I used to think that my life was not my own. I might have been kidnapped by Gypsies and whooshed away to their encampment in the local forest, where their less-than-innocent daughter, Lola was dancing to the sounds, and rhythms of the guitar and drums that pounded in my head when I woke up next to a nameless woman, after drinking two bottles of rum, and without ice, I might add.
Adding ice to rum when the temperature was minus 50 seemed to be a bit on the extravagant side, but Lola insisted on doing it her way, or for me to hit the highway. Lola sure had a way with words, and I remember reading them when I was sitting in that run-down bus station on the edge of that particular memory. She had scribbled her name on the side of the newspaper, when we both were on our way to somewhere else, as fast as that broken-down bus could take us.
We ended up thumbing it along the back roads, in order to escape questioning by the local constabulary. She told me that she didn’t mean to stab her last lover to death, and I wanted to believe her. I really did. He had balked at the idea of putting ice cubes into their drinks, when it was a cool minus 50 outside, and she might just have overreacted a bit when she turned toward him in her calm way and stabbed him 145 times. I still wanted to believe that it had to do with her being denied ice cubes as a child, which threw her into that frenzy, but until they catch up to her and question her thoroughly, I still wanted to accept her story at face-value.
I was feeling a bit hungry, so we stopped to have a small repast of Tundra Apples. I knew they were her favorite, which just made the whole experience worth remembering for another time. Small white rabbits ran about at our feet, while American Bald Eagles circled overhead looking for their own meal. I stretched out my long legs, and propped my head up against Lola’s back, feeling the warmth surge through my tired limbs, while Lola lit a number and passed it my way.
“Cannabis from Southern Alaska is the best thing that I ever tried” she took a long drag after saying that, blowing smoke rings into the bluest skies, I’d ever seen in my life. I wanted us to get stoned, then to make love on the nearest stone, but Lola just rubbed her back and said that the last time we did that, she thought a bed of roses would be more suitable. Women and their ideas, huh? No matter. We didn’t really have time to get it on right then, but did manage to get lost, being all stoned-out and horny and the like.
I pulled out a sextant while Lola checked her GPS, but it didn’t matter because the Midnight Sun never seemed to set in the summer months, so we couldn’t get as lost as we tried to do, which meant that we ended up back at our small house in two shakes of a Caribou’s Tail.
I went out to the ice house to get some ice cubes for our drinks, but someone had left the door open, and the only ice was somewhere around the Arctic Circle, which seemed a bit far to travel for something so trivial.
Anyway, since I didn’t want to end up dead and stabbed and all, I yelled into Lola and told her that I was going out for ice.
“Don’t wait up all summer for me, but just go to bed when you get tired.” I told her
-then I hit the road northward, once again….