A totally made up story about a couple who lie at the US Border

I completely overestimated my awesomeness and am recovering at a much slower rate than I had anticipated. Given that there were no holes chipped out of my bone with an ice pick, I assumed that I would be up and about and perhaps even back at work by now. But it's only been a week and fatigue and pain are interfering with my ability to "test" this knee out. So I will try to remain patient. I have no doubt that someday my knee will realize how awesome I really am and will finally live up to my expectations. 

I have started back to work on my final blog post for "Seize the Day." This post has been difficult to compose and I want to ensure that I clearly communicate just how much this year has meant to me and what I've learned from our friend, Ryan. Yesterday while sitting on our deck, overlooking beautiful Candle Lake, I was finally able to put into words what I have learned over the course of this year. It's almost complete and I have decided that my next post will be the conclusion to this enlightening experiment. I do have plans in the works for another blog, as I am 100% addicted to this!

In the meantime, I have one last hockey tale to share with you on "Seize the Day." As per usual, I can just picture Ryan sitting at our kitchen table, Corona in hand, eagerly taking in every word of this story (He loved Ev's hockey stories!)

After conferring with Lawyer about this one, I'd like to make it perfectly clear that this is a fictitious tale about a fictitious couple.  Any similarities to real people are simply coincidental.  As the couple in this story most definitely broke the law, I would like to reiterate that this story is most certainly fiction. 

Let me set this up for you: Kristy and Evan Kevin were on their way down to Florida (via Jeep) for an upcoming hockey season in Pensacola. Although the work permit for Kevin had not been processed yet, the team assured Kevin that he could easily cross the border as a "vacationer," and his visa would be processed by the time he reached Pensacola. Kevin and Kristy naively agreed to this. This is how it went down.

This is Kristy. She's smart, hot and loves to surf.

This is Kevin. He's super hot and loves to go shirtless.

A totally made up story about a fictitious couple who lie at the US Border Crossing

“Purpose of trip?”

“Just a vacation”

“For a whole month?”

“Yes”

“Please pull over sir . We’d like to speak to you and your wife inside.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. They were on to us. My stomach churned with a feeling of dread. We would never make it to Florida.

Kevin pulled the Jeep into the Border Patrol automobile searching area.

“What do we do with Biloxi Peaches?”, I asked shakily as I frantically grabbed my purse and the 3 Christmas oranges, while glancing at the giant orange cat meowing angrily from his cat carrier. 

“Leave him…let’s go.”

I glanced quickly at Kev. His sure, steady voice was slightly high in pitch. He was anxious. My rock. The man who maintained a steady pulse when faced with a 90 mile per hour shot was crumbling under the pressure of US Border Patrol. Shit.

We walked briskly inside the tiny building filled with official looking border patrol agents. They bustled about, likely preventing hard criminals (like ourselves) from endangering their beloved country.

“Passports?”

The well-fed, follically challenged gentleman reached for our passports. I could smell the fear in this border patrol hell. Did I smell of fear? I inconspicuously lifted my left arm and took a rapid sniff. Lady Speed Stick baby powder. Surely it wasn’t  me that wreaked of fear.

As the gentleman leafed through our passports, I realized that this was as good as time as any to pull out the “innocent/naïve” card.

“Sir, I just realized that we have 3 christmas oranges in our car. I understand that we are not to bring fruit into your country. Should I leave them with you?” I smiled sweetly and pulled the oranges out of my purse.This was a peace offering. Oranges for our freedom. I was sure we had an understanding.

To my dismay, the now perspiring, over-fed gentleman did not flinch, but simply grabbed the oranges off the desk.

“I’ll have to confiscate these ma’am.”

Shit. This dude was a hard-ass. I glanced at Kevin who looked bewildered with my attempt to bargain for freedom. He shook his head in disbelief, as if to say, “Do you have no shame?”

“Sir, you’ll need to come with me.”

The gentleman led Kevin through a set of bullet-proof doors. I watched him walk away. Would I ever see him again? Why the h did he choose this day to wear his “I lost my ass in Atlantic City” T-shirt today? We would never make it to Florida.

My thoughts shifted to the lie that we had prepared. “We are on vacation. One month in Pensacola,” I repeatedly told myself. I couldn’t believe that I was about to lie to immigration officers. Surely we would get caught. 

Hours passed (or perhaps 15 minutes). Kevin emerged, apparently unscathed, although  the tension in his face was apparent. He quietly brushed my arm in passing. I could feel his anxiety. Although he did not speak aloud, I could hear his determination “don’t let them break you.” We were a team. I would not let him down.

I entered the “interrogation” room. The perspiring, well-fed gentleman (let’s call him fat sweaty guy) was now joined by a tall skinny man donning a mustache and a CBP mesh-back hat (Canadian border patrol?).

 “Ma’am, please remove your jacket –arms out.”

I did as told, feeling my knees shaking beneath me.

Fat, sweaty guy proceeded to pat me down. Due to a recent stress-induced weightless, my jeans no longer sat snugly on my hips. As fat sweaty guy patted me down, my “Luckies” ($70 jeans on sale!) fell off my bony frame, revealing the waistband of my lime green thong. Fat sweaty guy continued feeling my back pockets, side pockets, pant legs…all the while, getting a good view of the bright green underwear. I silently promised myself that if we got through this horrendous ordeal, I would put on that extra 10 pounds so these damn jeans stayed put.

This whole frisking thing was making me slightly uncomfortable; however, I reassured myself that Evan also endured this inappropriate touching – and water torture, for that matter.

After my “frisking”, I proceeded to respond to the barrage of questions.

“What do you do for a living?” 

"Unemployed."

“what does your husband do?” 

"Unemployed."

“What will you do in florida?” 

"hang out."

The questions came fast and furious. I handled these men like a pro. They were putty in my hands. I actually started to believe my own lies, thinking how pathetic and sad our lives must look to these very important CBP’s. Lie after lie emerged from my lips. I giggled, I flirted, my lime green thong still peeking shamelessly out of my jeans.

“You own a house?”

“Yes.”

“How much are your mortgage payments?”

Shit. Um…..As I frantically replayed the “budget talks” my husband made me endure, I suddenly wished that I had paid attention. I could see Kevin’s lips moving, sternly explaining our budget and the monthly payments we were required to pay. Why didn’t I listen? Eyes glazed over, I fantasized about new purses, sunning on the beach, anything but that damn budget. I mentally resolved to actively participate in our finances in 2007.

“You don’t know how much your mortgage payments are?” Fat, sweaty, and now post-frisk PERVERTED guy questioned me with disgust.

“Um, my husband is in charge of our finances. I don’t usually get involved with that kind of stuff,” I smiled sweetly and tossed my long blonde hair to the side. Yes, I was now playing the dumb blonde card. Everyone knows the dumb blonde is not a threat to the nation.

“Okay then, we’re done. You can join your husband in the waiting room. We’ll just need to search your vehicle”

I was flooded with relief. I was secretly quite impressed with my cool response under intense interrogation. I envisioned Horatio from CSI tossing his sunglasses on the table in frustration. “She can’t be broken”. Heh.

Taking a chair next to Kevin, I sighed and slumped lower in my seat. I was almost beginning to relax. The vehicle was clean. Other than that hockey bag…but it could be explained. Rec hockey. I looked to Kevin for reassurance. Kevin, on the other hand, sat bold upright, arms crossed, brow furrowed. My confidence subsided.

“The contract,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “I left it in my bag”

What? The only piece of evidence tying us to employment in the US? The fricken hockey contract was sitting loose in his duffel bag? The duffel bag that was currently being searched by our fat, sweaty friend? Shit. Vacation my ass. Soon, these officers would discover that Kev had signed a contact…and no visa in sight. This was bad.

Mind swirling, I envisioned the consequences of this new piece of information. A hefty fine? Incarceration? Perhaps we could turn back now, claiming this was all a ridiculous misunderstanding. “Oh, silly us, we thought we were crossing into Manitoba. Haha”

In a state of panic and desperation, I began to concoct a tale that would play me off as the innocent victim. “Sir, my husband, if you can call him that, ensured me that we were going on a vacation. I knew nothing of such a contract. Do not punish me for this man’s actions.”

Waves of guilt rippled through me. “For better or for worse” I could hear my Baba’s Ukrainian accent scolding me, “You took those vows in front of God. You stand by them”

No, Baba was right. I was going to stand by my man.

We fidgeted restlessly while we awaited the verdict. Our destiny was now in the hands of the CBP.

Suddenly, we could hear loud beeping from the parking lot, indicating that our wonky car alarm was on the fritz again. 

After 10 minutes of straight car alarm beeping, the aggravating noise ceased. Kevin and I held our breath as we heard fat sweaty guy converse with another border patrol agent, "I can't get in that vehicle - the alarm is messed up."

"Just forget about it then. Let them go," replied the border agent. 

Hearts racing, Kevin and I looked up expectantly as fat, sweaty guy appeared, looking sweatier than ever. 

“Okay, here’s your keys. Passports. Have a safe trip. Sorry for the wait.”

Well, yes, they should be sorry for that wait. What gave them the right to treat two lovely Canadians like hard criminals? Haha.

And that was that. On the inside, I screamed with delight. On the outside, I smiled graciously, “Great, have a nice day.” Suckers.

Kev and I sauntered coolly through the building, glancing at the poor saps awaiting their fate. Crazy terrorists.

As we approached the now rearranged Jeep, I noticed a little jump in Evan’s step. A little cockiness in his hop.

Peaches sat silently in his carry box, not a hair touched, not a whisker disturbed. Good cat. He did not talk. He was in on the conspiracy as well and knew to play the “cute helpless cat” card.

Kevin and I did not say a word. We silently exited Border Patrol Hell and passed through the American border. The Jeep vibrated with anticipation. Breaking the silence, Kevin jubilantly erupted in his best Braveheart impersonation,

“Freeeeeeeeedom!”

We turned to each and high-fived, celebrating our successful border scheme.

  

Kev took my hand and squeezed it tight as he pushed the petal, speeding the Jeep up to 70 miles per hour.

I gazed out into the beautiful (where the hell were we?) North Point, North Dakota sky. The sun shone brightly above us. I closed my eyes and could feel the Pensacola sand beneath my toes, the sound of the Florida waves crashing on shore. Not a care in the world. Our future was bright. Kev and I had done it. Together. Team Canada. Us against the world. We made it. Nothing could stop us now. We would make it to Pensacola. I felt giddy with my newfound optimism.

“Hey what did you think of the frisking?” I laughed and patted Kevin playfully on the knee.

“Frisking? What are you talking about?”

"They didn't frisk you?" I replied. 

Oh shitty. Envisioning fat sweaty guy’s inappropriate touching, I silently thanked the lime green thong and our crappy car alarm for our freedom.