Читать книгу Dancing on a Razor - Kevin John White - Страница 13

5: The Challenge

I’ve spent an awful lot of my life just hiking from one place to the next. There was never any real reason for it. I guess I just loved being on the road is all. I was good at it. I think it was the struggle—the sense of doing the impossible—hiking coast to coast without a penny in my pocket when I’d start. I loved the sound of it—of the tires fading to nothing on an empty highway—and falling asleep, wrapped up in my bag and tarp, listening to the rain pattering down on me, gently loving me to sleep. As I think back, it seems I’ve always been headed somewhere—with nothing but me, my guitar, and one backpack. There were a few times I tried to settle, and I would for a short time, but I just couldn’t stand it. Every time that road beckoned I would answer and leave behind everything I’d hoped to build.

I guess what drew me most was the not knowing—not knowing who I was going to meet or who I was going to see again—and not knowing what would happen next. And the people … no matter where I stopped there was always some kind of character full of surprises. It was not knowing what in the world I would see this time or where in the world the road would take me next. All of it was part of the sense of freedom I felt so profoundly that first night on the highway long ago and that eventually came to drive me mercilessly for so long.

Now being a long-haired, hitchhiking, guitar-playing, hillbilly freak took me to a lot of places that they don’t really advertise in travel brochures. If they did, there would be a box at the bottom of each one to tick for how much money you’ll send and another box for how many days of fasting and prayer you’ll commit to the place. I could go on for hours about all the bizarre places and strange situations I’ve found myself in, but I’d just get lost real quick if I did. But there was this one place …

I probably would have been in my late twenties at the time, so I was still young and spry enough to cover a lot of ground without stopping, but every once in a while, some “thing” or some “one” would catch my attention, and I’d hit the binders to linger a bit.

I was drifting through the Rockies to the Okanagan Valley and passed through a little place called Falkland. It’s nestled in a mountain pass off the main highway just about halfway between Kamloops and Vernon. The entire population of the town and its environs was only about two hundred souls. That’s in tourist season. Its claim to fame was a surprisingly large bar at which the Hells Angels held their annual biker rally—that, and the local witch, who had a bi-weekly question and answer radio show broadcast over most of BC. I didn’t find any of this out till after I had been there a while.

Anyways, I had some cash, so I figured I’d stop at the bar, drink a few beers, play some pool, and meet a few of the locals—perhaps maybe do some picking. That’s pretty much how I supported myself already over the years. I could play the mandolin, harmonica, and guitar, and I sang pretty well too. At least that’s what people told me.

The pool table was at the front of the bar, which was pretty crowded, so I couldn’t help brushing up against a girl who was standing at the table playing. I said “excuse me” and lightly touched her with my hand to let her know I was passing by.

Well, literally the instant I touched her she just sort of crumpled up and went down on one knee to the floor. She glanced around behind her at me, startled, and exclaimed, “Knocked me over with a feather!” (I’ve often wondered about what she meant by that.) Then she straightened up and had a good look at me. I apologized immediately, even though I hadn’t the slightest idea what had just happened, and said, “So sorry, I didn’t mean to!” and then carefully made my way over to the bar. I was intrigued now by what had just happened, so I ordered a beer and then moved to a spot where I could look but not be looked at.

My ability to assess people is huge when I focus. For the kind of life I lived, it really had to be, or I could be in real serious trouble, real quick. I’ve spent many hours observing and analyzing people’s motives and behaviour over the years, and as I watched her, I knew intuitively there was some sort of strong spiritual component in her life. I’ve always seemed to be able to sense stuff like that in other people and was always drawn to it. I was also rarely wrong about it either, for good or bad.

She was quite a skilled pool player, so I decided to challenge the table. At that time in my life you had to be very, very good to beat me. I won, so as is customary, she bought me a beer and invited me to sit with her and her friend (an interesting looking lady a few years older than her) and shoot the breeze for a bit. As soon as I sat down, this other woman set my alarm systems ringing like crazy, so now I was even more curious and wanted to know why. I very quickly found out.

Over the years I have found that one of the fastest ways to really get to know someone is to listen for clues as to where they stand spiritually—what their belief systems are. It’s surprising, if you listen carefully and know the right questions to ask, how much people will reveal about themselves. Folks like to talk about themselves, so genuine interest in them is always welcomed. Then there’s the old adage, in vino veritas, right? That’s why bars can be good places to talk. I’ve found, over the years, the best way to get to know a guy is to either get drunk with him or get into a good scrap with him. With my best friends, it’s almost always been both. (Most of ’em are almost as crazy as I am.) My advice on women? Don’t fight; run!

As things turned out, I was seated with the “Wild Witch of Pinaus Lake,” the one with the radio show, and her cohort and aspiring pupil, a Jehovah’s Witness I shall call Lee.

We talked and played a few more games, and as we did I told them a little about myself, where I’d been, where I was going—stuff like that. After we talked a bit more they invited me to stay the night at their house instead of out in the woods, as I had grown accustomed to. I think they could see that I was pretty road weary. I hadn’t slept indoors for months that year, and a hot shower sounded real good to me after jumping into lakes and rivers first thing in the morning (if there were any nearby). Besides, any place with beer and good company was better than sitting alone in the woods at night. I gratefully accepted the invitation.

This was not an unusual happening. I’ve received many such invitations over the years. People, I think, could sense that although I was quite capable of creating serious trouble, I was honest and had a good heart. I also think they felt they were in some way becoming a part of something—some story yet to be told; they were right. Plus, almost everyone enjoys a for-real wandering minstrel.

Tales of the road were just as big a part of what I did as music and song were, so I played and sang and told my tales as we chatted and drank a few more beers at their place. Late into the night, right out of the blue, the witch asked me if I would consider being the male counterpoint for her female coven. I found that quite disturbing. I declined her offer, politely but firmly. I also began to suspect that God was up to something. Trust me on this: God is a very busy person. He is literally always up to something. I’d seen him work in unusual ways many times by then, and I was seeing his fingerprints beginning to materialize in this situation.

It seemed I had always been running into witches of some sort or another my entire life, and this was not the first time this kind of offer had been made. I used to be puzzled as to why this was so. (I’ve learned an awful lot since then, and I now understand why.)

As things would have it, Lee had her own place, and she said she really didn’t mind if I stayed on with her for a bit. Well, seeing as how we got along real well, I accepted her offer. I think I was simply lonely. You must understand I had no real friends, no wife or girlfriend, no home, and had been travelling hard and alone on the highway for years by then. This was long before I met Bruce or Norma. We both knew I wasn’t going to stick around for long, but it seems that emptiness echoes to emptiness a curious call.

Besides, it was beautiful up there in the mountains, and with such sweet company and plenty of beer, what tired and lonely hiker wouldn’t want to linger awhile? I had spent so many years on the road going from province to province, never really staying anywhere very long, swapping music and tales for company and beer and then just moving on. I’d pretty much done that my entire life up to that point.