by Joy Huebert She climbed into my car, balancing a box of chicken wings and a drink - a big woman, nearly six feet tall and hefty. Ragged bleached hair, faded jeans, an old denim shirt and a leather vest with fringes completed the look. "Hi, I'm Tiffany," she boomed at me. I was driving three hundred kilometers through a vast boring forest and took a chance on the woman for company – safer and nicer than a man, I thought. "Beautiful day," I ventured, the most innocuous greeting in the universe. "Yeah," she said, "want some wings?" She opened the box, and I picked up a greasy chicken piece with one hand, driving with the other. Whoa, it was spicy. I gasped and she handed me her drink. "Have this." I took a sip and gasped again. "What is it?" "Oh, it's coke. With some rum." Rum! An illegal, open, alcoholic drink in the front seat of my car. Now what? I looked at her. She was a tough-looking woman, and I saw that she was slightly drunk. In mid-morning. I doubt I could have talked her into tossing her drink, and I couldn't have given her the boot, what with her being much taller, stronger and probably meaner, than I was. Did I have any choice but to cross my fingers and ride out the trip? "So, what do you do?" I asked. "I work on car bodies, fixing them up." "But you don't have a car yourself?" "No," she answered sheepishly, "I'm a DUI." Drinking and driving! "So for the time being, hitching is the way to get around." Should I establish rapport by mentioning my parking ticket from Arizona that time? "Got any kids?" she asked. "Yes, one who is ten. You?" "I have a 15 year-old boy." She proceeded to tell me her philosophy: "See, you have to do things together, let them know you're on their side. My son knows I'm his pal, that he can count on me. Last Friday night we had a little party, his friends, my friends. We made a huge bonfire, drank a few beers, and had a great time. If you drink with them, they won't go off and get into trouble. You can watch and take care." "Ah." We sat together, meditating on what good parents we were. My son was a boy scout. We did bottle drives together. "You married?" "Yes," I said, "You?" "I was married, but decided to kick him out. I got a little freaked by the guns. I don't mind guns, but this one time we were in bed and just for fun, he started shooting into the ceiling. He accidentally broke one of my favourite dishes, a really beautiful bowl from Hawaii that had a hula dancer on it. I was pissed off and dragged him out the front door, told him never to come back. Haven't seen him since. He was fun, though, and a good provider, what with all his businesses. He really knew business." A feeling that I shouldn't ask about the businesses came over me. I didn't ask. But she told me. "He was into the growing. Good at it, a green thumb. The finest Kootenay Gold, send you to heaven. We lived well, but the car bodies aren't bad either. I miss him, but I just couldn't take the guns." "No," I sympathized. My own husband had the annoying habit of filling the sink with hot, soapy water, putting the dishes in to soak, and then forgetting about them. The kilometers clicked by, one tree after another in that beautiful BC way. She finished the wings, sipped her drink. Beaverdell rolled into sight. "Here!" she said, I braked at a small gas station with a single rickety pump. "You want to join me and my friends in the hotel? We have great times. Then you can finish your drive later." Far from being a dangerous offender, I saw that we were friends now, that she was nearly crying at this parting. For a moment I was tempted. Maybe I could have a life that was more free, wilder, lawless. Maybe I could shoot guns into the ceiling. But in the end, the idea of spending the rest of the afternoon drinking with her crew filled me with terror. Before she could press the invitation, I hopped into my car and stepped on the gas. The rest of the trip was long, but I didn't mind the boredom any more.