continuing on from the last journal... this is the rest:
Details in the interim are speculative, there was a lot of paranoia in the car between the three of us waiting, but then we got out and now we stand outside the car, under the roof of this open space in front of a long sterile stainless steel table and the guard is snapping rubber gloves.
"Empty your pockets." Is delivered dryly, but the visuals were interesting. We empty our pockets one by one, starting with Michael. There was some other routine in there, perhaps a form to sign, but I forget exactly.
Tapping my fingers against my thigh in my pocket and my heart starts racing. There's an officer in my car going through everything. No, seriously everything.
At some point in there I decided the best course of action would be to bounce on my heels a little. So I do that. I bounce and my vision is shifting rapidly between car and the guard in front of me. The one in my car, his head pokes up quick.
My poor heart; dropping, skipping beats.
Steps out of the door, the search is over. He has a bag in his hand. Inside that bag are RoldGold pretzels. Herb and garlic flavors. Also inside that bag of pretzels is yet another bag. That bag was, at one time, inside my pocket and I frequently enjoyed rolling it between my fingers.
"Who is the owner of this vehicle?" Sternly, and of course, the answer is me. Which I state.
"Come with me sir."
So I do. Follow. Get this over with, holding back a smile I still don't know the source of.
"Where's the insurance?"
"In the glove box," I answer.
"No it isn't. We looked. It isn't in there." He's sweating and sneering. I'm probably the most action big guy's had in some weeks. I'll venture that at least.
"No, it's there. There's a red thing, sort of like a bag, and my car owner's manual is in that. It's in that bag with the manual." Calm and serene head down and the words are just flowing.
"Fine. You wait right here." As if I had a choice? I wait and I go over my answers. Answers to questions I've never been asked, but I'm working my best to anticipate them. The same guy walks back in without the card, but I'm sure they've found it. North Dakota's finest are on the job protecting us from those horrible Canadians.
"Did you find it?" That was me, masking a smirk.
"Yes we did," And then he holds up a bag. There are pretzels in that bag, or so the package proclaims and pictures. But the guard is just eyeing me, hard, and he's holding that bag. "And who does this belong to?"
"Me. I'm guessing you found that in my car."
"We did find this in your car," Can you say possession of an illegal substance (marijuana) while operating a motor vehicle? "And does everything in this bag belong to you?"
"Yes. Yes it does. Everything in that bag belongs to me," Pretzels and all.
"And what about them [points at, or rather, past the door]? Are they in on this with you?" Okay, he's acting like I'm some kind of criminal or something. I don't much care for that. Though I did notice that he was a little shocked when I so quickly admitted the bag was mine. He doesn't understand it right now, but I'm just trying to get off without charges for trafficking, which I understand to be much worse.
"They had no idea. Those pretzels are mine. And the bag of marijuana inside is mine too. And they had no idea. In fact, the girl over there, I told her I quit a while ago. She's not supposed to know about this at all." This is very left field to him and he's wearing it on his sleeve.
He decides to start yelling about it, (trying to "crack" me? I had to wonder...) and I start yelling back because I assume that's what he wants but at some point I got bored with it so I stared him right in the eye and said:
"LOOK. LISTEN to me. THEY know nothing. THEY had no idea. OKAY. I tried to get through the border with a bag of marijuana and you're pissed and I understand that but THEY had NOTHING to do with MY actions. I don't particularly care that I made your job harder because THIS. IS. YOUR. JOB. But what YOU need to understand is that I. AM. NOT. Putting up any fight here. I am not trying to say that it's not mine. Because it is. It's mine. THEY had no idea. SO! DO whatever you've gotta do. I just want to get out of here. SO IT'S MINE. And I'd like to go home now."
"IF we don't throw you in jail." Well, this time he surprised me. Walks out of the room. Comes back with a form. For some reason or another the idea of jail hadn't occurred to me.
"Write out what you did. Put your signature there [points at the bottom], and don't fucking bullshit us. Okay?"
"Okay."
I forget what exactly I wrote on that piece of paper, but it was something to the tune of the following:
"I was driving through the Canadian border back into the U.S. with a small amount of marijuana. An officer who searched my car found it and I confessed that it was mine. The people with me did not know it was in the car.
"The bag itself was new, I had just purchased it. Unfortunately I was unable to smoke any of it, which I consider to be the bigger loss."
And aside from the first part, the rest is almost word-for-word. I'm sure of that much.
They threw me in jail. This was on a Saturday and I used my one phone call to let the people at work know that there was absolutely no way I would be able to make it by 3pm for my shift. Unspoken, but Jesus (hey-zeus) understood.
Fingerprints.
Social security number.
A plastic coated cot and some time to think. (In fact I could go for some of that now.) Four walls and a hole in the floor. Not exactly my day that day. This all happened about two hours after waking up. Not how I thought my day would go.
Two other inmates but I didn't particularly feel like chatting. Looked at the library, which was comparable to the library at a supermarket, and I didn't feel like being swept off my feet by the population of stranded housewives' ideal man.
"What're you in for?" I guess I had to get that question at some point. I chuckled. They tried to serve me food, but I couldn't eat it. You couldn't either, until you got hungry enough. Shit. On a plate. Promise.
I'd given Steff my keys. She drove over to my jail while they held Michael for more questions about his financial situation while I cooked a little. Somehow Steff came up with the $500 to get me out of there. The whole time I was in I'd desperately wanted out, but then she was there, and it had only been a few hours. Part of me felt it was best if I'd stayed, but alas...
"You owe me for this."
"I'll pay you back. Promise." At the time of my writing this, I'm still $225 short of paying her back fully. But they let me go nonetheless. Who knew it was that easy. A trusting friend. I really did intend to pay her back. If she hadn't I'd have had to wait at least two days until Monday morning when the judge would have (likely, not definitely) let me go.
Steff stayed with Michael until they figured out the best way to spend more time together. Michael was not let through the border, and part of me salutes America for that, but not really. I left after being transported [by Steff, in my own vehicle] back to the border from the jail I'd set in which existed in a different town entirely. County jurisdiction applied there. They hitchhiked back to his apartment, and I drove away, Pearl Jam's Yield playing softly, then very very loudly on my car stereo.
Drove home a little dirtier, a little more blemished, picked up a hitchhiker (in honor of Steff) who had a feather in his hat, wore shorts and had a very small furry dog for a counterpart.
All in all, the trip was worth it.
Details in the interim are speculative, there was a lot of paranoia in the car between the three of us waiting, but then we got out and now we stand outside the car, under the roof of this open space in front of a long sterile stainless steel table and the guard is snapping rubber gloves.
"Empty your pockets." Is delivered dryly, but the visuals were interesting. We empty our pockets one by one, starting with Michael. There was some other routine in there, perhaps a form to sign, but I forget exactly.
Tapping my fingers against my thigh in my pocket and my heart starts racing. There's an officer in my car going through everything. No, seriously everything.
At some point in there I decided the best course of action would be to bounce on my heels a little. So I do that. I bounce and my vision is shifting rapidly between car and the guard in front of me. The one in my car, his head pokes up quick.
My poor heart; dropping, skipping beats.
Steps out of the door, the search is over. He has a bag in his hand. Inside that bag are RoldGold pretzels. Herb and garlic flavors. Also inside that bag of pretzels is yet another bag. That bag was, at one time, inside my pocket and I frequently enjoyed rolling it between my fingers.
"Who is the owner of this vehicle?" Sternly, and of course, the answer is me. Which I state.
"Come with me sir."
So I do. Follow. Get this over with, holding back a smile I still don't know the source of.
"Where's the insurance?"
"In the glove box," I answer.
"No it isn't. We looked. It isn't in there." He's sweating and sneering. I'm probably the most action big guy's had in some weeks. I'll venture that at least.
"No, it's there. There's a red thing, sort of like a bag, and my car owner's manual is in that. It's in that bag with the manual." Calm and serene head down and the words are just flowing.
"Fine. You wait right here." As if I had a choice? I wait and I go over my answers. Answers to questions I've never been asked, but I'm working my best to anticipate them. The same guy walks back in without the card, but I'm sure they've found it. North Dakota's finest are on the job protecting us from those horrible Canadians.
"Did you find it?" That was me, masking a smirk.
"Yes we did," And then he holds up a bag. There are pretzels in that bag, or so the package proclaims and pictures. But the guard is just eyeing me, hard, and he's holding that bag. "And who does this belong to?"
"Me. I'm guessing you found that in my car."
"We did find this in your car," Can you say possession of an illegal substance (marijuana) while operating a motor vehicle? "And does everything in this bag belong to you?"
"Yes. Yes it does. Everything in that bag belongs to me," Pretzels and all.
"And what about them [points at, or rather, past the door]? Are they in on this with you?" Okay, he's acting like I'm some kind of criminal or something. I don't much care for that. Though I did notice that he was a little shocked when I so quickly admitted the bag was mine. He doesn't understand it right now, but I'm just trying to get off without charges for trafficking, which I understand to be much worse.
"They had no idea. Those pretzels are mine. And the bag of marijuana inside is mine too. And they had no idea. In fact, the girl over there, I told her I quit a while ago. She's not supposed to know about this at all." This is very left field to him and he's wearing it on his sleeve.
He decides to start yelling about it, (trying to "crack" me? I had to wonder...) and I start yelling back because I assume that's what he wants but at some point I got bored with it so I stared him right in the eye and said:
"LOOK. LISTEN to me. THEY know nothing. THEY had no idea. OKAY. I tried to get through the border with a bag of marijuana and you're pissed and I understand that but THEY had NOTHING to do with MY actions. I don't particularly care that I made your job harder because THIS. IS. YOUR. JOB. But what YOU need to understand is that I. AM. NOT. Putting up any fight here. I am not trying to say that it's not mine. Because it is. It's mine. THEY had no idea. SO! DO whatever you've gotta do. I just want to get out of here. SO IT'S MINE. And I'd like to go home now."
"IF we don't throw you in jail." Well, this time he surprised me. Walks out of the room. Comes back with a form. For some reason or another the idea of jail hadn't occurred to me.
"Write out what you did. Put your signature there [points at the bottom], and don't fucking bullshit us. Okay?"
"Okay."
I forget what exactly I wrote on that piece of paper, but it was something to the tune of the following:
"I was driving through the Canadian border back into the U.S. with a small amount of marijuana. An officer who searched my car found it and I confessed that it was mine. The people with me did not know it was in the car.
"The bag itself was new, I had just purchased it. Unfortunately I was unable to smoke any of it, which I consider to be the bigger loss."
And aside from the first part, the rest is almost word-for-word. I'm sure of that much.
They threw me in jail. This was on a Saturday and I used my one phone call to let the people at work know that there was absolutely no way I would be able to make it by 3pm for my shift. Unspoken, but Jesus (hey-zeus) understood.
Fingerprints.
Social security number.
A plastic coated cot and some time to think. (In fact I could go for some of that now.) Four walls and a hole in the floor. Not exactly my day that day. This all happened about two hours after waking up. Not how I thought my day would go.
Two other inmates but I didn't particularly feel like chatting. Looked at the library, which was comparable to the library at a supermarket, and I didn't feel like being swept off my feet by the population of stranded housewives' ideal man.
"What're you in for?" I guess I had to get that question at some point. I chuckled. They tried to serve me food, but I couldn't eat it. You couldn't either, until you got hungry enough. Shit. On a plate. Promise.
I'd given Steff my keys. She drove over to my jail while they held Michael for more questions about his financial situation while I cooked a little. Somehow Steff came up with the $500 to get me out of there. The whole time I was in I'd desperately wanted out, but then she was there, and it had only been a few hours. Part of me felt it was best if I'd stayed, but alas...
"You owe me for this."
"I'll pay you back. Promise." At the time of my writing this, I'm still $225 short of paying her back fully. But they let me go nonetheless. Who knew it was that easy. A trusting friend. I really did intend to pay her back. If she hadn't I'd have had to wait at least two days until Monday morning when the judge would have (likely, not definitely) let me go.
Steff stayed with Michael until they figured out the best way to spend more time together. Michael was not let through the border, and part of me salutes America for that, but not really. I left after being transported [by Steff, in my own vehicle] back to the border from the jail I'd set in which existed in a different town entirely. County jurisdiction applied there. They hitchhiked back to his apartment, and I drove away, Pearl Jam's Yield playing softly, then very very loudly on my car stereo.
Drove home a little dirtier, a little more blemished, picked up a hitchhiker (in honor of Steff) who had a feather in his hat, wore shorts and had a very small furry dog for a counterpart.
All in all, the trip was worth it.
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[Edited on Feb 13, 2005 12:15PM]