Meet Me in Manitoba
by Devon Otto
“I’ll remember your faces!” the bus driver shouts, throwing us into an empty parking lot soaked in moonlight. “Next time don’t forget your bus tickets.”
An impulsively filled backpack slams against my head. My blue jeans feel the cold spring cement, as my grey Carhartt jacket scrapes against it. Blood slowly drips from my shaggy brown hair, staining my ring-infected fingers checking up on it.
The bus drives away, deserting us in a symphony of silence. Timmins Square is peeling away on a billboard looming over us.
“Malcolm, are you okay?” Katy asks. Her long blond hair makes each sentence feel pretty. Her leather jacket smells like it hasn’t been washed since her mom gave it to her.
I stumble to find my footing, “Should be…”
She inspects me like a blind detective, “Good.”
Nearby winds cry out of an alleyway drenched in darkness.
“Can we get out of here, and look for wifi?”
Her hands are intertwined with a bag that missed her face by an inch.
My hand slowly slams against a tall door. Paint chips off the walls; it smells rotten, and the floor
is decorated with garbage. The grease-stained roof is the same moldy colour as my room.
“Sir.” Katy’s voice mimics the sound of early news. A man that reeks of burnout walks to the rhythm of Katy’s finger tapping the counter.
“What can I get you?” he says, as his sweat- soaked shirt drips the name Tim Hortons. His
bloodshot eyes lick Katy's body.
“Just a bottle of water.”
She’s about to press the fifteen percent tip button, but remembers the two hundred dollars we have left. We are the restaurant's soundtrack—voices without a bus to Thunder Bay.
My leg quietly jumps under the table; each jump takes the little energy I have left.
Her voice drowns in a small plastic swimming pool that hides between her palms. “Why
would Mr. David think his class prepared us to take on the world after our presentation?”
“I know. At least it taught us more about Thompson,” I say.
When we left, you were like a calm river; now it feels like you’ve opened into a bunch of rapids.
Her phone sings about a bus that leaves in thirty minutes.
“Katy, buses don’t check tickets after they’ve started, right?”
The words get caught in my throat. I want to scream, This is all one bad dream. I feel my bed hug
my back as I rub sleep from my eyes.
Who knew the bus had so many steps? It feels like the walls are tighter, like our breaths are being inspected. Why does it feel like my heart’s about to jump out of my chest?
“These seats right here,” she whispers, like a tour guide who just found our attraction.
The bus slowly floods with people reeking of a rest stop. A strong hand digs into my shoulder.
“Did you not see my shit?” says a man with bones poking out of his skin. His vomit-stained sweatpants complement his unkempt beard.
“Sorry, couldn’t tell that was your spot in the dark,” Katy mumbles, staring him down.
His chapped lips soak themselves in words, “I’d hate for your bags to go missing.”
The empty row of seats placed near the washroom feels like a broken bed, as the headlights of passing cars sing me to sleep.
“It says the next bus for Winnipeg leaves in twelve hours,” says Katy, as we leave the bus in
long, heavy bursts.
My eyes feel Thunder Bay’s distant crumbling mountains. It’s crazy to think we went to sleep in Timmins and woke up here!
After a failed field trip for breakfast, the Gateway Casino’s buffet sits on our plate. Painted in neon lights, it tastes like a knockoff version of what it looks like.
The slot machines circling our table smell sweaty. They hum in high-pitched quick chimes.
“How much do you think we’ll win for one hundred and eighty dollars?” Katy's finger says as it slides her fake ID over.
She waves goodbye to our future bus tickets, sitting down in front of a slot machine. Her ears listen to the countless winners that sing to her.
Is she about to join a vocal group?
One hundred dollars turns into one thousand.
“Katy, I think we should cash out,” I plead, as the rest of the world fades out for her.
“Malcolm. Whose idea was it for us to gamble our way onto the bus?” she asserts, assuring my hand she’s done this before. “This is the same thing. Like sneaking onto the bus, we’ll for sure get away with this.”
“We already have enough for Thompson. What’s going to happen if you lose it all? How are we going to get there…? My face feels tears behind it.
“Why are you so certain?”
She holds my hand tighter, “Every night when my mom came home from work, she’d tell
me stories of people winning thousands.” Her hand quickly lets go. “It wasn’t luck. They had
techniques. Techniques that my mom raised me on. How do you think we’ve gotten this far?”she says, as her hands are about to bet it all on one spin.
“Katy, I don’t care about some technique your mom taught you. We have enough to be okay. We have to make it to Thompson…”
Her hand slowly slips off the spin button into my palm.
“You’re right…” Her hands slowly spin my rings. “Just next time, if we have the opportunity to win, why not take it? Isn’t that all life is? One big gamble?”
“Can we check out now?” I say, clicking the cancel button.
SWOOSH… Tick… Tick... Tick.
$0.00 chimes from the machine.
I should have looked closer. Spin and cancel shouldn’t be right next to each other.
Stunning silence digs into my shoulders. We’re left with the fifty I hid in my pocket.
The sun hides behind buildings. The lights of the casino laugh at us.
“We’ve seen Winnie the Pooh, but will you take us to see Winnipeg?” Our sign smiles at passing cars that forgot their reading glasses.
“Do you think once we get to Thompson…” I say, my nails impatiently carving sculptures into my hands.
“Dan will have enough room to host both of us?” she says like a mind reader.
“Yeah, like when was the last time you guys talked?”
“Malcolm, calm down. I called him before we left.”
A 2010 Toyota mom van interrupts her. The window rolls down as we run to our saviours. A face, outlined by wrinkles and a fading beard greets us. Next to him sits a lady, dressed in love
and kindness.
“Where y'all heading?” the lady’s voice smells like Alberta.
“As far as you’ll take us,” Katy announces, leaning on the rolled-down window.
“Hop in. Name’s Danielle. This my husband, Graeme.”
The car feels massive, though there’s barely enough room for us.
“What brings you to Winnipeg?” Danielle asks, with a head tilt.
“We’re hopefully going to live with Katy’s father! What about you guys?” I say, quickly buckling up.
“Visitin’ our grandkids. Both of you seem awfully young to be traveling such a distance. Aren’t yer parents worried?”
“No, they for sure are. They know we're on the trip, and even gave us some safety tips.”
Sweat drips from my insecurely clenched fist, as the walls hug my shoulders—which feel like
they're made of an elastic band stretched too far.
“Good to hear yer parents like the old-fashioned way of growing up. The good way.”
The crumbled mountains blend into flower- infested rocks.
Katy’s face is a moving painting. Each line is changed by distant streetlights the car passes under. Her head naps on my shoulder.
Sometimes I can’t tell if she likes me or not. We have moments like this, where it feels like we're closer than ever. But, as soon as we reach Thompson, will she become distant again, like before the trip?
Our hugs thank Graeme and Danielle for the ride. Winnipeg looks like a crumpled postcard. Boarded-up buildings loom over us. Some of the doors are kicked in, covered by blankets and lit by cheap candles.
“So, this is great Winnipeg?” Katy says. Our stomachs grumble like the homeless people that flood the downtown stretch. The curb of a McDonald’s watches us eat the best meal we’ve ever had.
“Not much longer until Thompson, huh?” I take a bite of a half-finished fry. “I’ve been meaning to ask, but how’d your father end up there?”
Her eyes break contact to look at a half-broken building.
“It’s quite the story. My parents got married at eighteen. I think my mom always knew my dad was gay. They got married because they grew up together, but Mom never said it had anything to do with love.
“During my tenth birthday, his gift to me was a love letter to Adam, a tree planter who would travel all over northern Ontario and Manitoba. On one of his visits to Toronto, he fell for him. Hard. When Mom found out, she kicked him out. But, as time went on, she understood why.
“Dad went with Adam to Thompson where he fell in love again. With the culture. He settled down as a kindergarten teacher. Mom told me he was dead, until I received an Instagram message from him.”
The day fades, as buildings change into their pajamas. Soon, the streetlights show deserted roads. We feel like two fish in an empty ocean.
Katy’s hand hugs my arm as she says: “This way.”
Our room tastes like twenty-five dollars. Tucking into our queen bed, the lights—illuminating cheap art, in cracked frames—tell us to sleep. Thirty minutes later, my body’s hiding under itchy sheets, as my mind stares at my parents’ house.
“Katy,” I say.
“Not able to fall asleep either?” she says, admiring the popcorn ceiling.
“Yeah, I just can’t stop thinking about them.”
“Your parents?” Her shoulder gently touches mine.
“Yeah, I just hate how they used to be so shitty to me. I hate how they used to make me feel worse than anything I could say to myself.”
Her pinky slowly blends with mine—it feels like
my parents’ hands are finally letting go of my wrist.
“I wish that when I left, their last words to me were, ‘we love you.’”
Her hand sweatily kisses mine.
My face becomes a sea of tears and sweat. My clothes are a sponge, soaking up my vulnerability.
“Malcolm, you didn’t deserve to be treated like that,” she says during our passive staring contest. “I want you to know I’m not leaving anytime soon.”
She’s illuminated by the sound of quiet cars. Our legs intertwine, and her face is an inch away from mine. She can’t tell the difference between my eyes and lips as she leans in. She tastes like first love. Her hands feel like someone who cares enough about you to leave their life in Toronto. As I hold her, the art lining our room looks like it belongs in a museum.
Short trees silently sing their indirect love song. The air tastes like blooming flowers. Via Rail looks like it’s dreading our day-long trip to Thompson.
My seat feels like a luxury bed, pressed against each curve of my body.
“It’s going to be nice seeing Dan,” Katy says, outlined by a moving canvas of trees. Her words taste bittersweet. “I mean the last time I saw him was before my mom got in that car.”
“Have things felt the same since that day?” I say, subtly hugging her leg with mine.
“I mean, for a kid, I think it’s pretty surreal seeing your mom being put in the ground. After she passed, I was left to pick up the pieces of twenty different puzzles. They never tell you how hard it is to take care of yourself when you’re sick. Or how to balance school with cooking dinner.”
Her eyes look like a pool without water. “For these past few years, it’s never felt like I could open up to anyone about this. Like I had to hide behind a blanket of impulsivity to justify the person I had become.” Her leg hugs tighter. “That was until I met you.”
Slowly blooming trees flash by our window.
“Malcolm, when we were working on the presentation, and you shared how your parents kicked you out, I’m happy you felt comfortable telling me. Ever since I found Dad’s instagram, he’s been reaching out every month trying to get me to live with him and Adam. But you’re the perfect reason for us to go.”
As my fingers intertwine with hers, my legs begin to feel lighter than a leaf.
The train waves bye to us in chemtrails of diesel. Thompson is a collage of townhouses, and the living wood used to make them. Our shoes march on the bright gravel.
Dan’s detached house stands strong, watching over baby trees. A porch swing sits, waiting for friends to join. His doormat looks like an early Valentine's decoration.
The warm moonlight kisses my hands. They confidently close, singing in knocks to a loving door. Dan greets us with hugs; his shirt smells like sunshine after a long storm.
I sit down, as my eyes drown in a framed photo of two kids swimming in Lake Superior. They’re frozen in time, admiring a sunrise. Katy’s hand confidently holds mine, as her head rests on my shoulder. It feels like I’ve finally gotten off a bus that’s been driving for years in the dark.
This house isn’t a pit stop, it’s somewhere that doesn’t care who you were, and loves you for who you are. We belong.