Cadillac Couches by Sophie B. Watson Page A

over the years to work a good cop/bad cop routine with men.
    â€œI, well, I kinda thought I might go to Winnipeg. I gotta protect my Celtic fair skin—” he said, untying his bandana and running his hand through his red corkscrew curls.
    â€œWinnipeg, mon cul! Annie, he’s following me!”
    â€œLook, Iz, let’s go get some doughnuts together and talk this out.”
    She made a sour noise, but she knew we couldn’t very well leave him out in the middle of nowhere, so we got back in the car and drove for a while. The Tim Hortons I thought I’d seen in the distance turned out to be a mirage and was just a billboard advertising a Woody’s World of Winnebagos lot off the highway. It was another fifty klicks to a service stop.
    â€œI’m getting a heavy-duty canker sore. Ouch.”
    â€œThat’d be from the ten thousand lollipops you’ve had already,” Isobel I-told-you-so’d me.
    â€œExcuse me, girls. Maybe we should stop on the side of the road? I gotta take a whiz—”
    â€œSorry, Finn. No can do—” Isobel said, passing him an empty juice bottle.
    We drove on in mild discomfort because Finn had known we were going on this trip and it seemed like too massive a coincidence that he just happened to be on this patch of highway today. The last time I had seen him was the day she ditched him and he’d vomited on his pants. He’d probably managed to get a glance at my map markings at the Sugar Bowl.
    Isobel looked like a trapped exotic bird with her face pressed up against the passenger window. The windows were shut and there was no air-con. We alternated having the windows open and closed because a fresh breeze came with unbearably loud highway drone. I could see sweat beading up on Finn’s forehead in the rear-view mirror. I was jealous that he had followed her all this way. I wished I inspired such devotion.
    There was almost no traffic. I couldn’t even remember the last car we came across. Eventually Finn broke the silence. “Alright already, okay, so I was jealous, I admit it. When I heard about you guys’ trip, I wanted to go on a road trip too. I figured I could hitch to a ride to Winnipeg for the festival there. I had no idea you guys would be on this exact stretch of highway at this time.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do at the festival? Who are you going to see?” I asked.
    â€œI thought I was on a roll after Bern, you know what I mean? And I thought I should keep up my infiltration of the rock journo world and try to get some interviews that I could write up for some weeklies.”
    We drove on in silence for another ten awkward minutes. I could feel Isobel trying to decide whether she should stop pouting or not. I liked him being with us. He had good energy. Plus he might know how to check the oil.
    â€œSullivan used to like this stretch of the highway,” I said, trying to crack the silent bad vibes in the car.
    â€œI think I should rig up some electrical device to shock you every time you casually mention his name in a conversation,” Isobel said.
    â€œWhat, like a cattle prod?”
    â€œSeriously, it’s worrying. Are you going to carry a torch for him for all of your twenties? He’s just a guy. Maybe we should burn an effigy. You need some kind of purge. It’s bagony for everyone,” she said. (Bad agony, Isobel word fusion.)
    Day 1 cont.
    600-ish klicks
    4 o’clock
    Medicine Hat, Moose Jaw, Regina
    Rosimund seemed to be doing well on the road. For an old banger rustbucket already carrying five hundred thousand klicks, she was heroic. I took an exit off the highway near Medicine Hat and drove down a dusty back road for about five kilometres until we were deep into nowhere land. Corn fields on the left, prairie grasses on the right, blue sky above. There were no cowboys, no farmers—just an old, greying barn that stooped in the field on the right like a prairie version