Niagara and Back, 1966

by Brett Rutherford

Four days off

for holiday,

instead of turkey

and stuffing, my friend

and I decided to hitch-hike

Walt Whitman’s open road.

To where? To nowhere

or anywhere! Let’s see

how far we can go.

Five miles short
of Erie a sailor,
on leave and adrift
on his own adventure,

picked us up.

Where to? he asked.
Where are you going?
we ask. Niagara Falls,

he said, and all the way

into Canada.

Wide-eyed, we said
in unison, Then we

are going to the Falls.

We all laughed.

He never talked
about his ship or where
it took him, whether
to Vietnam or some

safe coast patrol.

You didn’t ask

soldiers why or what
they might have seen

unless they wanted

to tell someone
and said so.

Arriving at the Falls

and its noisy grandeur

we thanked our driver
and parted ways. We made
our way along the banks

above the Falls,

defied the signs and scoured

the rocky river shore
for rocks. My friend
was a geology major
and knew what does
and doesn’t belong.
I found a hollowed-out
rock almost too much
to carry about. He said
it was an Indian wheat-stone.
Into my bag it went.

Oblivious to borders
and needing no papers
we crossed to Canada.
We sampled such food
as nearly indigent

students could afford,
then reveled in sunset
and the rainbow-lit

Falls, immense
and grander by far
from foreign vantage.

Taking a cue
from a “rooms for rent”
sign, we found a room,
a tiny attic garret

that cost as much
as what our two wallets
contained, sparing enough
for one tiny breakfast.

You’ll have to share
the one small bed,
the landlady said.

It’s the last room.
She winked at me.

In minutes we were in the dark
and under one tiny blanket.
My friend said,
If you touch me, I’ll kill you.

So much for Walt Whitman.

Next morning we found
the cheapest diner
and spent our last coins
on bacon and eggs.

Hearing our talk,

the man next to us turned.

It was the sailor again.

Things didn’t work out,
he said. I’m heading back.
Are you guys staying or …

The unsaid was said
in that moment’s pause.
Had he planned to desert
and changed his mind?
Were we across the border
to dodge the draft?

We’re going back, I said.

I’ll take you back, then,
he offered. I kind of need
the company, you know.

At the border he showed
his military ID.
We two were asked
where we were born
and where we had been
on the Canadian side.

We went right through.
The sailor moved something
from under his seat
into the glove compartment.
Not to worry, he said.

It’s not loaded.

It was a slow trip

southward. We stopped

at Buffalo. He bought
us a welcome lunch.

Then, long after dark
he left us along
a local road somewhere
north of Meadville.

Fourteen miles
to walk
in the November night!

The withered corn

leaned dead

into the frosty air.

Yellow lights beamed

from sheltered farms
across the stippled fields.

No cars came. Not one.

We heard no sound

save that of cows

stalking the brush

beside us,

they walked,

but kept their silence.
Not one of them
had ever gone astray.

At last, in despair,
we found a sheltered spot
behind a hay-pile
and curled up to rest.
My best friend
nestled behind me for warmth.

I gazed at the unsleeping stars.
You touch me, my friend said,

and I kill you.

Good night, I answered.

Fifty, a hundred,
miles away, the sailor
pulled over on a dark road.

He reached for the gun.
Things didn’t work out.

Note: the U.S. drafted 382,010 men into military service in 1966, the highest total during the Vietnam War