“Spontaneity” by Geoffrey Knill

The dimly lit room pulsated with its crush of customers seated at round wooden tables laden predominantly with pitchers and glasses of draft beer, screwdrivers and drained shot glasses that had previously held B52s, sex on the beach, slippery nipples, or tequila. Several folks sat along the edge of a semi-circular bar surrounding the small stage designed to accommodate everything from small bands to wet T-shirt contests and a variety of other entertainment.

Occasionally, the clash of billiard balls could be heard from a room out back through the noise and clash of conversations. The majority of patrons in their late teens and early twenties out on the town this night were enjoying the ambiance of the place and the sounds of familiar music blasting from speakers set to a volume where you had to yell if you expected to be heard by the person sitting beside you.

On this weeknight in late spring with exams concluded and the promise of glorious summer days ahead the beer tasted better than ever and it was great to be hanging with friends. Looming in the immediate future would be the need to track down a summer job, but that could wait until tomorrow.

Six of us were seated around the table and it was at this time, in this place, over the guitar licks and drum beats that I learned that my good friend John, had been offered a job at a small municipal airport in Saskatchewan, let’s call it Springfield. John was a flight instructor at the time, later in life to become an airline pilot.

Now I know what you’re thinking, so to avoid alarming anyone I should mention that I believe John had the following day off work, as far as I can recall anyway.

He said he was mulling over the opportunity but hadn’t decided for certain. He was wanted at the airport right away. Yesterday, was how they put it to him. Without hesitation I said, that would be a great adventure and it called for congratulations and another round.

Conversation resumed when the band took their break and turned to where exactly Springfield was located in Saskatchewan. He thought it was in the southern part of the province. We would have looked it up on our cell phones except they hadn’t been invented yet, so we would check the map tomorrow.

In the bar that night he decided he should accept the job and because they wanted him right away, for some reason unknown to me, even now, I offered to give him a ride to, yes Springfield, Saskatchewan and we would leave in one day. What else did I have to do? 

In a previous summer, I had traveled west from Ontario to find work, hitchhike and look around Alberta and British Columbia. Oil production was booming and a job would not be hard to come by. I would figure something out after I dropped John in Springfield and continued on to Alberta. This seemed like an opportunity, or fate if you believe in that kind of thing.

Leaving the morning after tomorrow at the break of day would be perfect, even though we didn’t know how long the drive would take, we did know it was about twenty hours to Thunder Bay and well beyond that to Springfield, Saskatchewan. All that settled, I’m sure we turned our attention back to the band, the beer, and the girls seated at nearby tables.

No thought was given as to whether my little green two-door Chevy Nova with three on the tree would be able to make the trip there and back again for my return to school in September.

The following day, not too early a start, was set aside for gathering belongings which turned out not to take so long. John was leaving forever and would have to bring everything he’d need for the rest of his life; that amounted to some bedding, a couple pillows, clothes, and a shaving bag. I was leaving for a couple months and needed only a shaving bag, some clothes, blankets and a pillow.

The back seat was set up as a bed with sheets and pillows for sleeping enroute since we would be making the entire drive without stopping except for food and bathroom breaks. According to the map it would be a thirty-five-hour drive. One of us could sleep and the other could drive although it turned out sleep would not come so easy since the width of the car was significantly smaller than the height of either me or John.

About thirty-two hours into the drive, a growing band of pink appeared on the horizon in the rear-view mirror casting enough light on the tall dew-covered grasses as to make their tops glisten like gold and diamonds.

Morning and we were hungry, pulling into a small town that appeared to have been forgotten by time. Main street, a short tan-coloured strip of dirt road about a quarter mile long from start to finish, ran between a couple two-storey brick buildings, a run down auto garage with two antique gas pumps, glass signs on their tops that had to be from the 1930’s.

Just past the gas pumps the window sign in a small diner advertised breakfast. It would open within the hour and we hoped that was true. A couple of pick-up trucks appeared, pulling up to the diner, and an elderly woman’s head poked out the door. The men sauntered in and we extracted ourselves from the car, wandered over and pushed the door open to the sound of a clanging bell.

It was a small space with a couple of arborite top tables, vinyl covered chairs and several stools lined along a counter, all reminiscent of days long gone.

The full aroma of fresh coffee brewing filled the small space with a welcoming warm feel. We settled at a table and ordered. The first two men were joined by two others all in their sixties, all dressed in jean overalls, long sleeve shirts, and well-worn baseball caps bearing images of corn ears or seeds.

Talking amongst themselves they bemoaned the decline of their little hamlet and the surrounding area. One complained that he now had to drive one hour just to get a haircut.

We enjoyed an exceptional breakfast of bacon, eggs, hash browns and toast all complimented with fine fresh brewed coffee. Fully satiated, we settled back into the car for the final few hours of our drive, and once in Springfield it did not take long to find the address we were looking for.

As John climbed the porch steps, the front door swung open and he was greeted by a couple in their early forties. After confirming we were in the right place and moving John’s things into the house we said good-bye, promising to keep in touch over the summer.

I hopped into my car, backed out the drive, turned onto the highway, and drove west to Banff where I stayed for the night. The following day I landed a job. 1980 – a great summer.

Geoffrey Knill has wide ranging interests and experiences driven by an insatiable curiosity, strong sense of adventure, and vivid imagination. Since his first travel journal at age eleven, chronicling a family road trip from southern Ontario to Canada’s east coast, writing has been a part of life. 

In his younger days Geoff excelled at track and field, enjoyed sports, the boy scout experience, canoeing, camping, travelling the country, taking photographs, and recording memories. Jobs over the years have included everything from the summer carnival to working in northern Ontario fly-in communities, to the corporate towers of Toronto, and a great deal in between.

Geoff continues to have a great fondness for travel, nature, wildlife and wilderness. He’s  proud of his three grown children, is always on the lookout for the next fabulous photograph, and is dedicated to writing and sharing his experiences and fictional stories for others to enjoy.

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