Dumped
Non-Fiction by Bonnie Bowman
This is a story about expectations, and not particularly great ones. It’s also a story about how impressions can be misleading, appearances deceiving, and how trash becomes treasure where you least expect it. It’s a story about first dates. It might be a love story.
The year is 1991. The place is Ashcroft, BC, a small village about a four-hour drive north of Vancouver. And to this city girl’s eye when she first arrived in her beater 1972 Gran Torino, a desolate looking outpost in the middle of nowhere carved into what appeared to be a bleak desert basin. Population: a thousand and change. Possibility of getting laid: unlikely. My mission: a one-month stint at the local newspaper, serving as reporter, editor, photographer, and, in my mind as a newly minted journalist, big-city shit disturber. Let’s shake things UP! Aside from a summer job as a reporter in between journalism school years, this was it. The start of the big career, my first date with my destiny. A month in Ashcroft paying my dues as vacation relief for the longstanding local editor, before moving on to the thriving city of Kamloops an hour away with its oversized media presence and the chance to tackle real news at Kamloops This Week. There, I would be one reporter of many, I’d have an assigned beat, and I was already looking forward to not having to manage an entire paper by myself. I think the press figured if you could cut it in Ashcroft, then Kamloops would be a walk in the desert. Admittedly, the fact that I’d never run a newspaper singlehandedly was a bit daunting, but I’d been assured it would be easy because nothing ever happens in Ashcroft. I was told the biggest challenge would be finding something to fill the pages every week. I don’t think anyone cared with what, as long as it highlighted the locals’ achievements, dutifully recorded council meetings, and didn’t rock the boat. But one thing I learned from my summer job at the Interior News in Smithers (a remote northern BC locale and a brutal twelve-plus hour drive from Vancouver in the old Gran Torino), was that if you dig deep enough, you can hit pay dirt anywhere.
You’d be forgiven for thinking my summer job in Smithers would have prepared me for small-town newspaper life in Ashcroft, but you’d be wrong. For starters, I was but a lowly general assignment reporter at the Interior News, writing stories at the behest of the editor, not responsible for finding my own scoops. Secondly, Smithers was gorgeous. Nestled in the Bulkley Valley between four mountain ranges, it boasted a quaint main street capitalizing on the scenery with faux Alpine storefronts. When you turned off the high- way, you were welcomed by an imposing wooden statue of Alpine Al, blowing his ten-foot-long alphorn, and you felt like you were in Bavaria or Switzerland, which is exactly what the brochures wanted you to feel. And if you weren’t convinced by Alpine Al, your next sight was the majestic snow-capped Hudson Bay Mountain rising up before you at the end of the main drag.
Conversely, turning off the highway into Ashcroft found you driving down, down, down a winding road through stark terrain resembling Death Valley into an unimaginative looking hamlet whose only promising storefront was the Legion, which, if it was like any other Legion, would at least have cheap beer. If Smithers had conjured visions of Julie Andrews singing “The Hills Are Alive,” Ashcroft was summoning scenes from The Hills Have Eyes. Let’s just say that as far as first dates went, this one was not presenting well at all.
But all was not as foreboding as it seemed. The first surprise was my introduction to the newspaper office, home of the Ashcroft Journal. This was no bland office building like the Interior News, this was a creaky old house, this had character. Maybe it was somebody’s actual home over a hundred years ago, maybe it was haunted, but for sure it had stories to tell and I could think of no better place to be telling stories. And then I was introduced to the publisher, who looked like she’d been born there. I’m going to call her Judy, which is the closest my memory can get after more than thirty years and might even be correct. My limited experience with publishers thus far was that they wore suits and ties (or pant- suits and heels), they crunched the numbers, and as an editor they were your biggest hurdles to getting a good story out. And by good story, I mean one that might offend an advertiser. When I was a journalism student spending most of my free time at the Press Club in Vancouver, many a tale was told by veteran reporters of legendary battles between publishers and editors. The money versus the creatives, evil versus good. I soaked up those stories at the same rate I soaked up the non-stop booze until long after closing time.
Judy defied all expectations. A chain-smoking, wise-cracking dame who would’ve been at home in any noir movie about the newspaper game. A gal after my own black heart, a fellow miscreant, we recognized each other as like-minded souls on sight, bonding more every day over shitty coffee, an omnipresent haze of cigarette smoke, and cheap beers at the Legion. I felt seen. And I think, I hope, Judy felt energized by this new blood, this smart-ass from Vancouver who needed plenty of guidance in her new role. Boy, did Judy provide. Not only did she know her shit as publisher (and everyone else’s shit), she’d been in Ashcroft so long she knew where all the bodies were buried and she wasn’t shy about unearthing them. Since I was only going to be there for a month, I was eager to stir up all kinds of trouble and Judy was on board because she could blame everything on me once I was gone. This was not the publisher-editor relationship I’d been forewarned about. My misgivings about Ashcroft were seeming more unfounded by the day.
And so Judy and I tackled the Ashcroft Journal together. I broke a couple of decent stories, I got threatened with a lawsuit from the richest guy in town (Judy and I high-fived over that one), I wrote fawning profiles on all the cops so I wouldn’t get pulled over for drinking and driving, I filled the paper every week, and in between went for drinks at the Legion. Ashcroft was getting interesting. I was even digging the topography that no longer seemed so bleak, and in fact was fascinating with its multi-hued strata, the constantly shifting colours in the changing light. I was growing to appreciate the subtlety of this raw desolate beauty as opposed to the in-your-face picture postcard that was Smithers.
Now you might wonder where I was living during this time. Not in Ashcroft. The paper put me up in some cheap-ass motor inn on the highway in Cache Creek, another tiny village possibly even smaller than Ashcroft. Fortunately, it was only a ten-minute drive down the highway from Ashcroft, which I had to navigate every night when the Legion shut down (hence, the cop profiles). Naturally I had the worst room in the joint, next to the rattling ice machine and some kind of godawful machinery that hummed day and night. I might not have known anything about Ashcroft before being sent there, but I did know about Cache Creek. Everyone knew about Cache Creek because it had been in the news. Cache Creek was famous for having a massive landfill into which all of the Lower Main- land’s garbage was being trucked. Oh the hue and cry. We don’t want Vancouver’s stinkin’ garbage! Look after your own trash! Don’t wreck our pristine land with your filth! They had a point. I think I wrote a few pieces about the landfill when the subject arose in council meetings, but I didn’t dwell on it because it had been, and continued to be, covered by all manner of media. I didn’t have time for in-depth investigative pieces and frankly I was more into scavenging stories of Ashcroft’s seamy underbelly and devious characters, if I could find any. I sure couldn’t find any in Cache Creek because there was no bar in my motor inn and thus, I only slept there (or tried to). True, I sometimes thought about the evil landfill, pulsating with toxins nearby, and likely contaminating my water, but for the most part, I just wanted to get out of Cache Creek every morning and back to Judy.
So, back to Judy we go. It came to pass one day, as I assumed it eventually would, that Judy asked about my sex life. To paraphrase:
“So, you gettin’ any?”
“What do YOU think?”
“Yep, pickin’s are pretty slim around here.”
I knew then without asking it would become Judy’s mission to get me laid. The Legion was a non-starter, I already knew everyone who went there and my best prospect had been an elderly widowed gentleman who taught me how to waltz and propositioned me while performing a complicated dip but immediately backed down when I accepted. Of course there were the cops, many of them single and fresh out of cop school, looking like they didn’t fit their uniforms, or know how to hold a gun without shooting their feet off. Pretty sure they were paying their dues in Ashcroft, as I was. They were kinda sweet as they posed for their profile photos, awkwardly trying to look important. I could’ve made a move on one of these baby cops, but thought it wiser not to, thereby avoiding a conflict of interest if I needed to bust a crooked-cop story wide open. Let’s just say it wasn’t looking good for the editor of the Ashcroft Journal in the sex department. And then, against all odds, Judy came through.
I remember walking into work that day and Judy looking like she’d already had ten coffees. She was positively vibrating. The conversation went something like this:
“I got someone!”
“You got someone? Someone to go on the record for that faulty playground equipment story?”
“No! I got you a guy!”
“What are you talking about, what guy?”
“A date, moron, I got you a date!”
Well, that was something. On the one hand, yay! The drought might be over. On the other hand, who was it? And did it really matter? Judy would’ve done her homework, Judy had my best interests at heart.
“So, who is it? Haven’t I met everyone in Ashcroft by now?”
“Nope, you haven’t met him yet.”
“Hit me with the highlights then.”
“He’s single, he’s good looking, he owns his own home, he’s got a steady job, and he’s SUPER NICE.”
Well, let’s break that down. Single is good, don’t need any complications. Good looking is entirely subjective and obviously not a priority if I was willing to entertain the waltzing widower’s overture. Owns a house, good, a place to have our dirty sex. Steady job, don’t care, I’m not looking for a life partner. Super nice, warning bells! Nobody is super nice. And besides, I didn’t want super-nice guy, I might break his heart when I skip town. I would’ve preferred super-bad boy, but all I really wanted was super-horny guy. And as if she was reading my mind, Judy divulged that maybe this guy was, in fact, super horny, or at least had been going without for too long.
“And you know this how?”
“I know things.”
“Okay, he sounds perfect on paper. Why hasn’t some Ashcroft hottie snapped him up yet?”
“Good question. Maybe because he’s in his thirties and mature and the only single girls in Ashcroft are just that, girls, not women, and all they want is to land a husband. Maybe he’s picky.”
“Can he afford to be picky?”
“Can you? What’s with all the questions? Should I set it up or not?”
“Make the call.”
Here we go. My first date in Ashcroft. We’re all accustomed to these encounters with their attendant blend of nervous excitement and cautious optimism, and we generally have a positive outlook. We have, after all, probably orchestrated the date in some fashion, whether by actively pursuing or passively accepting. We’ve had a hand in choosing our date either by swiping a screen or flirting IRL, and the first-date setting is typically agreed upon ahead of time between both parties. The date might crash and burn but not without first agreeing to acceptable parameters. Not so with blind dates, or set-ups, a different creature altogether. Someone else has done the choosing for you and nervous excitement is now laced with dread, cautious optimism with skepticism, as well it should be. Set-ups are bullshit. They’re someone else’s idea of who you are and what you want and even if you wrote out a detailed list of your must-haves, they’d never get it right because even you can’t get it right half the time. Normally I wouldn’t have anything to do with a set-up.
But normally I’m not staring at a literal desert of options. That, combined with the luxury of knowing I’d be gone in a few weeks, made a set-up just the ticket. I’d be happy with a ten-minute coffee date, and then straight to some sack artistry with a dude I would find enjoyable for about, oh, two weeks.
Judy made the call.
Let’s call him Scott. He showed up at the paper the next day. I don’t know what I was expecting but not him. Not this stock catalogue model in a crisply pressed shirt and clean jeans. Maybe I had secretly hoped for an outlaw, tying up his piebald horse in front of the Journal, slamming through the front doors, spurs a-jangling, tumbleweeds in his hair, spitting chaw and charm in equal measure. Eyeing me up from under the brim of his hat, growling out “You’ll do, little lady” before picking me up with one arm, throwing me on the back of his horse, and galloping off to our date in the badlands. I figured if I hadn’t already seen him in town, my date must live on the fringes of Ashcroft in a run- down shack, maybe his job was less than savoury. I wouldn’t put it past Judy to set me up with a rustler or a moonshiner. Scott looked like the only thing he would rustle would be some tax forms and the only thing he would shine would be his shoes. But, as we’ve established, I wasn’t going to be picky and I flashed Scott my brightest smile under the watchful eye of our matchmaker.
Scott had brought me a coffee. Was this then to be our first date? No, Scott was there, he said, to have a quick meet-and-greet during which time I could decide whether I wanted to go on a date with him or not. To give me a chance to back out, because he didn’t want me feeling pressured into going out with him. Judy coughed. Scott shrugged. I sipped my coffee.
During our short meeting, it was established that Scott was not a rapist, that he had zero expectations, that he wasn’t desperate (cough, shrug, sip), but that he would admit to being lonely sometimes and that Ashcroft didn’t offer much in the way of entertainment. Scott would be honoured if I chose to accompany him on a date, a date which he would like to plan if I’d allow him that liberty. I leaned back in my chair, squinting through my cigarette smoke, ignoring the constantly ringing phone, and pretended to consider his invitation. There was nothing to consider. Scotty had played it well. A touch of vulnerability followed up with a bit of a take-charge attitude (albeit delivered deferentially), and from what I could see beneath the wrinkle-free clothing, a body I wouldn’t mind wrinkling. Not a bad score, all in all. I righted my chair, stubbed out my smoke, and made eye contact.
“Love to. Just tell me where and when. I think I can squeeze you into my social calendar.”
“Let me set it up. I’ll get back to you tomorrow with specifics.”
“Looking forward to it.”
As Scotty walked to the door, I yelled to his back, “Hey, can’t wait to see what you’ve got planned in Ashcroft!”
He turned, one hand on the doorknob, and said: “Oh, we won’t be in Ashcroft.”
And with that well-timed exit and parting comment, the door banged shut, and I looked at Judy.
“Does he have a helicopter? Because that would be cool.”
Date Night! I’d been instructed to wear comfortable clothes and to bring a jacket because nights were chilly in May. This did not bode well. This reeked of an outdoorsy date. And “comfortable” clothing was obviously suspicious for enduring some sort of physical exertion, but what? Digging for bait worms at midnight? Hiking a mountain with a miner’s lamp strapped to my forehead? The only physical exertion I was into didn’t involve clothing of any description and the only thing I wanted to hike was my skirt. Jeez Scotty, didn’t you notice my overflowing ashtray, the fast food wrappers littering my desk, the empty wine bottles in my garbage can? Read the room, buddy.
Where to begin. Let’s paraphrase the conversation in the car as we wheeled out of Ashcroft and onto the highway.
“So, where are we going?”
“Not far. Cache Creek.”
“Really? What’s there besides a landfill?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re not taking me to a dump for our date, are you?”
“A landfill, but yeah.”
Turns out Scott worked at the landfill and could get us in after hours, something he seemed pretty chuffed about. What the fuck we’d be doing at a deserted landfill in the middle of the night I could only guess. It would be the perfect place to bury a body, for example. I could see the headlines now:
“Editor of Ashcroft Journal Goes Missing: Super-Nice Local Guy Being Questioned In Her Disappearance”.
But despite my misgivings, and there were many lesser ones, including how bad the smell might be and how many rats would attack me, I not only made it out alive, I rewrote the headline:
“Journal Editor says Dump Date was Dream Date!”
And it was. More than thirty years later, this date still holds up as one of my best dates ever. To be clear, there was no smell and I didn’t see one rat. I didn’t even see one piece of trash. What I saw was a moonscape. At least a hundred acres of bare terrain, in gentle slopes and valleys, undulating as far as the eye could see, irregular shadows cast by light from the moon and sporadic towering flood- lights, it could best be described as other- worldly. It was stark, it was stunning, and I had to keep reminding myself this was not a natural landscape, it was literally garbage.
As if the sprawling lunar vista wasn’t enough to impress me, Scott had a few more moves. After disappearing briefly upon arrival, he returned with a roar in some sort of dune buggy.
“Hop in!” he yelled.
Hell, yeah. And with tires spitting dirt, we were off. It was exhilarating. Bouncing off my seat, hanging onto the door frame as Scott expertly propelled us over and around the dunes, flying over the rises, gunning it down the gullies, a breathless, reckless ride, in a setting worthy of Mad Max. After about half an hour of tearing up the landfill and non- stop shrieking (from me), Scott drove to a lookout point where we stopped. Far from the random floodlights, the only illumination came from the moon and the million stars that pricked the vast night sky. It was breathtaking. The hills surrounding us were eerily white and smooth, and before us was limitless black with the odd flicker of a tiny distant light from town. I could easily believe I was on another planet. I was thinking this would be the perfect time for Scotty-boy to lean in.
Which he did, but not to lock lips. He fumbled for something under the seat, and came up with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Seriously? Come ON. I think I said something trite like, I bet you bring all the girls up here. And he said something real and kinda sad, like how you couldn’t pay a local girl to have a landfill date, they’d be horrified. Their loss, thought I, as I sipped my surprisingly palatable wine.
As the night wore on, we spoke of many things on our isolated lookout. Because it was a set-up date, there had been no preamble, no discussion beforehand about likes or dislikes, respective backgrounds, no telling of tried-and-true anecdotes, everything was fresh. And knowing I’d be leaving town shortly, it liberated us to be bold, to say things we didn’t have to worry about regretting later. To fling ideas around without fear, to abandon the usual first-date caution or the trying too hard to be smart, cute, funny, whatever. It was freeing and to his credit, Scott gave as good as he got. Eventually, halfway through bottle of wine number two, on a heap of rot- ting invisible garbage, we made out. Could anything be more romantic? I think not.
Despite its unexpected success, we never repeated the dump date. Scott never offered, I never asked. I don’t know why. Maybe we didn’t want to tarnish the memory with what would undoubtedly be a lesser experience. There is only ever one first date, and I, for one, was happy to keep that memory unsullied; a collision of low expectations and faulty first impressions, elevated to perfection by some kind of desert magic. We saw each other a few more times, pretty standard fare, dinners at his house, some porn, breakfasts in bed, relentless interrogations from Judy.
And then I left town, promising to keep in touch at Scott’s urging. I thought of the dump date often, surrounded as I was by the similar (and by now, beloved) landscape of Kamloops. Over time the landfill assumed mythical proportions in my mind, but Scott, alas, was a mere mortal. I never kept my promise. If that makes me a garbage person, I guess there are worse things. »
