To Fetch An iPad

8:00 AM I start my car and leave the garage to fetch my friend, Dan, for a road trip. The Apple iPad was released today and we have two on reserve. The only problem is that they were released in the USA and we live in Canada. Not an insurmountable problem, I own a vehicle, a dirty old stick shift Pontiac that I bought in Florida when I lived in NY (that is another story).

I am a US citizen, always have been, and Dan is a Canadian citizen, with a slight paranoia about borders. I, being a US citizen living in Canada, am accustomed to crossing the border by air and land. The act of crossing that government-drawn line evokes little reaction in me other than boredom. That was a mistake.

I picked up Dan, who had packed a duffel back full of clothes so that I may drop him off at his parents for Easter. The drive was nice, a beautiful unseasonably warm day, 24C/76F. It was uneventful. With little traffic the city was a scenic drive and even Hamilton, with its smokestacks, a fire and smoke illuminated by the filtered light of the sun, was a sight that made me happy to be alive. As we approached the border Dan pointed out the street he grew up on. I was surprised he grew up both so close to the highway and the border. Dropping him off for Easter would be simple and quick.

The border was an odd mix of busy and empty. The newer customs stalls were packed 4 cars deep, the older ones without the large overhanging structure were mostly empty. I picked the familiar, those booths that have been there as long as I have been crossing the border.

“You have your passport?” I ask Dan. He hands me his passport. Holding both the familiar eagle and unfamiliar seal of Canada in my hand I approach the customs booth. Just before the booth, crowned by a stop sign, is a walkway that the agents use to cross between booths. Previous to driving over the walk, an agent had used that walk to cross. I stop before the walk and proceed to the booth. handing both our passports to the agent.

“What is you citizenship?” The agent says.

“I am American and Dan is Canadian” I say. The agent’s reaction is strangely sceptical. It does not appear that odd to me, US agents frequently act strangely.

From here he asks all the normal questions, “Where do you live?”, “How long are you going to be here?”, “How do you know Dan?”, “You work together, where?”, “Who owns this car?”, and he specifically asks Dan some questions. Then I hear, in another voice, “Please open your trunk.” Glancing in my side view mirror I see who it is, the border guard who crossed the walk before I pulled up.

“Sure,” I state, reaching for the button to opens the trunk. Pushing the button I have a moment of fear that the button will not work, but I hear the distinctive pop of an inexpensive car’s trunk springing open.

The voice behind the car asks “Whose car is this?”

“Mine,” I say. He responds “Whose duffle bag of clothes is this?” Dan explains how his family is in Fort Erie and he is visiting for Easter. Somehow I assumed this was a satisfactory answer.

“When did you last register this vehicle?” The border guard from behind asks.

Now, I was born in December and it is April. I did not renew this last year. Woops. Why the fuck I have not been pulled over yet is anyone’s guess. I suddenly realize these plates are three months out of date.

“Would you please step out of the vehicle?”

Now, like I have stated before, this is not my first time crossing the border. I had once crossed over the border with a moving truck in a non-truck border crossing (again another story). I was then asked to get out of my vehicle and its rear storage facility, while considerably larger, was inspected as well. I still assumed that this would be over soon after we cleared some things up. However, at this point what are you to do but to submit to the men with guns?

“Give me your keys.” The man in the kiosk says. What option do I have? I am a US citizen, I love my county, it’s just a car, what the hell is this about, an expired tag?

The agent behind my vehicle states “We are going to do a seven point inspection.” I guess I am supposed to know what the means. I feel like taking out my iPhone and Googling for it.

We are asked to stand in very specific places, Dan on the passenger side of the crosswalk, me on the other. We stood there for a minute while I notice them bringing over another border guard. At this point we are asked to follow the border guard that was standing behind the vehicle, now in front of Dan, while this newly introduced border guard closely followed me from behind.

We are escorted into a small room with two ticket booths similar to what you might see at Money Mart or a bank in a very bad neighbourhood. These booths are covered from the inside with white vertical blinds and it becomes clear this is not our final destination.

The border guard that was following me uses his keycard to enter the door that leads to behind the booths. We enter another small room with a door to the west and a hallway to the south. The hallway terminates quickly with a room on the right. We are taken through the door to the west and told to walk straight thought to the door ahead of us. I lead, walking slowly. I try to take in as much as I can, looking all around. It becomes clear to me that we are behind the customer counter someone might see if their car had not just been confiscated. I pause, and one of the guards walks in front of me, opening the door out the main seating area.

On the east side of the area is a room segregated by rows of seating, and on the west, just right of the door, is a room separated by glass. In it sits a girl, who might be 20, crying. Her blue eyes red with tears and her blond hair still in the style of someone who is not about to be arrested. I imagine her parents or boyfriend being taken away from her, being deported to some foreign land. Leaving her all alone in only world she has even known.

“Walk to your left, down by the TV,” The border agent states. I feel relief. I did not want to be in that glass room.

We sit, we wait, my name is called: “William” (no one calls me that but my mother), I approach the counter. I am asked to remove my jacket and hand it to him. I oblige. I empty my pockets, turn them inside our and lift up my pants legs as instructed.

“What is your friend’s name?” I am asked.

“Daniel.” I say. Now, I have never called Dan Daniel but they continued to call me William so I figured I would go with the flow.

We sit, again, and wait.

I hear “William.” I respond politely with “Sir” and approach the counter.

“You are a US citizen and I am not allowed to deny you entry but I am denying your vehicle.”

“Can I take it back?” I respond. For the first time in my life I can’t wait to get the fuck out of my own country. I just want to take my shit and my friend out of this place and back into the safety of Canada.

He explains to me that my car is free to go back to Canada, he is careful in his verbiage to talk about my vehicle and not me. He then tell me to follow this other officer and receive further instruction. This officer, with both my keys and our documents in his hands, returns my keys to me but not my documents.

I could not believe it. My passport is being held as hostage. He escorts us outside, points me to where my vehicle is, and tells me to pull the car out of its space and follow him. After I stop at the place instructed my documents will be returned to me.

On US soil, as a Citizen of the USA my passport is being withheld from my possession because of an expired vehicle tag.

His car’s emergency lights go on and he pulls in front of me and escorts me to a road the only goes one way, back to Canada. I am given back my documents, told to go up the road and to “Have a nice day.”

I crossed back over to Canada to a border guard that was a bit surprised at what just happened to us, dropped Dan off at his childhood home, and had a pleasant, uneventful drive back home.

Thank you Canada for not treating me like a criminal.