Notes to the Border
AS THE TRIP AT LAST BEGINS
PICKING UP BRADBURY:
“Hey fuck-faces,” Bradbury says and throws a sac full of clothes into the trunk.
“I’m Bradbury,” he says turning to Joshua and extends a hand.
“Hey, Joshua,” Joshua says and shakes Bradbury’s hand. “Frank told me a lot about you.”
“And I bet I can tell you a lot about him,” Bradbury says and the two share a laugh. Fast friends.
LEAVING THE PROVINCE:
The car pulls onto the highway just after six p.m and we chat about menial things: the weather, local news, public gossip. Joshua puts on a Phish album as we speed past a number of little villages toward the border. Lobster seems to be on sale everywhere and no restaurant along the seaside is crowded. I am reminded of just what a beautiful place eastern Canada is. Wet cliffs sparkle in the late afternoon sun and the salt smell of the ocean blows through the open roof of the car. Every now and then the vehicle trembles as if going into fits, but I am too distracted by the stray fishing boats and seaside citizens to mind. I have never found my own country so beautiful until now. My gaze finds its way to a black and filthy gull gliding restlessly on the breeze. He looks hungry and desperate for some kind of food and I imagine a bird of his appearance and physicality has trouble making the cut. I blow a kiss to him through the window.
READING THE BACK OF THE PHOTO OF LILI AS I MISS HER:
This is not me, this is just what the light surrounding me looks like ~ Lili
UPON REACHING THE BORDER:
“Passports out,” Joshua says. I open my eyes and see a sign that reads Calais. We are at the border.
The border guard station appears and men in black uniforms loom all about. Drug dogs are marches round various vehicles passing through the border. Beyond the gate line I can see an American gas station and fat people swarming in and out of it. I start to bite at my nails and enter into a fit of short breaths.
We pull up to a small booth in our little green Volkswagon Beetle. Bradbury turns to me and puts a finger over his lips. I shrink into my seat.
“Frank,” he says to me.
“Yes?”
“Let me do the talking.” Joshua rolls down the window.
I shut up at that. What are we in some kind of mafia movie? I imagine Bradbury pulling some big black briefcase from underneath the front seat and handing it over in exchange for wads of cash. I envision men popping out of nowhere and filling us with Tommy gun bullets. This is the extent of my knowledge of the criminal underworld.
“Welcome to Calais, Maine,” the guard says.
“Calais, like the city in France,” I say with a smile from the back seat.
“Ain’t no France here,” she says, “this is America.”
“Yes, I know.”
“What are you from Quebec?”
“No,” I say.
“Well then why you talking about France? France? What did they ever do for us?”
“Didn’t they give you the Statue of Liberty?” I say.
The woman’s eyebrows pop up from beneath her sunglasses.
“Who is this guy?” she says to Joshua and Bradbury.
“He’s just-”
“Hahaha, I’m just playing. It’s alright. France. Pshhh,” she says and gives a smile. Her teeth are yellow like Egyptian honey.
“Passports,” she says.
She looks at each of our passports and records some data in a small book. She then picks up a walkie-talkie and says a few muddled words into the receiver. Bradbury takes the moment to turn to me.
“What the fuck did you just do?”
“What? I was trying to be polite.” I say.
“Why?”
“I am very subservient when I’m around authorities,” I say.
“We already look suspicious enough driving up in this ridiculous car,” Joshua says and slams his palms on the steering wheel.
“It drives pretty smooth,” I say trying to keep the cheer.
“Fuck,” Bradbury says. “Look, Frank, if you want to make this a happy trip you need to listen to what we say. I understand that I’m not your therapist this weekend, but I still exercise the right to advise you of appropriate psychological activities.”
“Okay,” I say. “I don’t see what was wrong with what I did.”
The border woman puts her walkie-talkie down and turns back to us.
“We’re gonna have to search you,” she says and smiles again. “Pull up in that lot over there.”
© 2009, Metazen. All rights reserved.
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