“Maybe you’ll write about this in your next novel,” he said, his Scottish accent lilting like melted caramel across the stick shift between us. His name was Rod, with a rolling R. My weiner was on my lap. It took great fortitude on my part to refrain from making the offer … “would you like to stroke my weiner?”
I had only just met these foreigners, after all, and I am all about avoiding international incidents with people from ‘away’. Jeep looked at him with mournful eyes. If ever a weiner needed stroking, Jeepy is the one.
The Scot’s wife, Chris, sat in the back seat, oblivious to the effect of her husband’s accent, madly scratching at the five thousand bug bites on her arms, neck, face and hands. Midges. I felt that weiner stroking paled in comparison to the scratching of her particular itch.
“In Nova Scotia, we call them mosquitoes, and they can pick up a small child and carry it away before you can say ‘tea and crumpets’.”
I’m great with foreigners. I’m a veritable font of wisdom. I wonder if she realizes that her husband’s accent is every Nova Scotia woman’s fantasy?
Today, I rescued two travellers on the side of the road. I was sweaty, they were bug-bitten, it was fate. They had come all the way from England to visit Canada and had just had the quintessential Nova Scotia experience of hitting a deer on the highway. I feel they should receive badges at the airport when they leave… a certificate, or diploma, or a stamp on their passport that reads: “You have created road kill. You are an Honorary Canadian.”
These hapless travellers were givin’ ‘er down the 103 when Bambi leapt in front of them, dead-center of their rented Jeep Cherokee. Immediately after the carnage on the highway, they turned… guided no doubt, by fate… down the Port Medway Road, leaking coolant and other essential fluids for several miles before seizing up dramatically in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. (I also heroically refrained from describing our location as the Middle of Butt-Fuck, and should also receive a medal for my diplomacy. One sometimes forgets how crude one may seem when one is not often obligated to serve as an ambassador for one’s country. Kudos to me, for holding the crudity in check.)
I was biking. Like the wind. Which is how I bike.
I have been eating cream-cheese-and-sour-cream-everything all winter and my ass is threatening to declare itself as a new province, so I have been biking. Like the wind. I passed the hapless travellers on my way out, and, a good forty minutes later I began to pass them again, on my way home. On my first pass I thought nothing of it… lady on cell phone beside vehicle. I mean, sheesh, no one in NS talks on the cell phone while they are driving, so I simply applauded her caution and biked on. Like the wind. However, a forty-minute cell phone conversation on the side of the road in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere implies some sort of emergency.
I stopped. Which is really hard when you are biking like the wind. I was only gasping a little. And sweating. Like Argentina in the rainy season.
They hit a deer, their rented vehicle went tits up, the tow truck was coming… from Halifax! Good Lord, that’s like sending help from Mars! It would take hours! This poor cute little British woman was being devoured by midges. Her husband had a Scottish accent. What choice did I have? I had to rescue them!
“Hop on my bike, I will carry you to safety!”
Apparently that is not the British way, so I had to madly bike home alone and retrieve my car… and the weiner, obviously. No rescue operation is complete without the weens… and go back to pick them up.
I love doing good deeds. It’s the Nova Scotia way. I even jealously hoped no one else would try to save them whilst I was biking wildly home because they were my helpless wanderers, dammit. If I wasn’t gonna save them, ain’t nobody gonna save them!
(I think I may be a deeply flawed samaritan deep in my soul.)
I brought them to my house, I gave them tea, I tried very hard not to adopt a British accent which is what I automatically do when I am with British people. It’s in my genes. Great Aunt Tilly and teatime and egad and God Save the Queen and all that. Marmite. Yorkshire Puddings. Horlicks.
I showed them the seals in the river, who chose just that exact moment to cavort, as they are wont to do. (Dammit, I wrote that with a British accent!) We called the rental company, we sorted out the dilemma, we had the barest of minimal moments of “we have two kids, we’re here for two weeks”, and , “I have four kids, I’ve been marking English essays all day”, and then I drove them back to their ruined vehicle which the tow truck was hoisting, and I sent them on their way.
Before they left, however… and I was sad to see them go. I had visions of taking them shark fishing and feeding them fresh-dug clams and explaining the intricacies of South Shore geneaology… I gave them my book. I muttered something like “I write stuff, like this, I dunno, ya know? Maybe you’ll read it, whatever” because I’m shy and ridiculous when it comes to promoting my work. That’s my foray into the international market. Done.
I have now cornered the European market on self-published South Shore Nova Scotia fiction because I was able to make venison jokes with visitors from the Home Country.
“You know, it tastes delicious if you can scrape it off the bumper.”
I said that. To the nice British people.
“Maybe you’ll write about this in your next novel,” he said.
Maybe I will. I’m a total sucker for a Scottish accent.
Thanks for reading! Check out my novels on amazon.com.