I am a cheap bastard.
I lived in a housing project for most of my youth. It was known, by everyone in the city, as the Chicken Coops — the Coops if you lived there — due to a very liberal application of chain-link fence around every unit’s back yard.
We didn’t have a lot of money. So, if you wanted something, you hustled.
Photo by Ismail Altin.
In winter, you shovelled sidewalks. There were a hundred units over 11 blocks in the Chicken Coops. That’s two hundred sidewalks, front and back!
In summer there was collecting bottles, garbage picking (Wednesdays and Saturdays), and various odd jobs. And every summer the travelling carnival would post a free ride coupon in the local paper. So, I’d go door-to-door to ask occupants for their old newspapers. I’d have a mittful of coupons in less than an hour.
Once, a local grocery store posted a promo, crazily stating that you could use any coupon for any product. Basically, it was like cash but there was a $5 limit per customer. That was a lot of money in the 70s. But I could get more than $5 worth of coupons faster than you could say 10 cents off. So, I invited my friends. With $5 each of coupons, we raided the store. Chocolate bars. Candies. Pop. I even remember buying a package of manicotti, cause it just looked like fun.
Grand openings. Seasonal promotions. I was always on the lookout for hacks to the system. I won packages of chocolate. Free donuts. Free hotdogs (seven one time at the opening of a hardware store). Record albums and 45s from the local radio station. Artwork from a local fundraiser. I even won CFL football tickets from a radio remote at the opening of a mall. They picked a name from a large goldfish bowl but probably 10% of the names were mine. I ended up selling the tickets, ’cause I could not find a way to get to Montreal.
When I was 22, I finished university and I was really broke. I mean tens of thousands in student loans broke. I had an arts degree and no real job prospects.
Photo by Juan Jose.
But a couple of high school buddies and I found this trip to Montego Bay, Jamaica. Ten days. Airfare + hotel for $320. That was cheap. But was still a lot of money to me.
So, I asked the travel agent, “What do they need?”
“Excuse me?” she said.
“What kinds of things are they short on in Jamaica? What are they into? Maybe I could bring something to sell or barter. Keep the costs down.”
She thought for a second, then her eyes lit up.
“Toques,” she said.
“What?”
“They really like toques. A lot of people wear them.”
For any non-Canadian, a toque is a knitted cap or beanie. Usually made of wool.
“Toques? Okay,” so off to K-Mart I went.
Photo by Eve Maier.
But the only thing in my price range was a bin of six black acrylic toques. Which, which upon closer inspection turned out to be balaclavas. Which is kinda like a toque but tucked inside is a pull-down face mask. With holes for the eyes and mouth, making it the headwear of choice for bank robbers, highjackers, and terrorists. They were 99¢ each. I bought them all.
The trip was amazing: the music; the food; fishing. Riding a motorcycle for the first time (and crashing a motorcycle for the first time).
Photo by Rock Staar.
I guess I forgot to mention the weed?
We had purchased a copious amount of that country’s finest, for $20. Before we had even left the airport. We smoked every day, right up till the day we packed to come home.
Cut to Pearson airport in Toronto upon our return. The RCMP officer at customs asks me to open my suitcase. I zip it open and there, sitting atop of my clothes, is a pack of rolling papers. I don’t remember packing them. I barely remember packing. And I was, stupidly, too cheap to throw a nearly full pack of rolling papers away, no matter how suspicious that would make me look in the eyes of the law.
“What’s this?” said the Mountie, holding up the papers.
Photo by Dad Grass.
“It’s rolling papers,” I said, trying to sound like that was normal. “But I am not stupid. I wouldn’t bring back any drugs.”
Then he picked up a small notebook and noticed I had written a bunch of names, with Jamaican phone numbers and addresses.
“Who are these people?”
I explained each of them. One was a girl I met, this guy was interested in selling conch shells in Canada, this other guy took me deep-sea fishing (in a dugout canoe for $50).
He continues searching with much more interest. And then he finds the balaclavas. He pulls them out, one at a time, and places each down separately.
“And what are these for?” he asks.
“They’re balaclavas.”
He just looks at me blankly.
“I wanted toques,” I said, “but that is all I could afford.”
More staring.
“I had heard Jamaicans liked toques, so I bought these. I tried to use them for barter. But they don’t wear toques. They wear these hand-knit Rasta caps to contain their dreadlocks.”
“Okay, I think I’ve seen enough. Please come with me.”
Photo by Majd Altaifi.
For the next two hours, the three of us were separated and individually interrogated by the RCMP. They were convinced we were drug mules. What didn’t help was my friend, Mike. He had three hundred cash on him to pay for the airport parking and other incidentals to get us back to Cornwall. He also had a good job working for his dad’s industrial plumbing company.
At one point an officer came into the room and said my friend, Ian, was telling them everything, and that I should just confess.
“To what?!”
“Well, he is talking.”
“Well, whatever he is saying, I don’t know anything about it.”
“We know you are carrying drugs. We are going to find it.”
The officer left, then came back twenty minutes later. He looked frustrated.
“What’s with you guys? Daddy Warbucks with the leather jacket has three hundred cash on him. You say you’re broke, and numb-nuts down there doesn’t know how much he owes the two of you!”
Then an another officer chimed in.
“Okay, here’s what is happening. You can call a lawyer if you need to, but we have probable cause and we are going to perform a cavity search.”
Photo by Jeremy Bishop.
“I don’t need a lawyer. You’re not going to find anything. I just want to get out of here. So do what you have to.” I dropped my trousers, spread my cheeks, and they shone a light in. That’s as far as they went.
But not before they apologized. For everything: the interrogation; the intimidation; the destroying of our souvenirs. They were in disbelief at our innocence while I was in disbelief at my own stupidity. If I were talking to my younger self back then, packing my bags in Jamaica, I would say, “Ditch the rolling papers and balaclavas, man!!”
But I wouldn’t listen.
‘Cause I’m cheap bastard.
About the author:
Ron MacDonald is a freelance writer and creative director.
He lives with his wife and two children near
Owen Sound, Ontario
About the Frontispiece
Photo by Bruno Guerrero.
