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| | Fruit vs. Customs
Posted on 09/04/2007 by Spike
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SO... (Insert apology for lack of blogging here) ... I'm crossing the border into the US, having dropped off Luna at the airport, the rig at Rachel Peters, and my garbage into the proper duty-free provided receptacle.
Rewind to Orangeville: the gig Luna, Trixie (new Angel! catch her at KRF in Boston) and I have just come from, where the weather was hot, bright, and tornado. Fire was impossible. Silk was unsafe. But the client took care of us. We had a beautiful camper with a working bathroom as our private backstage area. The third day we discovered the trailer had air, the second day we were showered with our amenities, and the first day we bought our own desirables, so food and comfort wise, we were set. Eight boxes of granola bars, two dozen bananas, oranges, nectarines, and a plethora of mixed nuts later, I'm driving 'cross border with leftover contraband fruit.
US Customs asks me if I want to declare anything. "No," says the voice inside my heart. "The fruit is sitting on your front seat, idiot. He can totally see it." Interjects the voice inside my head.
"Crap." Says the voice inside my mouth.
CO: Pardon?
Spike: Sorry? ((crap again! i just sounded canadian!))
CO: Anything to declare?
Spike: I have some bananas and nectarines. ((hold them so he can see))
CO: Ok, Miss, ((he scribbles on a pad)) go right on over to the waving man.
Spike: Thank you. ((I$*&*@!!))
Spike: ((to the waving man)) You have my passport, right?
WM: Yes. You have some fruit?
Spike: Yes. Here it is. ((hand him the nectarines, peaches and bananas))
WM: These are all fine.
Spike: Oh, good.
WM: Step out of the car ma'am.
Spike: Yes sir, officer ((H($&(*&!!))
WM: ((searches through food bag)) What have we here? Citrus is illegal. ((If he were David Caruso, that would have gone, "What have we here? (pause) Citrus (pause, put on shades) is illegal (walk out of frame).))
Spike: Sir, I'm really sorry. I thought I ate that orange. ((It is here that catch sight of myself for the for the first time in my reflection off the driver side window. I am wearing my impulse-induced, earlier-that-day purchased tiara that I forgot to take off before the bridge. I realize I'm done for.))
WM: Ma'am, please step to the other side of the steel table. ((He points at me, and then the table.))
Spike: Absolutely ((I move quickly to the far side of the table. The officer watches me the whole time, and once he is satisfied with the physical distance and obstacles between us, with his sanitary-gloved hand he places the offensive piece of fruit in a black container and furiously writes something on his clipboard. He rummages through my car, spending a long time staring at nothing in the front seat, finally popping his head up for air to say...))
WM: I need to pop your trunk.
Spike: ((internal cussing of great magnitude)) It doesn't pop.
WM: I beg your pardon?
Spike: You need to use the key.
WM: Oh. ((he opens the trunk. please please please for the love of everything holy let him not unpack my trunk. let him not find the straitjacket and the fire torches and the show props and "giveaways" and the five boxes of canadian printed carabineers thank you joanne and the shopping bags full of new cheap clothes)) Holy Cow! How long did you say you were going to be in Buffalo, Buffalo, beautiful Buffalo (seriously!) for?
Spike: A few days, to visit a friend... Then back to Michigan, then back to Boston.. I'm trying to figure out where I want to move.
WM: I've got a daughter who is 21. She packs for the weekend like it was a week.
After comparing me to his daughter he let me go. Thank you, customs.
Moral: Don't cross your fruits with you waving mans. |
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