Got any Bongs in your Pockets? Or, I Meet the Border Patrol

Jan 30, 2008 - 13:44 PM PST

November 3, 2007

Here's a story about me.

My sophomore year at Hendrix, I lived in an awful apartment with three very cool people. The apartment was on Clifton Street in Conway, right next to the train tracks - literally, right next to the train tracks. We had to turn up the TV when the train passed by because it was so close. One of my roommates took to throwing eggs at the train as it passed. At one point, I became consumed by obtaining accurate counts of the number of freight cars each train had. As I remember, the average was about 130. Long, loud trains.

In order to protect their identities, should they not wish to be associated with the sordid events described herein, we'll call these three cool people Alastair, from Austin, Chrysanthemum, from Cookeville, Tennessee, and Theseus, from Maine. I understand that Maine may have towns and indeed cities, but I've never heard of one. For all I know, the state is governed entirely by LL Bean.

So, since our apartment was not the most hospitable of places, when Spring Break came around, Alastair, Chrysanthemum I, we decided to get the fook out of Dodge, as it were. So we set off in my 4Runner and headed North. I think we were planning on going to Chicago, but we hadn't quite made up our minds yet. Anyhow, by the time we were halfway to the windy city, it had settled in our minds that it was a great idea to go on all the way to Canada. Having not previously decided to leave the country, none of us had our passports - and frankly, I didn't think that you had to actually have a passport to get into Canada.

However, as we reached the border, our Canadian Border Guard (I will do him the honor of not calling him a Mountie, for he was not mounted) asked for our passports. Ah. Problem. Hmm. "Well, sir, we don't have passports. I've got my Arkansas Driver's License. Surely that's not suspicious at all for someone this far north. These two? Texas and Tennessee. Yep. Drove up today. Pleasure. Thought we'd go see Niagara Falls, maybe take in a hockey game." Something along those lines. Then our Border Guard politely informed us that while he was authorized to let us in the country THIS time, and I quote, shitting you not, "Guys, Canada is a whole other country, and you need to bring your passports." It was almost petulant, the way a small child might insist that you take their refrigerator box fort seriously when they refer to it as "my splendiforous castle." At least, that's the way I remember it, and, try as I might, this experience has helped solidify for me some of the admittedly unfounded "America, Jr.," feelings I have about our friendly neighbors to the North. "Guy, Canada is a whole other country," like we were being scolded for having thrown our frisbee into the neighbor's yard, except the neighbor's yard was Canada - a whole other country.

So, we got into Canada. We drove to Niagara Falls and saw them, and they were spectacular. I mean, it's Niagara Falls. You can go down this long elevator ride and then walk through this long damp tunnel and find yourself looking out at the backside of the falls, the water falling down from above you. It's pretty swank.

Then, discovery of all discoveries, we're driving around the city, which is a decent size, and we see the Niagara Falls Casino. One of my cohorts notes that, in Canada, the legal ages for certain activities are lower than in our own homeland. ZOOM. A few minutes later, after yet another suspicious glance at my Arkansas ID, I'm in the casino drinking a white russian and smoking Lucky Strikes. Could I be ANY cooler? Hell, I even won $40 dollars Canadian at the slots.

I didn't have the juevos to sit at any of the blackjack tables and this was before the whole western hemisphere had taken ill with No Limit Hold 'Em fever, so I just played the slots. But I was 19 and in a casino drinking and smoking, dammit, so it was a great afternoon.

Later on, we drive on over to Toronto and again take advantage of the lower drinking age. Like here, where I look like a mincing, husky sex offender:

EDIT: Actually, no. This picture REALLY just screams out "I will watch you in your backyard pool." So, uh, no.


It's not like we had any huge cultural goals to accomplish, it was just cool to be out and about in Canada, not really doing anything and for sure not being in Conway where we had to turn up the TV when the train passed. It was a good couple of days. We weren't there for more than 48 hours, but it was a good time, as I remember. I only drove down the wrong way down one one-way street, we saw lake whatever-it-was, walked around downtown Toronto, etc. We probably spent more time in the car between the places we visited than we did visiting the places we'd reached, but even that was the coolest thing ever because all the speed limits are in kilometers and I'm easily amused. So, cool stuff when you're 19. It was on the way back into the country when things got really interesting.

We re-entered the US of A through Detroit. I had no idea Detroit was even that close to the border before I realized you could get into the country through it, but it is.

Backtrack. Let me describe my 4Runner to you. Or rather, the bumper stickers I had:

Phish sticker? Check.

Grateful Dead sticker? Check.

Ralph Nader for President sticker? Check.

Perhaps you see the direction this is going. Only if I had a bumper sticker that read "MARIJUANA ON BOARD" could I have more obviously indicated certain activities in which I engaged. For the record, I don't do any drugs at all now, so I'm not trying to indicate to anyone that, should you be in possession of some extra crunchy purple dank noog, I am a potential buyer. But "back then," well, you figure it out. Someday I'll write about all the various contraptions from which I may or may not have, ahem, partak- [REEL MISSING ---- REEL MISSING] and in my experience, I think that Canadian Highways are roughly the same quality of those in southern Missouri.

Now, being the renaissance man that I am, I have friends and associates of a great many ilk, musical and scientific, artistic and logical, some druggy, some drinky, some cold sober, and my cohorts on this jaunt were of the drinky variety but not the druggy. Knowing I was to be in their company for the duration of the trip, and out of deference to their preference, I had not brought anything illegal with me.

Or so I thought.

So we drive on up to the border facility, which is a lot like a stop on a toll way except that you don't pay 70 cents to get through and the "toll booth operators" are heavily armed with both automatic weapons and frowns of profound, soul-destroying displeasure.

Let me now mention another important fact: this is Spring, 2002. As in, the Spring after Fall, 2001. As in, the Spring after September 11th. Border Patrol is not fucking around. The looks these folks give you make you wonder if you aren't just a little bit of a terrorist for having even left the country to begin with. Why'd you leave, son? Not enough freedom for you here? Green car, I see. Don't like red? Or white? Or blue? Interesting choice. Let me note that on my clipboard here. And this is of course, at this time, their baseline attitude to everyone.

Don't get me wrong, I'm glad we have people guarding our borders and I have nothing but respect for anyone who puts their life on the line in the course of duty. I work at a bookstore. I know how lucky I am. So, I understand why, at a border facility, everyone gets stopped and answers a few questions about where they've been, where they're going, and so on. Makes sense to me. What I should have realized is that when you've got a Grateful Dead bumper sticker, a Ralph Nader 2000 bumper sticker, and you look like THIS:

[IMG]http://i238.photobucket.com/albums/ff83/sorkle/n57301511_30089076_5666.jpg[/IMG]

you damn well better make sure you've cleaned out your ashtray.

I had NOT cleaned out my ashtray.

We step out of the car for the routine check after having handed over our IDs. A few blue-clad patrolmen take a look around inside, and I notice one of them take a quick look at a Nader 2000 campaign button that was affixed to one of the back seat seatbelts. Then, one of the guys opens up the ashtray and pokes around. He is, judging by the sharpness of his crew cut, the boss of this particular squad. He says something into his collar walky-talkie and slides the ashtray out of the car.

"Mr. Fuller, would you like to tell me what this is?" he says, holding up the roach end of a joint that has to be at least six months old.

SHIT. OH HOLY SHIT. I AM SO. COMPLETELY. FUCKED.

I am told to put my hand on the hood and I'm frisked by a younger officer who asks me if I have anything else on me. "No...no, nothing," I say, very rattled, very scared, very future-flashing-before-my-eyes-I'll-never-graduate-now-oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-shiiiiiiiiit. Then he asks me, and I SWEAR THIS IS TRUE: "Any pipes? Any foil? Any bongs in your pockets?"

BONGS IN MY POCKETS. He's JOKING with me. "Ah, no...no bongs in my pockets," I say, and manage half a smile. Thanks, guy. Appreciate that. I had no idea the Border Patrol was a repository of such urbane comedic stylings.

The three of us are escorted inside and told to sit down while we have our identities checked for, I am guessing, possible Afghani relatives (this was before we'd heard about Al Qaeda). Then, we are split up and questioned individually. As the owner of the vehicle, I went last. I was taken to an office with a single desk and a hat rack and left to wait for a few minutes. At this point, I'm trying my best to stay calm. It's hardly any pot at all, I'm thinking. Less than a gram, I didn't even know it was there, it's all a mistake. Then my interrogator arrives. It's the head guy from before, with the crew cut. He's about forty, with a red, muscular face and a hard chin. Looks like an extra from JAG. Here's how it went, as well as I can remember:

"Mr. Fuller, I'm Sgt. Something. Samuel, is it?"

"Matthew, sir. It's my middle name."

"Fine. What we found in the vehicle, was that yours, Mr. Fuller?"

"I'm not sure. I mean, I guess so."

"Is it yours or not?"

"I think it was, I don't remember. I'll take responsibility for it, it's my car." Obviously I'm not getting it at this point.

"Is the pot yours or not, Samuel?"

"Yes sir. It's mine."

"Thank you. I appreciate straight answers."

"Yessir."

"Samuel, are you in school?" At this point, I realize I'm getting the "scared straight" treatment, so I may not be in any REAL trouble.

"Yessir. In college."

"And you're what, a freshman? Sophomore?"

"A Sophomore, sir."

"What do you study?"

"English, ah, I'm an English major."

"Really? And what do you plan on doing with that once you graduate?"

"I'm not sure yet...I thought I might teach, eventually."

"I've got kids, Samuel. What are you planning on teaching? Are you gonna teach my kids to smoke pot?" He's being very serious. He's trying to get it across to me how serious this is. Unfortunately, I sometimes have the habit of wearing a bit of a grin when I'm in a bad situation. At least, my interrogator seemed to spot a bit of a grin on my face.

"Ah, no, sir. I'd never..."

"Well you might just have endangered that future teaching position, Samuel." At this point, I remember thinking, I need to make sure he knows how seriously I'm taking this. I drop my draw just a touch in a look of surprise, and he says to me, "Now, that's the first time you've wiped that smirk off your face. That's better. Let me ask you, do you know how stupid you have to be to get caught with pot at the border?"

"Um, pretty stupid."

"VERY stupid. I've talked to kids who have TOLD me they've JUST smoked pot in Canada, and we don't do anything about it - AS LONG AS THEY DON'T HAVE ANYTHING WITH THEM. And you've endangered your friends reputations and your future. Think about that. You sit here and wait, I'll be back when we've decided what we're going to do."

So I sat there for probably another ten minutes and thought about the possible legal trouble I was in. I had some idea of what degree of trouble this sort of thing would get me into were I back in Faulkner County, but no clue what sort of penalty there was for being an idiot at the border. Well, when Alastair and Chrysanthemum and I compared stories, it turns out that while I was waiting alone pondering my fate, they were reporting to each of them separately that I'd told the Border Patrol it was THEIR pot. Divide and conquer. Interrogation at its finest. But my friends apparently held fast, and said that they had no idea why they would have said a thing like that when they didn't even smoke. Upon questioning Chrysanthemum, our interrogator let her know that getting into trouble like this could really be a "dead albatross" around her neck. I am not 100% certain, but I think this may be incorrect usage of that particular idiom.

So the Sergeant returns, and gives me a serious look. "Well, Mr. Fuller, turns out that what we found in your car was destroyed in testing." He actually said DESTROYED IN TESTING. Code for "we're looking for terrorists, not idiots with bad memories." Code for "the paperwork for this is not worth my time." Code for "don't ever fuck with the Border Patrol, because we will fuck with you."

He looks me right in the eye and says, "we take this kind of transgression very seriously. Do not ever bring any contraband into this country ever again, do you understand? And if anyone at customs ever asks you, 'have you ever had any problems at the border?', the answer is YES, YOU HAVE HAD PROBLEMS AT THE BORDER. Drive safely, Mr. Fuller." He shook my hand and we were back in my car and across the border back into the US of A in under a minute.

Don't fuck with the border patrol, folks. They mean business. I can only imagine the dead albatross hanging from my neck if I'd had any bongs in my pockets.