We left the next night. I got to drive because Jim had found no sleep in Toronto and crashed in the back of Sub-A-Lub. Due to the volume of traffic; even at night, I had to hold the stub of the broken shift lever firmly with my right hand and steer with my left while shifting, braking and passing. This made it difficult to accept the joint when it came my way.
The highway between Toronto and Montreal was like nothing I had ever seen. Its official name was the McDonald-Cartier Freeway but most people just called it the 401. At times it was as many as sixteen lanes divided but, as we got out of Toronto, it was mostly two lanes each way with the oncoming traffic separated by a wide grass median.
There was a never-ending stream of red tail lights from the hulking eighteen-wheelers as far as I could see ahead of me and a blinding wash of white headlights glaring from an endless string behind me in the rear view mirrors. Sometimes a truck would flash its high-beams at the truck in front of it, dart out of the neat line and pull ahead of the leading truck. When it was far enough in front the truck behind would turn off all of its lights for an instant and the passing truck would pull back in line - then the now lead truck would tap its brakes in thanks. All night I pretended I was driving a big rig and learned to flash the trucker’s signals with the little lights on Sub-A-Lub. Here was one language that French-speaking Canadians and English-speaking Canadians could agree on.
Montreal’s morning rush hour was like driving into a demolition derby only everyone was driving more-or-less in a forward direction at about a hundred and fifty kilometers per hour. I didn’t mind being up all night. The weariness lulled me into a Zen-like state where I could sense the cars coming at me and swerve to avoid them before catastrophe struck. Those clairvoyant powers were nullified by the marijuana I was smoking. It made me somewhat paranoid so I tended to swerve and avoid cars that weren’t really there. Cut left, bob right ... serpentine! ... serpentine!
We raced by Pointe-Claire with Sub-A-Lub flat out - all of the other cars honked angrily as they flew by. “Vous baiser le connard to you too!” I hollered back; whatever that means. Then Dorval went by in a blur. Cut right, bob left ... serpentine! ... serpentine! Did that sign say St. Laurent? Route 520 turned into 15 and suddenly I was speeding through Mont-Royal. I shut my eyes and yanked the wheel to the right. The little blue bus shook and shuddered, shot off the ramp and weaved its way into the morning rush down Rue St. Urbain.
Merde! There were people standing on the white lines all over the streets. As the endless stream of cars roared past the pedestrians, they would look for a small gap and run from the curb to the first white line and then wait for the next gap and jump to the next line until he or she made his or her way across the six lanes of traffic. Nobody used the crosswalks because the cars considered anyone in one as fair game.
'If I could just slow down to about eighty,' I thought, 'I might actually live to write a book about it.' We careened left onto Rue Ste. Catherine and accelerated to keep up with the flow. Then, mercy! - A red light. Finally, I stopped in the right hand lane and saw that we were at Rue St. Denis. Miraculously, this was the very street that we wanted. I proceeded to turn right.
Pedestrians screamed and jumped panicking, pointing, leaping back onto the sidewalk; drivers slammed on their brakes and laid on their horns. I don’t speak French but I understood that they were not yelling pleasantries. It seemed that you could not turn right on a red light in Montreal. My violation frightened and angered them. Jim woke up, quickly assessed the situation and took over the wheel. I was out of a driving job and banished to the back.
In a few short blocks we arrived at the gates of tranquil Old Montreal. Jim turned left at the police station onto Rue Notre Dame Est and proceeded across a land bridge to number 1201 on the corner of Rue Montcalm. The three story apartment stretched the entire length of the block. The aging gun-metal gray paint was peeling in large sections and the wood structure had begun to collapse a little bit into itself. It didn’t look all that safe; not to mention the fire hazard. But Jim was excited to be here. He jumped out of the van and anxiously pushed the buzzer.
The door snapped opened and Jim’s step-mother, Clair rushed out to hug him. She was a thin, attractive woman about forty years old. Graciously, she asked us up and invited us to crash at her place as long as we wanted. We all plodded up the narrow steep stairs and bashfully entered her apartment. It was odd to see Jim with a woman, even if it was his step-mother. The flat was small with a kitchen at one end, an open bedroom in the middle and a living area with windows in the front looking down onto Notre Dame and across the Ste. Lawrence River to the grounds of EXPO-67; the World's Fair that had been so successful in Montreal the previous year. She made coffee and sandwiches for us. Clair was English speaking but served us strong French coffee and offered French made cigarettes called Gauloises. One puff of one of those babies was like getting struck in the face with a shovel. John wisely rolled his own. I wasn't as smart and turned greener with each puff.
A monk appeared in the doorway. He was short and sturdy with curly black hair and a trim black beard. He was wearing a coarse brown monk’s robe complete with a rope sash and sandals. Jim and the monk had a warm reunion in the middle of the room as we all sat and wondered. Jim introduced him as David the Candle Maker. He claimed to be a legitimate priest ordained in some obscure Californian cult and was allowed the title of Reverend David the Candle Maker.
When Geoff greeted him the Reverend stated, “I know you my friend.”
Geoff shrugged and said, “Far out.” It was obvious he had no recollection of him.
“It's alright my brother,” continued the Reverend, “it was back when I was my former self, David Harpine and I was operating The Trans Euphoric Express Light Show at the Afterthought. I remember you and I remember this string bean too.” He pointed at Steve.
“Cool.” Steve said with a puzzled look on his face.
“You two were involved in a bit of a fracas in the balcony. Let me guess ... There was a women involved.”
“Right,” said Geoff.
“And now you're brothers.”
“Right on,” said Steve.
“My friends, you do not know what fate awaits thee.”
The Reverend David the Candle Maker had come out to Montreal with Jim last year for EXPO. Then he had gone to California and returned alone to Montreal to have an affair with Jim’s step-mother or to escape a murder rap, I never really understood which. He turned out to be my guru’s guru. Jim seemed to worship his sandals even though the Reverend David The Candle Maker was sleeping with his step-mother. It appeared even gurus had needs.
Reverend David the Candle Maker took us all to his favourite restaurant, Le Fripon on Place Jacques Cartier in the heart of Old Montreal. The street was directly in front of the magnificent City Hall and was a mall for pedestrians only, closed off to traffic, with old-world cobblestones, massive stone walls and glorious statues everywhere. Some of these stones were rumoured to be as old as Montreal itself dating back to 1642. By comparison, Vancouver was barely eighty years old in 1968, having just been incorporated in 1886.
Le Fripon looked like a quaint French farmhouse yanked from its quiet countryside setting. It had a large awning and a sidewalk café out front on the cobblestones. We all squeezed in around a long table inside the dimly lit bistro and The Reverend David The Candle Maker ordered rounds of Kronenbourg beer. It was cold and it was fizzy and it poured down the gullet with ease. I listened as he held court, preaching about 'the white light', 'one' and 'God'. He was more eloquent than Jim and more commanding - and, he was buying.
Hey!