Letter to a Girl Far Away
My mother has expressed her concern for my safety during my trip to Canada. She says there is too much terrorism in that country, and the Canadians are looking for young American boys to kill, boys just like me. She talked about that family of missionaries who drove their van into Canada and were murdered near the border. I told her I have no remorse for the family. It’s true. They were fucking asking to be murdered. Rule number one when traveling to Canada: do not drive across the border. It is safer to fly to your location. Gangsters are waiting for wealthy Americans to cross the border so they can rob them of what they have. I learned this piece of knowledge from the carpenter I worked with this summer, Roy. He was born in Canada and liked to tell me about his sixty-year-old girlfriend who won a million dollars in the lottery. Soon they would be married, and he would retire. He reminded me frequently that he loves her for who she is, not just her money, though she is much older than him. Good for Roy I guess.
Anyway, anything Roy tells me about Canada I tend to believe as fact, so I tell my mother that we will be okay because we are flying to where we are going. So, I told you rule number one about Canada. Rule number two is that you should not drink the water. Only the Lebatts are safe. Rule number three is that the bacon is not really bacon. Its just glazed hockey pucks. Rule number four is that it is best to stay in large groups. We will stick together through all we do in order to avoid trouble. The one exception to this rule is if we meet a love interest. Then we are free to be on our own. Unless someone protests the exception. Then, we are left with a number of unfortunate possibilities of what to do next.
Given that I know all of the rules of Canada, I assured my mother that I will be safe. “What if you are murdered?” she asks me. “What if I am murdered” I repeat to her. I will tell you that I think there is no better way to leave this miserable planet than to be murdered by a gang of hungry Canadian gangsters. The rush of fear and desperation I will feel during my fight will be unlike anything I have ever experienced. How could I ever be more alive, than in a fight for my life? A death in a fight simply means I lost the fight, and as a man of good sportsmanship, I refuse to pout about a loss. There is a winner, and there is a loser. That is simply the nature of the game.
If I am murdered on this trip to Canada, do you have any idea what it will do for my legacy? Everyone will remember me for what I am today. My innocent youth will be locked in time forever. No one will ever see my downfall, whether it be my physical decline as a result of aging or simply bad decisions. My high school basketball gym will be renamed “Hanlon Court,” dedicated to the young alumni who risked his life for the benefit of the less fortunate (I think we are going to do some charity work while we are there!). At the next UM football game, the announcer will ask 110,000 loyal fans to bow their heads for a moment of silence for the slain water polo team, and the entire drunk student section will stand there thinking of me.
To be clear, I have no plans of being tortured. That is strictly off limits. And, ideally, my Canadian death will be by hand or blade. A bullet to the head will cheat me out of a fair fight. Malaria and Typhoid will also be avoided. I do not think these diseases are prevalent in Canada, but it is never a bad idea to be overcautious. I have been fully vaccinated, and I have all I need for the trip, such as bug spray and a spare box of raisins, in case I get hungry during our canoe trip.
As for you, Amie, I hope you are enjoying Amsterdam. I warn you to stay alive though. My vision of death in Canada is not the same as a death in Amsterdam. There is not as much glory in dying at the hands of angry Dutch gangsters. It does not have the same cache. I am sorry to say.
This is not a goodbye, but a c u later,