There were three other men on the bus, the driver and two older men in the back. The four of us listened to the Sinatra, Dean Martin romantic tunes to the next hour to Niagra Falls. The bridge was a short taxi ride from the bus station.
As I got out of the taxi I was greeted by the elderly Canadian immigration officer. As soon as I told him I was seeking landed immigrant status he asked if my name was Michael Cannarella. I noded and like a run on sentence the officer asked if I would like to withdraw my application. Again, I noded. I received another slip of paper to take back to U. S. Customs. This time there was no lecture, I was back in Niagra Falls and dropped at an inexpensive hotel. It was a restless night on a bed whose springs made noise whenever I moved.
The next morning, the air was heavy, cloudy, humid and overcast when I caught the 6:30 am bus back to Buffalo. From there I called N. Wall and related to her the events of the previous evening. N’s advise was to take the bus back to Toronto. Crossing back into Canada all draft age American men were excorted off the bus, numbers of all of their draft cards recorded and a short speech was delivered on the penality for draft evasion
Niagra Falls
In U. S. Customs my bags were throughly checked. From there I was instructed to take the slip of paper to another officer in another room. The second officer asked for my Selective Service draft card. His advise was that I go home, go back to school. From there the monologue ran together for me, a compilation and re-run of so many things I had heard before. In memory rather than hearing the U. S. Customs officer I hear many people who spoke with me prior to my decision to immigrate. I heard about my obligation, responsibility, my country. His closing line did stick in my mind, and it brought me back to the present, late evening on the U. S side of the Peace bridge, “don’t fight it son, join.”
I called a Taxi Cab and then I stepped outside, the night air a great relief. I told the Cab driver what had happened to answer his question, HOW HAD I GOTTEN THERE? I told him I wanted to go to the bus station. The driver was sympathetic. Speaking with a Brooklyn accent he told me he was twenty-seven years old. He too had worried about the draft and serving until he had hurt his back in his factory job. The injury earned him a 4F, a physical deferment selective service classification. He said, “ ‘course now I can’t get a factory job, so I drive a cab.”
The talkative driver soothed my nerves, he told me he didn’t like driving at night because business was so slow. Just then the driver stopped the meter and turned to me and asked if I’d like a tour of the riot areas of Buffalo. With a nod I voiced my ascent, then we went through two road blocks. Like an extended, expanded night time newscast my eyes free to pan and search the scene, we saw buildings burning, emergency personnel; police officers, firefighters ambulances colored by the night and orange flames, oblivious to our presence. Then just as suddenly we were back to the bus station where I payed the driver and got out.
Once in the bus station I found there were no more buses for Canada that night. There was a bus leaving soon for Niagra Falls. It left at 1 am, the HONEY MOON special. I decided to make another attempt to immigrate that night, the bridge at Niagra Falls may have friendlier immigration officers. The Honey Moon special had special music, as one might expect.
