Since we all had day jobs, we played when we could on the weekends and tried to co-ordinate our holiday time together for longer treks. Even though we had different vocations we were musicians first and emphatically maintained that was the true profession. Our roadie Skids on the other hand, was going through an identity crisis and had drifted from job to job in search of a new career like the wind was blowing him. He’d been a stuntman, a sou chef, a private investigator, and an exporter of horse semen. He’d even done a stint as a minister trying to start his own religion. It got as far as a few sermons mostly revolving around parables before the authorities shut him down. His current occupation had landed him some small rolls in a few low budget films where we saw the back of his head mostly. To us it was just another pylon on the long life road. To Skids, he was a bonafide actor and was adamant that he be perceived as such.
We were in the midst of performing a six in seven night swing that led us over the border and upon our return we were greeted by the usual questions. "Where you coming from? How long were you away? Anything to declare."
Doc had already pushed the wrong buttons by responding that he’d declare he had a good time. Everything was going as usual until the border guard asked us our occupation. Like dominoes in motion we rhymed off one after another, "Musician," until it was Skids’ turn. He paused, turned his head to profile, looked up slightly, extended his arm forward like he was plucking an apple from a nearby tree and declared, "I’m an actor." He even broke actor into its respective syllables with the inflection on tor. The rest of us melted our faces into our hands. It was easy to see what was coming next.
"Pull your vehicle into the second bay area gentlemen and go inside to the immigration desk."
We did as we were asked and dejectedly shuffled into the building as two of the border patrol began their inspection of our vehicle.
"Some actor," Doc scoffed, "You can’t even make a border guard believe you." Doc shot his arm skyward in mimic. "I’m an ac-tor. Je-sus, do us a favor Skids, for God's sake, please don't tell them you used to export horse semen. I don't want to be here all night."
In we walked to the stoic atmosphere of bright fluorescent lights and the smell of sterile cleanliness. Once inside we were questioned one by one in a small room of peeling pea green paint, on a park-like bench of uncomfortable wood, with handcuffs dangling off the armrest. Contracts were examined, personal effects were perused, documentation was run through Interpol, all under the watchful eyes of glaring scrutiny.
Rooster complained as he plunked himself down next to us and Chas was led away for his
turn at twenty questions, "They made me strip down to my undies and squeezed out my toothpaste. I was expecting Dr. Jelly-finger to walk in at any moment."
Bug moaned, "I don’t stand a chance in prison. I’m too small."
"Bug, we’ve done nothing wrong."
"But they always make you feel like you’re hiding something, Sparky."
Doc needled him, "As long as you left the tea bags at home, we should be fine."
Skids squirmed in his chair, "I have to pee."
"You can’t. These guys will probably go in after you and retrieve the urinal puck for analysis. Then we’ll be here another twelve hours."
One of the border patrol who’d been searching through our vehicle approached. He was a burly brute with a handlebar mustache. He walked with his thumbs tucked tight into his belt which only brought further attention to his bulging gut, bordered by his handcuffs and holstered firearm. He towered over us and his flared nostrils taunted us from above. "We’ve completed our search of your vehicle, and I found this under the front seat." He plunked out his thumbs and removed a small baggy from his shirt pocket.
"Looks like a twig from a tree branch."
"Don’t be smart with me longhair. I could hold you here a hell of a lot longer for smuggling contraband."
"Illegal horticulture. You’re kidding right?" Doc asked, as he squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.
"This could be from a bud of marijuana. All you musician types smoke it."
We were now joined by the Duty Sargent who also had a mustache except his was more of the push-broom type. Lip dressing must be standard issue. "I’ve looked over your contracts and I’m afraid I will need verification that they are legitimate."
"Call the club."
"I did. There’s no answer. I need the agent who signed them to come up here."
"Alice?"
"She’s the one who signed? Yes, I need to speak with her."
Reluctantly I called Alice and informed her of our delay and legal troubles. It took an hour before she blew in through the doors of the building. She went into the office, talked to the Duty Sargent and emerged twenty minutes later.
"They’ve agreed to let you go," she said handing out our documentation like it was candy and we were the enthusiastic trick-or-treaters. "Next time have the proper paperwork with you, H-2's, the work visas, whatever, so I don’t have to do this again every time you play outside the country."
"Sorry, thanks for coming on such short notice. Hope we didn’t inconvenience you too much?"
Skids danced around until he got his ID back then raced off to the restroom before he’d be known as Stains.
Alice continued, "I was on a lunch date when you called."
"Sorry."
"Don’t be. I was looking for an excuse to get out of it anyway."
"That bad was it?"
"He brought me a pair of brown cords as a gift John. Brown cords."
"Pants?"
"Yeah that would fit a twelve-year-old. Probably got them on sale."
"Was he trying send you a message that he’s cheap, or a pedofile?"
"I don’t know. I won’t be seeing him again to find out. Come on, you guys are going to have to motor to get a decent sound check in before the next gig."
We entered the bay area where we found our truck in disarray. Cases were open on the ground like little coffins. Suitcases were unzipped, seat cushions and effects tossed askew. Panels inside the truck had been popped ajar, wheel covers removed, the glove box lay with its tongue out regurgitating maps, receipts, and parking tickets. Skids joined our association of disbelief.
"Skids since you’re the one who got us into this, why don’t you show us your acting skills and act like you’re putting the truck back together."
Tomorrow excerpt from: The deflated dreams of Wanda
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