"Get up. I mean it, get up. Now go get a life."

Our Son Ourson.

Carl, my new co-worker, is instructing me on how to survive a bear attack.

“If a bear charges at you, he is probably just trying to fuck with you,” Carl says, his drawl accented by the cigarette barely clinging to his lower lip. “A bear will run at you and then take off at the last second. They do this to see if they are dealing with a pussy. If he doesn’t turn he thinks he can take you. So then you’re going to have to shoot him. Or stab him with whatever materials are in your possession.”

I nod, pretending to soak up this valuable bit of information.

“Except you can’t shoot him,” continues Carl. “It’s illegal to possess a firearm in a national park. And it’s illegal to exterminate wildlife.”

“So what do I do then?” I ask.

“Punch him the fuck out,” snorts Carl.

24 hours ago this sort of instruction would have been retardedly laughable. A day ago – and approximately 3,212 KM away – I had a better chance of being mauled by Separatists for being on the wrong side of the Quebec tracks. And, as one of the many spoiled, lazy, English-speaking denizens of Montreal, the odds were good. And now I have to train to fight a bear.

I think about a few of the gorier scenes of the movie Grizzly Man before my pop-culture-drunken mind invariably wanders to childhood memories of Rocky IV. After a quick evaluation, I can safely state that I am more of an Uncle Paulie than a Rocky Balboa. I fancy myself a foul-mouthed observer and am easily taken with robots, and therefore have no business fighting anything that can hit, or bite, back.

“We’ve been having plenty of problems with bears this year,” offers Carl. “No one’s gotten hurt though.”

It occurs to me, if confronted by a bear, I might actually become more of an Apollo Creed. I silently vow to stay indoors for the tenure of my contract.

Carl bombs the truck through a campground, keeping up appearances of giving me an official tour. He leans out the window to spit. The hork, thick with fetid food, tobacco and dirt, catches in the wind and smears across his cheek. He doesn’t notice. I make my second oath of the day to quit my job and to not look at Carl for the rest of the summer.