SubscribeOffend In Every Way - The White Stripes
Originally published August 2007.
When we returned from Buffalo last weekend, we crossed over the border and met with a customs officer who had, shall we say, an issue with her attitude. She was one of the CO who probably dreamed of a more exciting life - like driving a cab - but was so horribly under qualified that she ended up sitting in a toll booth collecting no tolls and using the implied threat of a body cavity search to make others feel inferior. This is the story of our encounter.
Now, before I begin I should tell you some facts. I was born and raised in a border town. As a teenager I would head over to the U.S. the same way I would go downtown in my own city. It was not a huge deal. I have circumvented the duty laws in more ways than I can count - even going so far as to install a car stereo in a parking lot to avoid paying duty. When I was in university, I did a co-op work term in a different border town, and used to come home via U.S. interstates because it was faster (not to mention I got to hit duty free twice a weekend - something useful for a then-smoker like myself). To say I am familiar with the process is an understatement.
MTM, on the other hand, was having an anxiety attack in the back seat as we rolled over the bridge. All she kept saying was, "I hope she doesn't talk to me," over and over.
Anyhow. On with the story.
Me (handing her our three birth certificates): Good afternoon.
Customs Officer: Is there anyone in the vehicle with you sir?
Me: (Nope. I handed you three birth certificates in the hopes that you'd assume at least one of them was me - even though two were women, one bearing my last name.) Yes. My wife and daughter are in the back.
CO: Can you open the window or the door so I can see them?
(MTM opens the sliding door to our minivan.)
CO: I'll need to see some photo ID.
Me (palpably feeling MTM's panic through the fabric of my seat): All of us? (Because, in case you're not so good at math - wait, you're a customs officer, so that goes without saying - my daughter is two and a half; she isn't old enough to drive or have a photo on her health card.)
CO: Just the driver will be fine.
Me (handing her my license): Here you go. (Why did you refer to me in the third person - as "the driver" - when grammatically you should have used the second person singular? Oh right... customs officer.)
CO: How long were you in the U.S.?
Me: Two days. (That's right baby. No $50 per person, per day limit for us.)
CO: Value of all goods purchased?
Me: Around $600 (at this, my VISA audibly whimpered)
CO: Any alcohol or tobacco?
Me: Yes.
CO: Value?
Me: $50
CO: And that was...?
Me: One bottle, one case of beer.
CO: What else did you buy?
Me: Clothes, toys, and food. (We'll leave out the low grade weaponry, drugs smuggled in the heads of the Curious George dolls, and copious amounts of Cherry Coke.)
CO: When exactly did you arrive in the U.S.?
Me: Friday morning, around 9am. (See? We knew you weren't any good with math.)
CO (handing me back all the ID): Thank you.
And as I pulled away I noticed a small box taped to the outside of her booth with a sign hand printed in black marker that read, "Please help pay for my surgery. I need to remove the pole from my ass."
What about you? Any good customs stories (airport, road borders, whatever: they're all the same) to share?
