Here Comes Trouble - Michael Moore [83]
“Well, if it’s not for real, then I’d rather we keep the boat with us,” Joey responded.
“Makes better sense to have the boat,” said Ralph. “That way it does look like we’re going on a fishing trip or something.”
“OK, we take the boat,” I said, feeling like I was talking to Cheech and Chong and Chong. “But you guys are going to have to let me do the driving ’cause you’re in no shape to be behind the wheel. And Jacko, make sure you don’t have any more drugs on you. That will get us in trouble if we get stopped.”
“All clean, sir,” he replied, cracking up.
“Let’s say we do get past the American guards,” Ralph wondered. “And we make it across the bridge. When we get to the Canadian side, what do we say?”
“I think we have to say what we’re going to say on the real day next year when we have to do this. We have to tell them we are draft resisters and we are here to seek asylum from a peace-loving nation.”
“And that’s when they take out their Canadian pistols and shoot us,” Jacko offered. “Four less bloody Americans! Jolly good job, Jeeves!” he said in his best Flint/British accent.
“They’re not going to shoot us, and they’re not British,” I reminded them. “They just think they are. I don’t even think they have guns. But they might take us away for questioning, so I’ll just say I was kidding, we’re only in high school and we have to get back home tonight ’cause we gotta get up and go to church in the morning.”
“Don’t lay it on too thick, Mikey,” Jacko cautioned. “We don’t exactly look like altar boys in this car.”
“Look, I think we should give this a try,” I pleaded. “We’re here. We need to know what we’re facing, and, assuming we get past the American soldiers, I think things will be OK.”
There was some more mumbling about not wanting to get shot or the car careening off the bridge, but after a few minutes I had them convinced this was the best thing to do. I got in the driver’s seat, Ralph rode up front with me, and Joey and Jacko sat in the back trying to sober up.
The Blue Water Bridge, though it crossed only a half mile of water, was an imposing structure. It soared over 150 feet into the air, high above the St. Clair River. This was done to accommodate the huge Great Lakes ships that traveled underneath it. It was the gateway to Lake Huron, and to get on it you had to travel up a long ramp that rose above an old Port Huron neighborhood that once housed the Irish immigrants from my dad’s side of the family. As the car climbed up the ramp of the bridge, my heart started to beat at quite a clip. Everyone made their final adjustments to personal grooming as the lone American checkpoint came into view. There was a series of booths for each lane of traffic, some with red lights, others with green, and I thought it best to be in the green-lit lane. There were massive floodlights, and we could see men in uniform inside each guard booth. As we pulled near a booth I issued one final warning.
“OK, keep cool, let me do the talking, and if there’s any problem, I’m flooring it. Just keep your heads down in case they start shooting.” Pause. “I’m kidding. No one is going to shoot us.” Or so I assumed.
The soldier in the booth waved me forward. When I came up beside his booth the window was open—but he wasn’t a soldier. He looked more like a school crossing guard volunteer.
“That’ll be twenty-five cents, please.”
“Huh?”
“Twenty-five cents.”
I didn’t understand.
“Just a quarter, son.”
He wanted money from us.
“Sure,” I said. I fished around in my pocket. “Here.”
I handed him the quarter.
“Thank you.”
That was it?
“Is that it?” I asked the man.
“Well, usually people think that’s too much! They keep talking about raising it another quarter. I don’t think that will sit too well with folks.”
“No, I mean, we can just, like, go to Canada now? You don’t have to ask us any questions or check us out?”
“Oh Lord, no!” he