It’s a memorable (if not magical) thing when professionalism meets side-eyes, smiles and sarcasm – the kind of story everyone asks to hear again and again.
Years ago, I was recruited out of Minneapolis as an educator and orator when our region was rapidly changing. New industries meant new needs which led to new opportunities.
After four months on the job, a coworker stopped by my office.
“Rob, got plans this weekend?”
I thought about visiting friends in Thunder Bay, but nothing was set in stone.
“We need a college instructor in Kenora this weekend, maybe next month, too.”
Instantly that spark for teaching flared. “No worries, I’m on it. Do I need a parking pass?” I asked.
“No. Take the office’s grey F-150 instead of your Malibu.”
Two days later, I was driving northbound to Kenora. Maybe the second time in my life I had driven a truck. The Bose sound system was banging as I enjoyed Sirius XM’s Octane. The driver’s seat felt so high above the road, it felt like I was playing air guitar while atop a hook and ladder in Midtown Manhattan.
At the same time, I had just started seeing someone from Whitefish Bay and told her I’d be in town teaching, staying near Lake of the Woods, and asked if she wanted to hang out.
“For sure! However, I’m going out with my coworkers and friends tonight, but I’ll stop by after,” she said.
“Sounds good. I think I’ll be done about 8 p.m. What time will you all be back in town?”
She said, “Probably about midnight. Ladies night out! We’re all dressing up for Halloween and driving out to Dryden to go see the Canadian Playboys.”
“Well, I hope you guys have a great time, drive safe, and tell everyone I said ‘Hi.’”
As soon as I hung up the phone, the silence invaded the room like a weighted velvet fog. I’d heard of these dancers, but the better angels of my nature did not want to know more. Immediately, my mind was invaded with memories of the scene from Johnny Knoxville’s Bad Grandpa when he attends the downtown club in the heart of the city. Not exactly the news I expected before class prep. Then I pushed the thoughts aside. I had to stay focused and on my A-game. Because I’m a professional.
Teaching went well.
She came by later and we hung out until morning.
Next morning I treated her to breakfast before driving her home and heading to day two of class.
Weekend over. Drove home. Filled up the truck. Washed the windows. Parked it. Turned in the keys. Got back into my old Malibu (which now felt like I was a Koopa Troopa who was Tokyo-drifting around town in Super Mario Kart after stepping out of a monster truck). And that was it.
Or was it?
The following week, I was getting smirks and side-eyes from coworkers.
Once? Twice? No. Dozens of times.
Did I dent the truck? Spill something? Get a ticket that unknowingly blew off the windshield?
No one else drove it after me, as far as I knew.
The mystery lasted until I went back to fill out a mileage sheet in the glove compartment.
When signing my name on the mileage sheet, something in the back seat caught my eye – something that hadn’t been there before.
A large glossy poster, half-rolled, stained on the corners with spilled drinks, Halloween glitter, and smeared make-up.
I unrolled it…and my heart, lungs, and veins slammed shut. It was a giant promotional poster of the Canadian Playboys event in Dryden. It must have fallen out of her backpack when I dropped her off at home after breakfast.
Now. This is important. This was not a Xeroxed flyer that was stapled to a Dryden telephone pole. It was full colour. It bordered on a professional wrestler photo shoot. Names like Nitro, Midnight, and Machine were fitting, and they wore nothing but black leather, studs, and confidence. They were a mix of Chippendales, a Nine Inch Nails music video, and villains like Lord Humungous from Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome.
We live in a world of optics, and it suddenly dawned on me:
My coworkers assumed I borrowed a work truck, punched the clock, ducked out and drove hours away to Dryden for quite the memorable event, had a great time, proudly brought back a souvenir to keep the memory alive, and returned the truck to the office.
I spent a week explaining.
Because I’m a professional.
And I still get asked to tell it – again and again.
– Robert Horton is an educator, author, linguist, and orator. He is a member of Rainy River First Nations.
