Born to be Mild

The tedium of a Ta Ta Creek summer day was shattered when the 1958 Desoto pulled into my dad’s driveway. Rust bubbled from the paint on the doors of the old Dodge and from the top where a makeshift roof rack had been installed. A cloud of black smoke poured from the tail pipe. Rex and his friend had pooled their money to buy a 13 year-old junker they called Big Blue. Riding shotgun was a wiry guy named Skits, short for schizophrenic. I don’t know if he had that disorder, but if he did, he hadn’t taken his medication on this day. 

The long honk of the horn was my cue to join the party. 

Dad looked up from his newspaper and told me to be back at the trailer park for supper. He knew I was itching to break the boredom of being unemployed after graduating from high school. 

The Easy Rider soundtrack was blaring over the newly installed 8-track tape deck. As Skits sang along with Born to be Wild, I climbed over a box of O’Keefe’s and slid into the back seat. We called the beer High Test because of its hefty alcohol content. The smell in the car told me the case was no longer full. Skits looked askance at Rex, opened a bottle, and shoved it into my hands. 

“This dipshit only got the bootlegger to buy us one case,” Skits said. “You got some catchin’ up to do.” 

I agreed, thinking I would have chosen a regular beer like Lucky Lager. Not only would I be able to drink more before getting hammered, but Jack Nicholson sucked back a few in his latest movie Five Easy Pieces. Still, I knew if I didn’t drain a requisite number of High Tests, I would be called a fruit which was the worst kind of slur, next to being called a goof. If you were called either, you likely had to fight. Unlike the characters in Easy Rider, I was born to be mild. So, getting into a scrap with the young man sporting a cigarette behind his ear and an apparent mental disorder wasn’t on my to-do list. Besides, he had a reputation, having just served three months for assault. 

“Minimum security, man. Like a fuckin’ holiday.” 

I chugged a High Test and pulled another from the case. A nod of approval from Skits told me we were pals, at least, for the moment. Rex pointed Big Blue north, and the three amigos were on a mission, as Rex often said, to “keep it between the lines.” 

The road to Golden wound through some of British Columbia’s most picturesque scenery in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. Hundred-foot pine trees overlooked pristine rivers and lakes. Mountain top glaciers reflected a sometimes blinding sunlight. Through it all ran a ribbon of gray asphalt with white lines in the middle and yellow lines on the shoulder. Rex’s initial goal would be to stay on the right side of the road. Once inebriation set in, he would try to keep between the yellow lines, sometimes in the lane of oncoming traffic, sometimes not, but, on the asphalt, nonetheless. However, that wouldn’t be the biggest challenge on this trip. 

“I’m drivin’ half way, man,” Skits announced, as he pulled out Easy Rider and plugged Jefferson Airplane into the tape deck. 

“Car’s half mine - I’m drivin’ half the time.” 

Skits seemed proud of his rhyme as he joined Grace Slick as she sang about her drug induced hallucination.

Skits and Slick, I thought. A dangerous combination. 

The case of High Test was almost empty half way through the trip. Just one soldier left when we stopped in a small town to stock up. Like Rex and I, Skits was only 18, but he had taken his older brother’s driver’s license to use as proof he was 21. The ironically named Cosmopolitan Bar didn’t have our favourite brand. We were going to have to settle for something with 30 per cent less alcohol. Skits provided his quintessential review of the brew. 

“That beer’s for goofs, man.” 

Rex seemed defensive. 

“What else we gonna do, man? This is the only bar in town. If we buy at the liquor vendors, the beer’s gonna be fuckin’ warm. Besides, I got some killer mesc.” 

Rex’s street-cred for drugs was impeccable. He was considered a guru when it came to illicit stimulants. He sold a wide variety, and sampled them for quality control. Whether it was mescaline, acid, speed, or pot, capsules, tablets, or herbs, Rex had the cure for what ailed you. 

“And I got some really shitty black hash, too man - from Afghanistan.” 

I don’t know if it was Rex’s humble brag or the threat of warm beer, but Skits abruptly agreed to pay for a six pack of Lucky. Soon, we were back in Big Blue headed for the open road. 

I had never been stoned on mesc, or acid, or anything illegal. Sure, I had tried smoking pot, but without success. I didn’t smoke cigarettes so it was difficult to inhale. According to urban legend, or rural legend in this case, if you did mescaline or some of the other harder drugs, you would not only get high almost immediately, it would be easier to get stoned on pot or hash in the future. 

Rex counselled, “It’s always hard the first time, man, just keep tryin’. Besides, like, mesc is organic, it can’t hurt you.” 

I had heard that before. Having it reinforced by my guru after a few High Tests almost convinced me I was ready. 

Skits opened the glove box shortly after we got back to the car. He pulled out what looked like a black rock wrapped in tin foil. 

“Hash pipe,” he demanded.


“Aw shit, it’s in my other shirt,” admitted Rex. 

I expected Skits to provide his trademark macho response. Instead, it was an uncharacteristic moment of clarity. 

“No problem, man.” 

He quickly plugged in the car’s lighter. When it popped out glowing red, he crumbled some hash on top. He removed a Bic pen from his pocket which no longer contained the ink refill. Skits coughed as he inhaled the gray smoke through the empty plastic tube. 

“Holy motherfucker!” he said, trying not to exhale. 

Skits carefully handed me the pen and the lighter making sure he didn’t spill even one crumb of the Afghan Black burning on top. I inhaled and coughed more loudly than Skits, spilling the contents of the lighter onto the floor. I suspected I had broken some highly respected rule of ex-con hash toking etiquette and started sucking up. 

“Fuckin’ A man. Where did you learn to use the lighter like that?” 

Skits failed to acknowledge the accolade. 

“You really are a real fuckin’ rookie man. I’m startin’ to think you’re a goof.” 

Uh oh, I thought. A violent drunken stoner fresh out of prison appears to be calling me out!

Normally, I would have been reduced to a quivering mass. But, the High Test started talking. 

“You can call me a rookie man. I am. But I ain’t no fuckin’ goof.” 

I was struck by Skits’ instantaneous transformation from benevolent beer buyer to bellicose bully. 

“If I say you’re a goof, you’re a goof.” Skits started yelling.
“You want your clock cleaned?” 

On the surface, that might seem like an innocuous question. But comments like that were similar to “I’ll fix your wagon.” Of course, no one was going to fix a wagon or clean a clock. They intended to beat you like a rented mule. 

Rex intervened as we got to the highway.


“Okay, guys, time to change drivers.”


Skits’ mood again changed on a dime.


“Alright, I’m in,” he said, with a fist punching up into the air. 

I didn’t really want the felon behind the wheel. But I had no desire to be a jackass for lease with a pristine clock or a well maintained wagon. So, I sat quietly in the back seat, finishing my beer, waiting for Rex to pull over. 

But, that didn’t happen. 

“Okay, Skits, are you ready?” 

Ready for what? I thought 

Changing drivers would be done as we travelled at highway speed. 

Skits had learned a game from one of his prison buddies. Despite its shadowy origins, there were rules. 

Number one, the car had to be kept going at least 50 miles per hour.


Number two, the passenger riding shotgun must trade places with the driver at that speed. 

Number three, and this significantly added to the degree of difficulty, one of the two had to go outside the car to do it. 

“Right on,” Skits yelled as he rolled down the window and poked his head outside. 

He reached for the bottom of the radio antenna so he could hold on to it for balance. He lifted his left foot on to the passenger side arm rest and pushed so his right foot could go through the window to the top of the outside mirror. Skits dove forward and grabbed the top edge of the hood. He was soon flat on his stomach facing us, yelling. 

“Far out!”


I cowered quietly in the back seat expecting my life to flash before me. 

Skits suddenly lost his grip and slid down toward the front of the car. He jammed his foot on the silver airplane-shaped hood ornament and lunged forward. He kneeled precariously on the driver’s side with his stomach against the windshield and his hands reaching toward the roof rack. 

Rex’s view was now partially blocked. He slowly slid sideways toward the passenger seat keeping his foot on the gas and his hand on the wheel. Big Blue chugged up a steep hill and began to straddle the white lines. 

With knees bent, Skits swung his legs through the open window while hanging from the roof rack. He twisted his body like an Olympic-gymnast and slid feet first into the driver’s side clumsily catching his left heel on the edge of the seat. His momentum carried his right foot to the floor. He took the wheel and hit the gas. Skits and Rex screamed with delight. 

“Fuckin’ A!” 

It seemed like clockwork. But, in a split second, a southbound 18 wheeler rose from the asphalt. And we were in his lane!

Tires screamed as Skits cranked the wheel to get to the right side of the road. We drifted sideways then backwards on the pavement. The semi roared by as the trucker blasted us with his air horn. Hubcaps clanged as they popped off the wheels. Big Blue’s rusty springs groaned in protest as she again veered sideways and crossed the yellow line into the gravel toward the ditch. We slid to a stop at the edge of a hill overlooking the tops of trees and a graveyard below. 

The car rocked back and forth and stalled. The smell of burnt rubber and a cloud of dust floated in the open windows. No one spoke. The only sound was my heart trying to leap out of my chest.

“Holy... shit... That. Was. Close,” Rex whispered, breaking the silence. “So fuckin’ lucky.” 

While we had survived, Old Blue had not. Skits stayed with her so she could be towed to a mechanic. 

Rex and I snagged a couple of beers and caught a ride home in the back of a pickup. 

I still had the shakes. Rex prescribed mescaline. I declined. Given my recent blunder with Afghan Black, I needed a more mundane medication, something reliable, like a time-honoured tradition worthy of Jack Nicholson’s approval. 

I reached for the last Lucky Lager. 

I was sober by the time I got back to Dad’s trailer. He complimented me on my beverage choice as I put the empties on the kitchen table. While I wasn’t old enough to drink legally, Dad was thankful I wasn’t high on drugs. 

I remained a hostage to monotony in the B.C. wilderness all summer. Rex offered a variety of remedies. But, Lucky was always my antidote for boredom.