These two obviously smelly, no-good lowlifes happen to be me and my buddy Frank in 1969. That’s me in white, Frank in black, and I was his best man when he got married and he was mine.
Of all my old friends, Frank is probably the most successful, working his way up from a low-paying, dead-end mailroom job to a high-level government bigshot. Now he’s retired and living in a big beautiful house in Ottawa with a pool and I continue to slave away.
There’s a hundred stories about Frank, as he was a wild, smart, and colourful bastard.
Frank and I were hitchhiking from Vancouver to Orillia and we hopped a train in Saskatchewan and enjoyed a really nice ride in a boxcar for several hundred miles. But we knew railway yard police, called bulls, watched for this sort of thing, and when we saw the lights of a town up ahead and the train begin to slow down, we realized we had to jump off before we got nabbed and thrown in the clink for the night.
The train was going very slowly when Frank decided it was time, and he made his jump. Unfortunately, he landed in a cow slew full of manure. And not a minute later, the train stopped and I simply climbed off.
Frank stunk, I laughed, and he said if I laughed any more he was going to kick my ass. I laughed anyway.
Years later, a carload of us went to Montreal to see a hockey game at the Forum. For most of the game, Frank sat in the Forum bar because he could smoke there.