|
Mr. Snarly, Mr. Nice and Ms. Who Knows at the U.S. border
© by Mike Keenan 
"Anybody have vegetables? Any meat? Raise your hands please: beef, chicken, turkey, pork, sausages," says the bus driver reciting the name of every kind of meat imaginable, making me hungry. "U.S. Customs will ask; yesterday, a lady was fined $300 for an apple. Anyone carrying over $10,000?" the driver queries... as if.
We are crossing the border into Washington State on our way to Seattle to give our grandson, William, and his parents some respite from the doting grandparent routine. There is a BIG delay at the border; fortunately I have a book to read. A lady comes up to the front and confides to the driver that she has a cooler full of meat. "Some officers are nicer than others," he says. "Most are not." I look around. People are frantically eating. Outside stand two nasty-looking guys in black leather boots with guns at the ready, anxious to get inside our bus. One bends down to look under the school bus in front of us. Gees, it's a school bus. I can't imagine someone being shot over an apple. All sorts of wrappings now are deposited into the garbage bag beside the driver. The passengers look bloated. The driver advises, "When our dollar first reached par with the U.S. dollar, it was a nightmare. It took three hours to get through customs." Today, there are 27 people on board, a myriad collection with Miriam and I forming the senior set, a thirtyish guy from South Africa, two Asians, someone from the Middle East (there goes our quick entry) and a bunch of shifty-looking young people none of whom I would ask to collect our mail. We are advised to get off the bus and to take everything with us. The two guys outside named Sanchez and Simon on their badges will likely turn our bus inside out. Inside, we form a line that zigs and zags Disney-like, providing the erroneous impression that we are making progress instead of merely zigging and zagging. On the walls, are pictures of missing people. I fear I might be added. The line feeds into three desks occupied by three customs officers. Somebody from the bus gets a cell phone call and makes the mistake of answering. From forty feet away, an officer shouts, "No cell phones in here!" Oh no, I think; we will never get out. I scan the three officers, seeking clues. The guy on the right looks mean, and when he shouts "Next!" the whole line jumps in Pavlovian tribute. In the middle is a smiling guy and on the left, a non-committal woman. Mr. Snarly, Mr. Nice and Ms. Who Knows. I get Mr. Smiley. Hurray! He asks when was the last time that I was in the U.S., and I am so psyched up that I'm stumped and begin to panic. Fortunately, Miriam is there and volunteers, "Probably last week as we live on the border." Why couldn't I think of that? Mr. Smiley types in some data and sends us to the X-ray machine. We pass the test. Back inside the bus, the lady with the cooler returns looking contrite. I figured a firing squad at least. It took us two full hours to clear customs. Once all aboard, our driver screams out at 70 mph, not wanting to experience further delays. I wonder if Messrs. Sanchez and Simon are rewarded with bonuses if they find anything on the bus. Okay, I suppose I have a thing about authority figures. Ever since school, they make me nervous. Authority associated with position, I have observed over the years, often is awarded to miscreants who are incompetent to employ it properly. They often hide behind their token badges of esteem, expecting the world to bow. I think there is a guy in prison somewhere in the U.S. who is afflicted with that problem. Calls himself a Lord. He wouldn't last two minutes with Sanchez and Simon. |
