“Do You Like Cowboy Music?” an award-winning short story by Sheila Eastman

She could feel his eyes on her. The man sitting next to Jenny on the bus was staring. She tried to ignore him but despite herself, glanced over. He peered at her through bloodshot eyes framed by deep wrinkles, creased more with roughness of a life abused than by the ravages of age. He smelled.

His voice was coarse and his words thick. ”Do you like cowboy music?” he asked.

She slumped down in her seat and pushed her ear buds in to block him out. Jenny had been reluctant to sit beside him. Totally creeped out, in fact. She could hear her mother’s voice: “Serves you right! Always running in late, expecting the whole planet to revolve around you and make room.”

She’d heard that voice all the way to the bus station.

“You do know it leaves right on time? They don’t wait you know. Schedules are important to most of the people on the planet. I don’t appreciate running late like this. You have to allow for traffic, bad weather.  All sorts of things can go wrong.” Her mother had paused to scowl over at Jenny for a moment, gripping the steering wheel with her long fingers, her nails perfectly painted red.  Then she had looked again at the road. “Don’t talk to anyone on the bus. You have to be careful. Never know what you might get into.”

Jenny had rolled her eyes and stared out the side window, watching nothing going by.

“I don’t want any police calling on my front door about you missing or dead. Or have to bail you out of jail or something.” 

Rain drops splattered on the window, dripping slowly down in cold tears. She felt the grey of it in the depths her soul.

Yes, she’d left the packing to the last minute. True, she’d had to run to the bus before the driver closed the doors, dragging her bag up the steps. She wasn’t sure why she always cut things so close. She didn’t really do it on purpose, but she didn’t like to be too early. It was always so awkward waiting in places, not knowing what to say, what to do, especially where you kind of knew people, like class, or dance school. 

Sometimes it didn’t matter if you were late, but this was a bus with a schedule. Standing there at the front, she had scanned the crowded bus and found only one seat, and sitting in the seat right next to it was a man who was completely and totally revolting.  He looked awful. Now she wished she had waited two hours for the next departure. As she turned and looked helplessly towards the bus driver, his eyes caught hers briefly in the rear view mirror. He already preoccupied with backing out of the terminal, or he would have seen the repulsion on her face. Clearly aware of her movements, though, he called out, “Please take your seat.” She was trapped.

She searched again for another seat, and instead found the eyes of passengers briefly settling on her and then quickly looking away.

Please take your seat, she thought. Right, there’s only one seat on this friggin’ bus. Thanks a lot. That guy is weird, disgusting, creepy. But, given no choice, she sat down, first loading her bag into the overhead, then edging her small body as far away from him as she could manage. The stench of stale cigarette smoke hung about him in an invisible cloud.  She composed herself for a few minutes, straightening out her sweater, putting her wrinkled ticket away, looking around at other passengers, fiddling with her purse. Then to make it all worse, he had spoken to her. Ignoring him hadn’t worked. She heard his loud raspy voice again.

 ”Do you like cowboy music?”

She looked at him blankly, yanked out one ear bud and said, “Excuse me?”

This time he leaned in towards her, and just like a well meaning teacher might to a hearing impaired student, he said much louder and more slowly, “Do you like cowboy music?”

Dribble escaped the corner of his mouth, catching on the greying stubble at the edge of his lip. A waft of stale coffee and old booze came with the words. Recoiling from the odour, she held her breath, trying not to inhale while her mother’s words whirled around in her head:

“You’re not so special young lady.”  “If your father ever knew . . . but he doesn’t see you every day does he?”  “See what you get yourself into?”

“Cowboy music?”  This was too weird. She didn’t want to talk to him. She really didn’t. Tattoos slithered out of the tatty collar of his shirt, crawling up his neck to his ears. Nothing about them suggested cowboys. They seemed to be the ends of snakes and dark blue creeping things. She didn’t want to talk to him but got caught up in her natural tendency to answer her elders, not to be rude.

Underneath it all was her urge to be daring, to somehow defy her mother. “Why are your pants all ripped up in the rear? You look like a tramp!”

She searched for connections to what he might mean.

 She asked, “You mean like those Beverly Hillbillies? I think my great grandpa watches that.”

It was his turn to look disgusted, “No, that’s hillbilly, blue grass, twangin’ ’banjos. Why can nobody ever tune those damn things? Jeez.”

 “Well, what about Rascal Flatts? They’re country, right?”

“Who?” he said.

“Rascal Flatts,” she said more loudly and more slowly, just as he had, “It’s a group.“

 “Never heard of ‘em.”

She was keeping an eye on the Styrofoam cup he held precariously in his shaking hand. Coffee vibrated dangerously close to her new tights. “And don’t come back with everything all dirty again. It’s about time you started looking after your belongings.”

He saw her eyeing the cup, “Don’t worry, it’s just coffee,” he gestured with it, making little waves in the cup. “I got it at a meeting.”

She raised an eyebrow in question. “A meeting?”

 “A.A. They feel better if they give you coffee. It’s not good, but it was hot once, a while ago. Tastes chemical sort of, like those big urns they use. I filled up for the trip. Free hard cookies too.” He leaned over to pull a couple of round beige cookies out of his pants pocket and offered her one. They were edged with lint.

 “Um, no,” she said. “No, thanks.”

He hummed a little and slurped on the coffee, apparently oblivious to the noise. “Don’t worry. I’ll try not to spill it on ya.”

“So, what’s cowboy music then? You mean Dolly Parton? Or that other blonde one, young, with the wavy hair. She sang “Mean. Why You Gotta Be So Mean?”

 “Who?”

 Jenny sighed loudly and turned away, catching the eyes of other passengers. They were grinning in smug amusement. Look at them, she thought. Every one of them glad it wasn’t them stuck in her place. People suck. They felt so superior. They thought he was a creep, they thought she was an idiot, a loser. You can’t go out looking like that. Cover up your front, you’re hanging out all over.

Maybe her mother was right.

“Real cowboy music, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry.” He paused to burp. “Scuse me.”

She held her hand up over her face against his breath, at the last moment pretending to scratch her nose.  “Who?” she asked. There was a pause while she searched the recesses of her memories. “Wait – Gene Autry. I think I heard my great grandpa talking about him once at Christmas. He wrote Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.”

“No kidding?” he said.

“But Rudolph isn’t cowboy music, even though a cowboy guy sang it. Hey wait, unless it’s Rudolph the Red Nosed Cow or something.”  She smiled, cheered by her idea. And the tune to the song started playing in her head.

“Steer, they’d call them steers.”

“Steer is a male cow or something? Well, steer doesn’t rhyme either, does it? Rudolph the Red Nosed Steer. But those guys, Roy, Gene was it? They’re old. I think they’re dead.” She crinkled her nose as if dead was forever ago, too old to have any meaning at all.

 “Dead?” His eyebrows rose and he shook his head in sad surprise. “That’s a shame. A damn shame.” His hand shook more wildly, slopping coffee on his already stained pants. She pulled her thin legs back even further.

“You’re shaking,” she said.

“Yep.”

 “Put your cup back in the holder.”

He complied wordlessly.

"You need a drink?”

“Hell, ya.” There was long silence as he turned to stare out the window.

The day was still grey but it wasn’t raining so much. The bus seemed a warm cocoon moving down a long clear tunnel protected from the coolness outside. She remembered a story about her grandpa giving Uncle Ronnie a stiff whiskey after a wild night out, Uncle Ronnie felt so sick. What was weird was that Grandpa Fred didn’t drink ever, or so they said. She’d heard that they were strict Baptists, though she really didn’t know what that meant. She knew they didn’t dance even. She tried to picture those old people out at a club dancing, strobe lights and all. That was kind of amusing.

One of the stories was that her great aunts would fight over the radio on Sundays because one of them wanted to listen to the funny Jack Benny show, whatever that was, and the other one insisted that the radio wasn’t allowed on Sundays. The strict one, Gertie was it? She would stomp over and switch it off, frowning at everyone. Who decides what good and what’s bad? She didn’t remember the radio being mentioned in the Bible. Maybe there was Commandment 11: Thou shalt not listen to ye olde radio on the holey daye. Specially not funney stuffe. As if. 

Anyway, she hadn’t read much of the Bible. But it sure was weird about grandpa having alcohol hidden in his desk. People were full of surprises. You sure can’t tell by how people look, she thought. And you sure can’t tell much by what they say.

Take her mom. All the neighbours thought she was so wonderful, so nice. Dressed perfectly, had a good job, did all the bake sale things. And everyone thought how lucky she was to have that nice new husband after her first one left. How lucky they both were. Mrs. Meyer next door had actually said that to Jenny one day. “Oh, yea, really lucky,” she had replied. If Mrs. Meyer noticed a sarcastic tone, she hadn’t said anything.

Beside her, he was still staring out the window, as if concentrating; he was gripping his knees. After a while Jenny said, “I heard that if you’re, um, used to drinking and go without it for a while you shake. Wonder why.”

He turned back to her, “Don’ know. Just shake that’s all.” He released his knees and looked down at his trembling hands. “How come you know about the shakes?”

“Don’ know that either. Just do.” She had seen that same tremor in her mother’s hands but she wasn’t going to get into it with him.  It used to be just some weekends, but it was almost every morning now. Jenny pretended not to see.

He smiled slightly and said, “Guess there’s lots of things we don’ know.”

She took a breath, “So, cowboy music. Name some songs.”

“Jeez, I don’t know, there’s lots of em  – “Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie, Cattle Call, I Ride an Old Paint.””

 “Don’t know them,” she said. “How can you ride a paint?”

He looked at her indulgently, “It’s a horse. Painted.” And he started to sing, quietly at first. His rich voice wove through the stillness of the bus:

 I ride an old paint, I lead an old dan,

 I’m goin’ to Montana to throw the hoolihan...

He sang with a confidence that suggested he’d had some other life, somewhere long ago, and though his voice was rough, he hit every note dead on pitch. He skewed the words with a western twang, with no twinge of embarrassment.  This man could sing. 

“Wow,” she said, at the end of a verse. “That’s cool! What’s a dan?”

“Horse, prob’ly.”

“What’s a hoolihan?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Rope maybe.” He looked at her. ”Jeez, I bet you don’t know what all those songs you listen to mean. Can’t even tell the words of half of ‘em. You still like ‘em don’t cha?”

She considered this and he started another song:

The wolves have left the country and the long-horns are no more
And all the game worth shootin' at is gone
And it's time for me to foller, 'cause I'm only in the way
And I've got to be a-movin' -- movin' on.

He stopped and seemed to be thinking for a moment, “Travellin’ and movin’ song – just like us. Not settled.”

“I don’t know that song,” she said. Not settled. Man was he right about that.

“Lots’a people know that one, maybe you don’t know it because of the way I sang it.”

“No, you sing just fine.” She could have said more. Like how his song seemed to come from his toes right up through his heart, like it was so mournful and sad that she felt like crying with the loneliness of it.  

“How about this one,” he asked.

This time tomorrow,

Reckon where I’ll be

Down in some lonesome valley

Hanging from a white oak tree.

“That one sounds like I’ve heard it. Maybe my Grampa played it.”

“OK, let’s cut the Grampa stuff. I may look that old and that wrinkled. I’m not really. Am that wrinkled though.” He scrunched his face up into a mass of creases. She smiled at that. “That song, that’s Tom Dooley. Killed somebody, got hung. Simple.”

“The songs, they sound sad, all death and stuff.”

 “Well, we are all gonna die,” he said, with optimistic resignation.

 “Yea, but they are all doom and gloom, whether we’re gonna die or not.”

 “Yeah well, maybe they are kinda down, but the songs are all honest. Livin’ and dyin’, lovin’, cheatin’, breakin’ hearts, and oh yeah drinkin’. Happy isn’t interesting.” He paused. “Suffering. Now that’s interesting.” He jabbed his knee for emphasis.

“Man, am I interesting,” she said.

He smiled a rueful half smile. “I mean, there’s a few happy songs, but not so many. People like the sad ones better. Gotta be right up front and honest and show the pain.”

Now I can tap a whiskey barrel

With nothing but a stick,

He tapped a rhythm on his knee as he sang:

No one can detect me

I've got it down so slick.

He rustled in his seat and looked over the seat to the rear of the bus. “ ‘Scuse me, need to go to the back. Too much coffee.”  

As he stood, an image flashed in her mind of his filthy pants edging past her, his rear crushing against her, the sour smell of unwashed body. Her stomach heaved. Grabbing her things against her chest, she crawled out of her seat to let him pass. He shuffled into the aisle and then stumbled towards the back, thrown off balance by the movements of the bus.

Standing in the aisle, she watched as he lurched along, observing the recoil of the others as he passed by, fighting her own repulsion. As she sat back down, she closed her eyes against her memories. There was a bed, a heavy hand clamped hard over her mouth, the gagging smell of alcohol and cheap after shave, the roughness of a scratchy face, the pain of fingers groping in her, the greater pain that followed. The shame that followed, and that stayed with her. She stared out the window seeing only greyness speeding by.  

In a few minutes she could hear him returning from the back of the bus, and she stood up to let him in with her eyes closed tightly, trying to think of anything nice; sandy beaches, her teddy bear.  He sat for a few minutes, humming, then turned to smile at her and started talking again.

 “Nobody likes them, ya know.”

“What?”

“Love songs. Too sappy.”

 And then: “You must have lots of boyfriends. They must be beatin’ down your door.”

 Her throat constricted. She’d heard this line before. She figured it had nothing to do with her because she knew she wasn’t pretty but it still repulsed her. Creepy men said that kind of thing. It usually was preceded by “A pretty girl like you.” It really meant, “I want to screw you.” Or whatever creeps like that thought. Creepy, but still, she couldn’t help but feel some pleasure in it. At least somebody liked her.  

And then she caught herself.  Eeuwghh, she thought, and tried to stop the dark images. Sharp fingers of scrawny skeletons clawed at her. Her stomach turned. She looked at him as her heart thumped, and she said with some hardness in her voice, “Yea, right. Beating down my door.”

“Girl like you can have anyone she wants. Choose careful, now. ”

“Like me?” Her felt her voice rise, indignant. “You don’t know me. Don’t even know my name.”

“Don’t need to know your name. Look at you – young, pretty, travellin’ somewhere, nervous about it, but glad to be leaving whatever it is yer leaving.”

She raised an eyebrow, but still she was unsettled. “I’m not nervous.”

“Yeah, right. Here you are lookin’ all around, fidgeting, lookin’ at me like I’m weird.”

 “I didn’t,” she protested.

He snorted. ”Did so. All prim there, afraid to say boo.”

 “Was not.”

 “But jeez you gotta be more careful, don’t ever sit next to 'a-holes' like me! Never know what’ll happen.” He hiccupped. “‘Scuse me.”

Never know what’ll happen, she echoed in her head.

Jenny, the school counsellor called – it was about your grades, something about you failing classes. Failing? Do I have to call your father about this? Now you buckle down. I won’t have this. You are an A scholar. I won’t accept anything less.

“Sitting beside you? Didn’t have much choice, did I?”

He grinned and snorted a little. “Guess not. You shoulda seen your face!” And then he started laughing, and fell into another deep coughing fit. “Oh, God, don’t make me laugh.” He wiped tears from his eyes. “It was like you stepped in dog shit and the smell had just made it up to yer nose.”

She wondered whether to tell him he really did smell a bit like dog dirt and decided not to.

“You okay, then? I’ll try not to be so funny,” she said.

“Anyway, we were talking about love songs. So, ya know what love is?”

She paused, and thought about it, searching her life for what might help her answer and, finding nothing, said quietly, “No. No, I don’t actually.”

He raised his chin and said with authority, “Knowing how you take your coffee.”

“Oh jeez!”  She rolled her eyes and turned away.

“It’s the little things.”He poked her shoulder for attention and she looked back at him, frowning. “I mean what dick doesn’t keep track of what you take in yer coffee, Jesus. Pardon me, ‘scuse my language.” As he went on, he held up his hand and numbered off on his yellowed fingers, “Is it cream, sugar, or the white powder crap, or none of the above?”

“If it’s so important why not make it part of the wedding vows?” she said.

 He gave her a mocking frowny look and went on, “Yeah, and those things you use for banks accounts and computers and stuff.”

“Passwords?” she asked.

 “Yea, that’s it, passwords.”

“Oh boy,” she muttered and looked down to count the eyelets on her shoes.

“Gotta share ‘em. Shows you trust the other person.”

“Well, I’m not sharing my passwords with anyone.” She felt panic at the thought, “It’s the only thing I have.” She thought about her life. I have to live where I don’t want, do things I don’t want to do.

“Yea well, I’ve seen people split up over little things, holding doors open, knowing what food you like, mustard on yer hot dog, whatever the hell. It all makes a difference.”

“I’m not even thinking about getting hooked up, and you have me splitting up over little things like how he – or she – takes his coffee.”

“She?” He eyed her. “I kinda doubt it.”

“Ya never know. Maybe it would be easier.”

He went on, “Yeah I know it’s just little things but they mean big things. But here’s a big thing, fer example. I heard a story about this African king of Bamboo something. His wife wanted to see hippos from her window. Story goes, he had the tribe dig a canal from the river. Just so she could see the hippos.” He paused and smiled widely. “She must a’ been something! Woohoo, swaying around in one of those sarong things. A canal all the way to the bloody Niger! See, I don’t know her name either, doesn’t mean I don’t know a lot about her.”

 “Jeez, You ever think of making sense?” she said. “First, I don’t like hippos much, big black pigs, snorting around in mud with those huge disgusting nostrils, and not everybody has a spare tribe hanging about waiting to dig canals. Besides, it’s bad for the environment. Did he ever think of that?”

He snorted, “Don’t think that was a hot topic in those days, even though it was Africa. Hot – get it?

She rolled her eyes.

“But I bet he knew what she took in her guava juice or whatever it was. Probably sang her some of those African love songs.”

“Oh yea, those hundreds of famous African love songs,” she said. “Don’t know which one to sing next, do ya?”

He smiled, “Oh yeah? Here’s African Hatty for ya.” And he leaned back against the headrest and sang:

Ah, well I mind the fatal day
When Hatty stole my heart away;
'Twas love for her controlled my will
And did cause me my wife to kill.

“African Hatty?” She shook her head. “Right.” And she was quiet for a while.

She thought about love. There was her mother, who sometimes said she loved her, but didn’t act like it. There was skinny Jimmy, who showed up at her locker every day with his shy smile, innocent eyes and too many pimples. Nice enough. But what if he knew about her, what she went through so many nights? He’d be hanging around unnoticed at somebody else’s locker pretty quick, all wide eyed at the terror of her. 

She’d given up on her ridiculous dream of finding her one true love like Belle did in Beauty and the Beast, except if she did find her true love, she’d love him even if he stayed a beast, maybe especially if he stayed a beast. You can’t tell by how someone looks. And then there was her dream of being Cinderella, or Snow White. Perfect and pure maidens. All finding their perfect prince. But none of those tales were her story, were they? They just had to sleep for a long time or clean floors. That was easy.

“It’s a bitch ain’t it?”

“Yep,” she said.

They sat quietly for a few moments and then he sang:

Among the dead and wounded

Her own true love she did find.

Sing I am left alone,

Sing I am left alone.

 “So, why do you like country music so much?” she asked.

“I don’t know, it was something I could do once. Because it’s kinda like me. Lost, finished, sad, lonely.”

She frowned.

“Oh don’t worry, I’m not feeling sorry for myself. That’s just the way it is. You get used to it.” He bit on his ragged nail and then spit some out. “Besides, I was just trying to find something to talk about to ya. You looked kinda scared.”

“Okay, maybe I was scared. Scared of you, doofuss.”

“Me?” He roared with a loud laughter that turned into long hacking deep coughs that seemed to wrench his lungs. As the fit eased, he bent forward as if to spit. She grabbed some tissues from her purse and thrust them at him. He hacked up into them something she guessed was thick and greenish.

“Euwww, that’s disgusting,” she said.

“See, you should be scared of me. I’m an idiot.” He shook his head and stared grimly at the floor.

“I bet you weren’t always.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I wasn’t always.” He looked up and gave her a rueful half smile. “Used to have a life, used to have a wife – could write a song about it, couldn’t I?”

 “Is it too late? I mean once you become um - like you are,” she paused as he looked at her sharply, “can you become an un-idiot?”

“Un-idiot? That’s a good one. Well, they say once you become a pickle, you can’t ever be a cucumber again. I’ve probably damaged enough brain cells to put me in line for a transplant. Bet I’m on the waiting list.”

Just like I’m damaged, she thought. But he can change and be better. It’s much easier for him. And my mom. All they have to do is not drink.

“Why not just stop? Stop for good. People do. Maybe you can’t be a cucumber or some other vegetable again, but so what? Be something else. Be better.”

He glanced at her and then stared at his boots for a while.  “Yea, why not just stop? It’s not that easy, ya know. I know too many people who can’t and  . . . well, who aren’t here any more. So for me, it’s either stop or . . .”

“Or what? Not be here any more?” Her eyes were wide. “You wouldn’t.” She put her hand up over her mouth.

“People do. Lots of ‘em. But, anyway that’s part of what this ride is about. Some call it a geographical cure, as if changing where you are changes the problem. I know that don’t work but I have some good people waiting for me. Guess we’ll be there soon.”

The bus was navigating city streets again.  

“I’m really gonna try this time. But, sometimes I don’t know why. I mean, why would the world want me in it anyway? What use is an idiot like me?”

“But you can sing.”

“Lotsa people sing.”

“Not like you. You sing like your heart is . . . ,“ she paused and struggled for words, “When you sing you make my heart feel what your heart feels. “

“Jeez, my heart?  I hope not, honey. My heart is so sore.“ He paused. “But what about you?”

“Me? What do you mean?”

“Well, whatever’s eatin at you, is it gonna be better where yer goin’?”

 She looked at him, seeing past his grizzled face, his greyish yellowy skin, and into his brown inquiring eyes.  “Ya I guess. I hope so, but it’s only for a little while, just a break, kind of.”

“Well, you gotta keep yer chin up.” He reached over and almost touched her. She didn’t draw back, even though dirt rimmed his fingernails, even though he smelled, and looked the way he looked. “One of these days it’ll be okay.”

She stayed there, just within his reach, looking into his kind eyes.

“With us, with us in A.A.,” he said, “It’s okay to ask for help. Maybe you can do that somewhere too. You know, wherever they can help.”

She shook her head, not knowing what to say.

 “Whatever it is, I bet there’s someone who can help. I’m getting’ off soon, but I’d like to know fer sure yer gonna be okay.”

“I’d like to know that too,” she said with a small twist of her mouth.

He began another song:

While I was in the sober it struck me
As plain as you can see
I'm doomed, I'm ruined forever
Throughout eternity

But now I'm upon my scaffold
My time's not very long
You may forget the singer,

But don’t forget the song.

 “Think I will forget the song,” she said. “Kinda doom and gloom again. But I won’t forget you.”

“Well, if you ever want to find me, you know where to look.”

“I do?”

“Oh sure,” he said. “Any meeting in these parts. I’ll be there.”

“But how does it work, but who would I ask for?”

“You’ll figure it out, but it’s Dan,” he said, “Dan the Man,” with quiet confidence, as if things would really be okay this time. “If you just ask for some guy with tattoos that won’t go too well. Just about everybody has tattoos. And they’d be glad to show ya every one of ‘em, so like I said, be careful.”

The bus drew in to stop and a few of the passengers rustled about retrieving cases and belongings. He was slow, and the last to get moving. She stood in the aisle to let him out.

“Take care, young lady.” He smiled at her.

She reached out and tweaked the sleeve of his jacket. “You too.”

When he stepped off the bus she watched him pause to pull a cigarette pack out of his shirt and cup his trembling hands to light up a smoke before greeting a couple of waiting men with a handshake. He turned back toward her, waved and gave her a thumbs up, though she knew he could see only the reflecting darkness of the glass. She placed her hand on the coolness of the window in a quiet farewell.

Sheila Eastman is a musician living in Mississauga. She plays and teaches piano and five-string banjo (eee haw) and performs in local concert bands in the percussion section hitting things. Her writing reflects detailed observations of human behavior and her bizarre sense of humour. 

Sheila developed “Do You Like Cowboy Music” in Brian Henry's Intensive class. The story placed third in the Alice Munro Short Story Contest. (More about the contest here.) Sheila is also a past winner in the Mississauga Library Writing Contest, poetry division.  Publications include obscure articles on medieval music, a monograph on a Canadian composer, articles on wildflowers, and a review of Great Village by Mary Rose Donnelly, which you can read here.

See Brian Henry's schedule here, including writing workshops and creative writing courses in Kingston, Peterborough, Toronto, Mississauga, Brampton, Georgetown, Milton, Oakville, Burlington, St. Catharines, Hamilton, Dundas, Kitchener, Guelph, London, Woodstock, Orangeville, Newmarket, Barrie, Gravenhurst, Sudbury, Muskoka, Peel, Halton, the GTA, Ontario and beyond.