching up the road, quickly becoming lost to sight by the before-mentioned B-Train chip truck.