Borderline Crazy
Canada and the United States nestle against each other for an incredible 8891 km (5525 miles). It’s called the longest undefended border in the world. But, of course, that just means no troops are guarding it.
But it certainly is defended against Illegal immigration and the unapproved (untaxed} import/export of goods. Along with all the usual consumer items, “goods” would also include drugs, both prescribed and street. The movement of alcohol and firearms in both directions is also closely monitored, taxed, or banned.
The border is also defended against “undesirables”. People with criminal records, those associated with hate or anti-government groups, and anyone suspected of seeking employment without a permit. These are just a few examples.
Breaking any of the myriad customs and immigration regulations is a significant offence. These guys mean business.
Politically and philosophically, I’m left of center, but I’m conservative when it comes to the law. Sure, I smoked some weed before it was legal, drove my car a little above the speed limit sometimes and once kept a library book for a year…..
But that’s pretty much been the extent of my impropriety. Unfortunately, though, whether it be flippant or combative, my attitude has had me in more shit than a swarm of outhouse flies.
No Sense Of Humour
Late June 1976, Pearson International Airport, Toronto:
I was returning from an eleven-day trip visiting friends in Springfield, IL. My conversation with a customs officer was as follows:
Officer: Were you in the US for business or pleasure?
Me: Believe me, it was a pleasure.
-A pause and a suspicious glare-
Officer: Hmmm, was this cassette recorder purchased in the US?
Me: What? Look at it. The cover’s broken off, there’s a knob missing and it has a scratch along the side. Who’d buy it?
Officer: Where’s the receipt?
Me: I got it for Christmas in 1969! Listen, keep it. The thing only plays back now. It hasn’t recorded a note since the dog peed on it.
He warned me about the need to prove where all my possessions were purchased. I was about to ask if that included my underwear but thought better.
Mikey, For God Sakes Shutup
Lewiston-Queenston bridge 2006, Canada customs:
A long-time friend who lived east of Toronto wanted to buy a used pop machine for his school. All the proceeds were to go to charity. He knew of a place in Tonawanda, NY, with exceptional deals on old machines. He called and asked if I wanted to go along for the ride and do some catching up. I said okay and the next day saw us cruising down the QEW, yapping up a storm.
There were quite a few used pop machines in various stages of disrepair at the warehouse in Tonawanda. Most, including the one my friend bought, had obviously been kicked many times for failure to deliver. As expected, they were selling for next to nothing. Finally, after some negotiating, we had one loaded into the back of the pick-up with a hand-written receipt to show at the border.
Of course, the officer at the booth on the Canadian side of the bridge took one look at the back of the pick-up and directed us to the main building. We parked and went in. Another officer greeted us. He looked at our passports and the hand-written receipt, gave us the kind of guilt-inducing stare we thought only catholic priests could pull off and prepared to speak.
Officer: There’s no way you paid this small an amount for a soft drink machine.
Me: You haven’t seen it.
Officer: I’ll do the talking.
He paused about 30 seconds for effect and then:
How much did you really pay?
No answer from either of us.
Officer: You don’t speak?
Me: You said you’d do the talking.
With that, he opened the door of a small room and gestured for me to enter. When I was in far enough, he closed the door, leaving me alone in an austere, windowless, ten by ten room. The only furnishings were a rickety old table and two wooden chairs. The kind of place you’d expect to have a single unshaded light bulb dangling from a wire. The smell of institutional Lysol and the sight of a mop in the corner indicated to me that getting the shit scared out of you was more than just an expression here.
I slumped into one of the chairs and dozed off.
I was blissfully asleep for maybe twenty minutes when the door flew open. The fresh air was like smelling salts and I was startled.
“Would it kill you to knock?”…. I’m always a little grumpy when I wake up.
As he sat down across from me, he just about slipped off the chair whose uneven legs allowed it to swing twenty degrees or so. After muttering a colorful adjective about budgets, he looked at me and said,
“May I call you Mike?”
“No.”
He paused as he slowly rocked side to side like an animated metronome. With each oscillation, the chair made a sound like a mouse with its tail caught in a door.
“Okay, Mike (squeak) my name is (squeak) Mike too. So now that we’re acquainted (squeak) tell me how much (squeak) your friend paid for the (squeak) pop machine.”
At this point, I would have confessed to robbing the Buffalo Savings and Loan if he’d agreed to put a piece of cardboard under the short leg of the chair.
“Ask him. I’m just along for the ride.”
“How long have you two been friends?”
“Since 1968”
He did one of those Donald Trump “O” faces and shifted around in his chair producing three more squeaks. It was apparent he was having a math moment.
“Thirty Eight years” I assisted, feeling a brief flash of pity.
“ I know, I can add”
“Oh come on” I said “You were squirming like a monkey with hemorrhoids. And in this case you subtract, not add.”
You can imagine how icy cold he suddenly became. He got up (squeak) opened the door and motioned for me to leave.
My friend was waiting in the office and the three of us went to the truck.
I could sense officer Mike’s disappointment as he realized the pop machine wasn’t a brand spanking new five thousand dollar Coke-Pepsi deluxe. Still, he added 20 percent to the receipted price and sent us inside to pay the duty.
I was dying to smart-ass them about drug dealers sneaking through while they were busting a kid’s charity, but I held my tongue.
I did, however, mention to Mike as we were leaving that he could probably get some 3in1 oil and a shim for the chair
at Walmart in St. Catherines.
Kind Of Like A Joke Only Not Funny
I’ve spoken about this before, the strict protocol for clearing customs and immigration when traveling by private aircraft. You do not get off the plane until an official comes out and either interviews you right there or escorts you into a nearby office.
Not all airports have a facility for this, so sometimes we’ll land where there is one and then continue on to our destination.
A situation like this occurred about fifteen years ago. The first show of one of our trips was in a city somewhere in the US south. Unfortunately, the most convenient airport for that venue didn’t have a customs office, so we landed first in Lexington, KY.
We taxied up to the terminal, the pilots shut down the engines, and we waited for an officer to come out to the plane.
After ten minutes or so an official-looking gentleman was admitted to our aircraft. As usual the passports were checked against a list that had been sent in advance of our arrival. The screening would already have been done, presumably speeding up the process.
“Okay, you’re all clear except Michael James Heffernan. Which one of you is Mr. Heffernan?”
He already knew….. I mean, our pictures were on the damn passports.
“That would be me,” I said, holding my hand up.
“Please exit the airplane and follow me, sir.”
I clumsily worked my way past Terry, who didn’t just sit in front of me; he bulk-headed the entire front-right of the cabin using up the seat and half an aisle. Then, after stepping on Barry’s foot, kicking a sandwich tray and dumping part of the contents of my bag on the floor, I stumbled to the door and slipped down the airstair owing to a glob of egg salad smeared on the bottom of my right boot.
Amazingly, with my dignity still proudly intact (who am I kidding?), I casually turned to the officer and said, “Lead the way”….. a Catherine Hepburnish vibrato on every vowel.
A voice from within the plane yelled “we’ll wait for you”.
“Awfully damned nice of you” I muttered.
“Have you ever been refused entry into the United States before?” the officer asked as we walked toward the terminal,
I watch movies and read books so I knew how to respond. “No comment”.
I can’t be sure, but it sounded like he chuckled. He held the door to the terminal open as I went through and said ominously “turn right at the first hallway. There’s someone there you need to report to”
I turned into the hallway and smiling derisively like a Cheshire Cat was Simon Fenn, who, until recently, had been one of our pilots,
“GOT YA!” he yelled, turning every head in the crowded terminal.
“You fucking asshole,” I said as soon as I regained my composure, “you owe me five dollars.”
“What for?” he asked, a quizzical look on his face.
“New underwear.”