Chuck Ross relates a father and son bonding experience at the U.S./Mexico border.
After having our truck searched by border patrol agents 100 miles east of El Paso yesterday, I was of two minds.
My dad and I had finished up working a job in the border town and were headed back home after the long weekend’s work. We’ve made three runs to El Paso this year to paint graphics on corrugated metal buildings for one of my dad’s clients, but this is the first time we’ve encountered anything other than a passing query into our destination by border agents.
But this run was different. We pulled up to the front line agent who asked us our destination and where we’d come from and for identification. We waited momentarily while another agent guided a jovial looking Belgian Shepherd towards the bed of the pickup. Dog had to earn his keep. We’d never encountered a dog search before and had only expected some young federale to wave us through without a second glance. My dad prefers to have me drive through the checkpoint because he is a British subject and I am an American with red hair which would put the odds of me being a drug mule at about zero.
But the dog came out and I started wondering if my dad had recently smoked any cigarettes of the left-handed variety. As the dog swung behind the tail of the truck and on to the passenger side, he started scratching at the front of the bed. I found that odd but didn’t think too much into it because I figured the dog would start barking and frothing at the mouth if he found anything illegal. But the agents started looking at each other in a way that told me they had found something suspicious.
The lead agent told us that we’d have to pull over to the side of the checkpoint to undergo a more detailed inspection. I played it cool even though I was fluttering inside. “Do you have any weed in here?” I muttered to my dad—minimizing my facial movements like a ventriloquist for fear that the U.S.G.’s latest/greatest technology was watching me. “No,” he replied unconvincingly. Roaches are called roaches for a reason—because they’re small. I feared that my dad may have left a roach somewhere in the truck. There was also the tiny silver and black matter that was sitting—albeit unloaded—in my backpack behind the driver’s seat. But the dog looked really young, I told myself. And he did; he looked like a pup. I could only hope that his youth made him prone to a lot of false positive readings.
About four agents, besides the front line agent, the dog, and the dog handler, came billowing out of the patrol station. They were chomping at the bit for some action—walking headstrong towards the truck like a middle reliever called in to get his team out of an 8th inning jam. The agents were slinking gloves onto their hands which brought thoughts of cavity searches into my head. I remembered that I’d been working and sweating in the same pair of underwear for two days—sucks to be that BP agent I said to myself as comic relief. It’s always good to laugh, especially when you’re facing five years for being a narcotraficante.
I appreciated the agents’ strategy—one they surely didn’t employ specially for us—as one of the agents guided the dog up into the pickup bed amid buckets of paint, paint thinner, paint brushes, paint rollers, rags, bungee cords, and various other (non-controlled) chemical substances. The agent informed us that the dog was a drug-sniffing dog as well as a body sniffing dog. Who knew that in today’s just-in-time industrial society even canines have to cross-train to keep their jobs. Or maybe, I wondered, the dog just couldn’t decide on just one career path.
As the pup continued sniffing, the agent asked me if I had any weapons. I told him I did—an unloaded 9mm that I carried with me when traveling. He didn’t arm bar or Taser me so I took that as a good sign. Another agent confiscated my dad’s 2-inch knife that he carries with him to pick food out of his teeth. The agent asked us where we’re from, and where we’re going. We told him. He asked what our business was in El Paso. I subtly scoffed as I raised up my hands that were covered in blue and white paint and glanced towards my shirt that was covered in paint as well and said “Ross Sign Painting” on it. Instead of going wise ass though, I said that we were painting a building on the interstate outside of the city.
Then the agents pulled the ol’ switcheroo on us. The first guy went away and another more serious looking dude came over to invade my personal space for effect. He asked the same questions of us, no doubt to see if we were lying about anything. My dad went to put his hands in his pockets, and the agent quickly truncated that idea and asked him to keep his hands visible. The agent was perpendicular to us as we watched the search, and I could feel his eyes piercing my temple through his Ray Bans. I check-swung my hand towards the truck, venturing to reiterate that they could just do a full search if they wanted, but stopped short because I knew that if they wanted to they would and that my permission was not required. As I made my slight hand movement, I could see the agent take ledger of it. There was an odd realization at that moment as I knew that he saw it and he knew that I curtailed the movement because I realized that he was analyzing my body language for any glaring defects. It was awkward, like one of those moments when you call someone by what you think is their name but you realize mid-name that you’re about to say the wrong name so you try to meld the incorrect name with their actual name. As in “Hello Jaimiffer.”
We all stood there as the dog finished his business. He had apparently keyed in on a little red tool bag that was nestled up near the front of the pickup bed. The agents pulled it out and laid it on the ground. Perfect place to hide some bud, Dad, I thought. He would stick a joint in a crevice next to a rusty wrench set. I felt doom impending. The dog rifled through the bag with his snout. I have no idea what noise he made or what he did, but his reaction was less than indicting as one agent turned around and gave the throat slice motion to the other agents. That’s a pretty gruesome all-clear signal, I thought.
The agents might as well have wisped away like Dementors from Harry Potter, such air was sucked out of their entire being. The dog had keyed in on a small can of ether fuel which is neither a dead body nor a controlled substance (though you can get high as the Mars Rover on that shit). Without a “sorry,” a “my bad,” or a sorrowful “Arf!” the agents put the tools back into the truck and headed towards the station—no doubt to haze their furry federal friend for his trigger-happy sniffer. They did wish us a good day though. So that’s something.
I mentioned being of two minds after the shakedown. On the one hand, being inspected doesn’t leave a good taste in my mouth. I do understand, though, that the agents were doing their jobs. On the other hand, I got shaken down with my dad, and collecting these experiences has become a hobby of mine.
The Good Men Project welcomes new staff writer Chuck Ross. Read Chuck Mondays on The Good Life.
Image credit: jim.greenhill/Flickr