“Well, unless he goes back and picks it up,” Jane said, off-hand.
“Yeah. Why don’t you do that?”
“Fuck you!” He got back in his car and, as they drove past him, discovered what was missing. Besides part of his brain.
“Did you notice the little Canadian flag flying from his antenna?” Jane asked.
“I did.” Spike sighed. “Canada produces more garbage per person than any other country in the OECD. And that’s not counting all the shit that flies out of car windows.
“We are second worst when it comes to nitrogen oxide emissions, we are second worst when it comes to sulphur oxide emissions, we are second worst when it comes to greenhouse gas emissions, and we are dead last when it comes to volatile organic compound emissions.
“We consume more water per capita than every other country except the States, and we use more energy and generate more pollution to produce a given amount of goods and services than almost all of the other countries.
“Korea’s doing better than us. Not to mention Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Finland, Switzerland, Austria, the Netherlands, Germany, Japan, Italy, the UK, New Zealand, Spain, Greece, France, Ireland, the Czech Republic, Portugal, Australia, Luxembourg, Iceland, and Belgium.”
“You’ve got these things memorized?” Jane asked.
“I do.” Spike sighed. “For all the good it’s done.”
Jane stared out the window.
“We are hogs,” Spike summarized then. “We are stupid, don’t-give-a-damn pigs. We’re the ones to blame for so much of this climate change—the heat waves, the floods, the droughts, the high food prices. Our fault.”
Jane thought about the little flag. “Is it Canada Day?”
“No.”
“So … he just doesn’t know, what you know, or he does, and he’s a hypocrite—”
“Or he hopes that proclaiming patriotism will absolve him of any and all asshole behaviour.”
Close to noon, they pulled up to the customs booth at the border—Jane was thinking it was a toll booth, and so had started thinking about cookies—and several guards rushed out of nowhere to surround their car. They were in full military apparel. Worse, they had guns. Pointed at them.
“Put your hands where we can see them!” one of the guards commanded.
“What the fuck?” Spike said, raising her hands.
“What did we do?” Jane said at the same time, also raising her hands.
“Could you please put away your guns?” Spike said through her open window. “Men with guns make me nervous.”
“Women with guns make us nervous too,” Jan added, quick to take back possible offence.
“Passports.”
“Profiteroles.”
Jane gave Spike a look.
“Present your passports. Do it now!”
“I had them ready, but they fell onto my feet when I raised my hands,” Jane said. “I’m going to reach down—”
“Keep your hands where we can see them!”
“But I can’t do that and present our passports. They’re mutually exclusive actions,” she explained.
Spike gave Jane a pointed look.
The guard opened Jane’s door, reached in, the barrel of his gun just inches from her face, and retrieved their passports.
“Proceed to the guardhouse. Slowly.”
They drove the twenty meters to the guardhouse, guards with their guns drawn escorting them on all four sides.
“Exit the vehicle.”
“Can’t do that without my left hand disappearing from view,” Spike said.
“Exit the vehicle! Do it now!”
“What is this guy’s problem?” Spike turned to Jane, who had already opened her door. Apparently. Because she was on the pavement, lying on her back, feebly waving her limbs.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Jordan’s dog does this all the time. Whenever it meets an alpha dog.”
“Really?” She stared at Jane for a few moments. Who looked more like Kafka’s beetle than a surrendering puppy. “The dog has no spine.”
One of the guards cocked his big gun, the sound of metal fitting into metal loud and decisive.
“The dog’s still alive.”
Spike slid out her door onto the ground, rolled to belly up, and began as well to wave her arms and legs. Feebly.
“ ’Course she does it when she meets beta dogs too,” Jane said, still feebly waving her arms. “Any dog, actually. The dog has no spine.”
“Stand up. Slowly.”
They both did so.
“Proceed into the building.” He gestured with his gun.
“When they make us fill out forms,” Jane said, “and they will make us fill out forms, where it says ‘occupation’? Don’t put independent activist, okay?”
“Philosopher’s going to be just as suspect.”
“Right. Okay, so we’re ... ”
“Secretaries!”
“Yes! Perfect!”
“Okay, and after they make us fill out forms?” Spike asked.
“Chocolate. Specifically, chocolate-chip cookies.”
“We’re on our way to Boston,” Jane was singing. Two hours later. “… to eat all the chocolate we can eat. We’re on our way to Boston, to eat all the chocolate we can eat …”
“If only your high school could see their valedictorian now.”
Jane grinned. They drove in silence for a bit, having never seen Vermont before. Plus, they’d stopped at the first Walmart they’d come to after the border and were delighted to discover that Walmart sold Mrs. Fields chocolate-chip cookies. By the pail. Jane was quietly working her way through it.
They never did find out what the hassle at the border was all about. And had given up speculating. Men, territory, guns—it was bound to be irrational. Or at least necessary only because of other men. With territory and guns.
A mile later on a relatively busy part of the highway, they saw a tall woman at the side of the road. Presumably hitch-hiking. Presumably, because she was using both thumbs. And facing the wrong direction. And doing something worthy of employment at Monty Python’s Ministry of Silly Walks.
“Okaaay …” Spike said as they passed her.
But a hundred meters later she signalled, slowed, pulled over onto the shoulder, then started to back up, carefully keeping in a straight line. Jane looked at her curiously.
“I have to know.”
Jane nodded. She understood. Completely.
“She