mr.phx
Al Pastor Locator
Came back on a rare, Sunday mid-day time. I knew something was up when an agent took a special liking to my license plate number after producing a an orange card, scribbling on it, tucking it into my passport and deftly placing under the wing of my windshield wiper. She who must be obeyed, calmly asked if I had anything to declare (second time), then gestured and ordered me to visit stall number two.
This made me think of the hundreds of times I have crossed over at Lukeville in 33 years. Carrying all the food, friends, ice chests, sometimes trailer buggys, ATC's, camper trailers, friends stuff, luggage, and all the miles that come with it. It reminded me of bringing down 45 friends and cooking for them on Sandy Beach for 4 days back in the early nineties after graduating from culinary arts school. My assistant and I came back on the fifth day, completely exhausted and had a hard time answering the gate agents questions coherently and was summoned to 'pull it over' into one of the stalls on the north end of the customs station with the permanent long cement tables that have been there as long as I can remember. "Unload," the agents said. "All of it?!!" asking incredulously. "YES" came the reply. Sheesh! We survived that moment, but just barely. Unloading a truck and trailer in front of border patrol is neither funny or fun for that matter, then have to put it all back (the agents never help with that part...).
I pulled up the car under the ubiquitous cement awning and waited. Noticeably, the car in stall one was going through an arduous undertaking. Luggage strewn across the long side table, stuff on the ground, trunk, hood and all four doors opened, casual comments from US Agents murmured.
An agent asked me to come forward grabbed my passport off the window and asked me the same questions, where going? Where been? How long? Anything to declare? We spoke about a few blackberries leftover (but those are ok to bring across, right?) and a slice of cheese in the cooler. "Come this way," he said. "Do you want me to open the trunk for you?" "Uh, yes," came the reply.
I was led into the 'processing' room and told to sit on the pew (not the more comfy padded chairs along the wall), and wait for a death sentence. Sitting in the comfy chairs along the other wall was a woman visibly upset, had been crying and boyfriend/husband nowhere to be found. The contents of her handbag were strewn across the high counter like a yard sale in jail. There was a cigarette, prescription meds, wallets of various degree, and various trinkets normally found on a rocky point woman traveler.
The only reason I knew the agents had discovered something, as it was casually mentioned by a passing agent to the processing agent as there was something said on whether 'she' had it on her or the boyfriend/husband "was with the pot". "I think it was him," the passing agent was heard to say and disappeared into the the back room.
The processing agent who was typing away, double checking docs and ID's then blurted out, "So do you plan to return through here again?" "Well Ya!" through a sobbing face (this is when I figured they were home or condo owners). "Just to let you know, that when you find yourself in a predicament like this, the UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT WILL NEVER TRUST YOU AGAIN, EVER!" Well, that made my ass on the pew feel even harder than it was. "You mean, like on a No Fly List?" she sobbed. And the agent went on to mention more scenarios and the conversation trailed off as a new distraction came into play.
A moment later, my agent returned, caught my attention, waved me up and beckoned me towards the exit and said, "Sir? Okay, you're free to go, you're all clear." Perplexed by all of this and wanting to know more details about not being trusted by the US Government ever again, what they really got popped for and why they would ever bring pot over the border casually and how much did they have, and did they own a condo or a house, did they ever go to Manny's or JJ's and would they be stuck in the pokey in Lukeville overnight after a grueling search? I sort of motioned I would be getting up, but lagged back to hear any other juicy tidbits to report back to anyone who would listen to this incredibly boring story all the while trying to remember every single detail. . .
The agent gave me the second wave and I knew I was a free man. Thrust back into the blinding light of day and the rising heat, it felt good. My blackberry stash was not admitted into evidence, nor was my slice of Fresh n Easy swiss cheese going to be detained or confiscated (lunch!) and the fact that the flask of Barbados 'cleaning fluid' in the trunk would not be questioned or held in a 1x1x1x1 foot holding crate, awaiting X-ray or DNA sampling or worse, dumped out on the street. No, I was a free man able to go on his way.
I returned to my car, and waited patiently standing by the door before getting in. I did check to see if my keys were still in the ignition (they were), a stood there some more. You see, when you have been given the all clear in Lukeville Substation it means you are no longer invited to 'hang out', 'casually observe', or be 'one of the guys' for that matter. You are to put in, start up and quietly leave as if they were to say. "We don't need you anymore, NOW GIT!", tail tucked between you legs. Any sign of disrespect could land you back on the pew in seconds!
After a few moments, my agent crossed over to address me again. "Waiting for something?", with the air of 'You Been Here For Hour, You Go Now!' "Um yeah... passport?" The agent not letting on that he forgot to get the passport from the 'processor' as he summoned my release sheepishly stated, "It's coming". Like I was going to come down next week to pick it up! As the all in important document was returned to my hand, I asked the agent out of curiosity why I was pulled over? "Randomed" was the answer. As I walked back to my car, gleefully knowing I had 'beaten' the system again and would return with all the same confidence as I did when this all started a short while before. But out the corner of my eye, I saw an attractive, gentrified couple who owned a brand new Ford, being led away to the holding room, her sobbing and wailing away (just kidding!) to await their fate in the hands of US Agents.
Its been said that border patrol/customs agents some days are quite nice and on other days can be in a foul mood, but keep in mind, US Agents take their jobs seriously and so should you, at all times.
Passport in hand, freedom in check, my reliable old car fired right up and I eased out of the stall and headed north. Now I was really hungry! Why would I want a little marijuana spoil my day and ruin a dinner reservation with friends at Little Saigon in Glendale that night?
PS. All of this occurred in less than 15 minutes, once the gate agent finished with (condemned) me.
The Dire Straights CD going north never sounded so good.
Buen Viaje a Todas
Be safe out there fellow Rocky Point friends.
Reporting live from my crib in sunny Phoenix, I'm Mr. PHX :twisted:
This made me think of the hundreds of times I have crossed over at Lukeville in 33 years. Carrying all the food, friends, ice chests, sometimes trailer buggys, ATC's, camper trailers, friends stuff, luggage, and all the miles that come with it. It reminded me of bringing down 45 friends and cooking for them on Sandy Beach for 4 days back in the early nineties after graduating from culinary arts school. My assistant and I came back on the fifth day, completely exhausted and had a hard time answering the gate agents questions coherently and was summoned to 'pull it over' into one of the stalls on the north end of the customs station with the permanent long cement tables that have been there as long as I can remember. "Unload," the agents said. "All of it?!!" asking incredulously. "YES" came the reply. Sheesh! We survived that moment, but just barely. Unloading a truck and trailer in front of border patrol is neither funny or fun for that matter, then have to put it all back (the agents never help with that part...).
I pulled up the car under the ubiquitous cement awning and waited. Noticeably, the car in stall one was going through an arduous undertaking. Luggage strewn across the long side table, stuff on the ground, trunk, hood and all four doors opened, casual comments from US Agents murmured.
An agent asked me to come forward grabbed my passport off the window and asked me the same questions, where going? Where been? How long? Anything to declare? We spoke about a few blackberries leftover (but those are ok to bring across, right?) and a slice of cheese in the cooler. "Come this way," he said. "Do you want me to open the trunk for you?" "Uh, yes," came the reply.
I was led into the 'processing' room and told to sit on the pew (not the more comfy padded chairs along the wall), and wait for a death sentence. Sitting in the comfy chairs along the other wall was a woman visibly upset, had been crying and boyfriend/husband nowhere to be found. The contents of her handbag were strewn across the high counter like a yard sale in jail. There was a cigarette, prescription meds, wallets of various degree, and various trinkets normally found on a rocky point woman traveler.
The only reason I knew the agents had discovered something, as it was casually mentioned by a passing agent to the processing agent as there was something said on whether 'she' had it on her or the boyfriend/husband "was with the pot". "I think it was him," the passing agent was heard to say and disappeared into the the back room.
The processing agent who was typing away, double checking docs and ID's then blurted out, "So do you plan to return through here again?" "Well Ya!" through a sobbing face (this is when I figured they were home or condo owners). "Just to let you know, that when you find yourself in a predicament like this, the UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT WILL NEVER TRUST YOU AGAIN, EVER!" Well, that made my ass on the pew feel even harder than it was. "You mean, like on a No Fly List?" she sobbed. And the agent went on to mention more scenarios and the conversation trailed off as a new distraction came into play.
A moment later, my agent returned, caught my attention, waved me up and beckoned me towards the exit and said, "Sir? Okay, you're free to go, you're all clear." Perplexed by all of this and wanting to know more details about not being trusted by the US Government ever again, what they really got popped for and why they would ever bring pot over the border casually and how much did they have, and did they own a condo or a house, did they ever go to Manny's or JJ's and would they be stuck in the pokey in Lukeville overnight after a grueling search? I sort of motioned I would be getting up, but lagged back to hear any other juicy tidbits to report back to anyone who would listen to this incredibly boring story all the while trying to remember every single detail. . .
The agent gave me the second wave and I knew I was a free man. Thrust back into the blinding light of day and the rising heat, it felt good. My blackberry stash was not admitted into evidence, nor was my slice of Fresh n Easy swiss cheese going to be detained or confiscated (lunch!) and the fact that the flask of Barbados 'cleaning fluid' in the trunk would not be questioned or held in a 1x1x1x1 foot holding crate, awaiting X-ray or DNA sampling or worse, dumped out on the street. No, I was a free man able to go on his way.
I returned to my car, and waited patiently standing by the door before getting in. I did check to see if my keys were still in the ignition (they were), a stood there some more. You see, when you have been given the all clear in Lukeville Substation it means you are no longer invited to 'hang out', 'casually observe', or be 'one of the guys' for that matter. You are to put in, start up and quietly leave as if they were to say. "We don't need you anymore, NOW GIT!", tail tucked between you legs. Any sign of disrespect could land you back on the pew in seconds!
After a few moments, my agent crossed over to address me again. "Waiting for something?", with the air of 'You Been Here For Hour, You Go Now!' "Um yeah... passport?" The agent not letting on that he forgot to get the passport from the 'processor' as he summoned my release sheepishly stated, "It's coming". Like I was going to come down next week to pick it up! As the all in important document was returned to my hand, I asked the agent out of curiosity why I was pulled over? "Randomed" was the answer. As I walked back to my car, gleefully knowing I had 'beaten' the system again and would return with all the same confidence as I did when this all started a short while before. But out the corner of my eye, I saw an attractive, gentrified couple who owned a brand new Ford, being led away to the holding room, her sobbing and wailing away (just kidding!) to await their fate in the hands of US Agents.
Its been said that border patrol/customs agents some days are quite nice and on other days can be in a foul mood, but keep in mind, US Agents take their jobs seriously and so should you, at all times.
Passport in hand, freedom in check, my reliable old car fired right up and I eased out of the stall and headed north. Now I was really hungry! Why would I want a little marijuana spoil my day and ruin a dinner reservation with friends at Little Saigon in Glendale that night?
PS. All of this occurred in less than 15 minutes, once the gate agent finished with (condemned) me.
The Dire Straights CD going north never sounded so good.
Buen Viaje a Todas
Be safe out there fellow Rocky Point friends.
Reporting live from my crib in sunny Phoenix, I'm Mr. PHX :twisted:
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