It was a chilly Friday night when Mr. Johnson stepped out of the arena, the roar of the hockey crowd still ringing in his ears. His team had lost, but spirits weren’t completely broken—after all, he still had Peppy, his scrappy little hatchback with a bright orange paint job and a personality all its own.
He slid into the driver’s seat, gave the steering wheel a friendly pat, and started the engine. Peppy hummed to life like a content cat.
As he pulled onto the highway, a lone figure stood by the roadside with a thumb outstretched. Johnson squinted through the windshield, then slowed down. The hitchhiker was tall, draped in a threadbare jacket and carrying a duffel bag that had seen better days.
“Where are you headed?” Mr. Johnson asked, leaning over to unlock the door.
“Just across the bridge. Anywhere after that,” the hitchhiker replied, climbing in.
They drove in silence for a while, Peppy's little engine humming along, until they reached the long steel bridge over the river. That’s when things took a turn.
CLANK. RATTLE. GRRRRRRNNNKKK. SNAP.
Peppy started making a noise that could only be described as mechanical panic. Smoke curled from under the hood.
“Whoa, that doesn’t sound good,” said the hitchhiker, eyes wide.
“It’s fine, that’s just Peppy”
And they continued on the road some more when the clanging and noises increased and the hitchhiker got more and more and more worried.
“There’s no way I’m staying in this death trap” exclaimed the hitchhiker and Mr. Johnson thought for a moment before concluding what the best thing to do was.
“We're pulling over,” Mr. Johnson muttered, gripping the wheel.
They coasted into a gas station just off the bridge. As soon as they stopped, a man in grease-stained overalls burst out of the garage, waving his arms.
“Get out! Get out now! That thing’s about to blow!”
The hitchhiker grabbed his duffel and bolted without another word. Mr. Johnson jumped out, horrified. “NOOO—MY PEPPY!”
The mechanic popped the hood, peeked inside, and whistled. “Yup. Piston’s shot. Engine’s toast. You’re lucky the whole thing didn’t catch fire.”
Mr. Johnson slumped against the curb. “What am I supposed to do now? I don’t have the money for a new car—I’m just a broke university boy.”
“The car’s dead kid, there’s nothing left worthwhile there”
“But that’s all I have,” said Mt. Johnson “all I have is Peppy, I’m just a broke university kid, and this, it’s got to be worth something”
The mechanic looked at Mr. Johnson and at the busted up car and at Mr Johnson again, wondering if he was joking about the car being worth anything at all given it’s poor condition but the mechanic was in a good mood that day
The mechanic looked at him thoughtfully. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a hundred bucks for it. Scrap value.”
It was a heartbreak deal, but Mr. Johnson took it. With the cash in his pocket and nowhere else to go, he headed to the docks to catch the evening ferry to the island once again.
Mr johnson got I and boarded the ferry, still upset that he lost peppy but he was dealing with it when he spotted two girls around his age, sisters he presumed, standing near a red mustang, and walked over to them in hopes that they might just be able to drive him to where he was going.
Mr Johnson walked up to the sisters and started chatting with them, noticing their Boston accent and then he asked them, could he get a ride to where he was going once the ferry reached the port.
“Of course!” said the first sister.
“But we should ask our mother first, just to make sure she’s fine with it”
The two girls just left him there and he waited and waited until they got back
“Our mom says you can come with us” and Mr.Johnson was oh so grateful for their hospitality, he imagined himself in the backseat, one girl on each arm, them fawning over him, it would be awesome.
As soon as the ferry arrived he walked the sisters over to their red mustang and the brought him to where their grandmother and mother were waiting, the grandmother peered at him and before he could sit In the backseat she looked at him.
“What do you think you’re doing, you’re sitting up here with us”
And Mr. Johnson was mortified but he tried, and failed, to keep a poker face.
He sat down between the mother and grandma and the grandmother seemed awfully curious with him.
“So, you’re from Canada, are you?” she asked, peering at him like he was a museum exhibit. “What’s the national flower?”
“Uh… maple blossom,” Mr. Johnson said, making it up on the spot.
“And the capital of Manitoba?”
“Moosetown,” he replied with absolute confidence.
The grandmother nodded slowly. “Fascinating. You’re very knowledgeable.”
He smiled awkwardly, unsure whether he was being complimented or tested.
Eventually, they dropped him at the hotel. The girl waved goodbye, and he thanked the family. That night, he started his new job tending bar in the hotel lounge, scrubbing glasses and learning cocktail recipes from a grumpy manager named Phil. (I made up the name)
Around midnight, he looked up—and there she was. The girl from the ferry.
She slid onto a stool and grinned. “So... Moosetown, huh?”
He turned red.
“Well, now we can have our fun,” she said.
But that, dear reader, is another story for another time.