CBP AGENT AS A LOAF OF BREAD
The truck that dislocated my front left turn signal did not make it very far. Even though the cops let him go first, henceforth he got inline before I did; I somehow manage to see him on my rearview mirror. The truck was vomiting steam and water; the vehicle and the owner overheated. The driver looked at me, using my mirror as a medium, but his angry glance was interrupted by an approaching customs agent clad in blue. As the line advanced forward I saw the overheated truck, the government agent, and the truck driver, stayed behind. I stopped at the point of inspection; the employee stepped out of his computerized booth and looked at me. Now it was my turn to give answer.
—Citizenship?
—American.
—Where are you going?
—Chula Vista.
—What were you doing in Mexico?
—I live there.
—What do you do for a living?
—I sell organic products.
The customs agent reached for the infamous hunter—orange note block, and began to write on it. He was sending me to secondary inspection.
—You now where to go? He asked.
—Yeah.
—Then go.
I drove towards the garage—like structure; the place I have been many time before. I was directed through hand signals to the first parking space, the one next to the inspectors’ offices.
—Turn off the car and give me the keys. An unknown agent said.
I did as he told me, I knew the drill. These are the perfect times to take out a book from your backpack, briefcase, or coat pocket, get comfortable, and enjoy the magic of poetry or the thrill of narrative.
—Look guys, this is my car! Said another CBP agent as he erupted in laughter. His nametag spelled Roman
—Hello Roman. I said.
—Get out the car. Barked Roman.
—Yes…. Roman. I said.
—Put your hands on the roof of the car and spread your legs.
—Okay Roman.
—Why do you keep mentioning my name? Asked Roman.
—That’s not your name?
—Don’t mention my name again.
—Okay Roman.
—You know what?
—No, what?
—Come this way.
Roman took me about 50 meters away, and placed me in a line with other detainees.
—Look straight ahead and don’t turn around, don’t move. He said.
—Very good Mr. Roman. I answered.
I stood looking at the other guys looking straight ahead. They all had sad faces, I was the only one with a smile, and they all looked as if they were facing a firing squad. A couple of agents came and handcuffed the guy to my right. They grabbed him by his arms, manhandled him, and took him away to an unknown location. “Shit” I thought to myself, it didn’t seem like Roman was joking around. I looked back at my car and I saw a red—face guy with a dog, snooping around in my trunk. He looked either hangover or very upset; or both. He saw me looking at him and he said something to another inspector.
—Turned around! An inspector yelled at me.
By now, another pair of agents came and took the guy to my left, same protocol, handcuffs and all. I was beginning to worry. This was definitely the wrong line to be in. When I was thinking of being arrested and taken to an undisclosed location, without being charge indefinitely, when things were looking bleak —when I was no longer smiling— I saw a young looking agent, maybe in his mid 20’s, clean, very Anglo-Saxon, with a nice presence gravitating about him. I looked for a nametag in his uniform, but he was not wearing one.
—How are you? He asked
—Okay, I guess.
—Do you need some water?
—No, thank you,
—Do you need to use the bathroom?
—No, thanks.
—Are you sure you are okay?
—Yeah.
—Come this way.
I followed the nice kid towards my car. I looked towards my left as I was walking, and I saw Roman standing and chatting with other inspectors, I tried to walk in Roman’s direction, but my escort said:
—No, Mr. Martinez, come this way.
Since I could not walk Roman’s way and I wanted to say goodbye, I cleared my throat, and called his name.
—Goodbye Roman! I said waving at him.
Roman turned around, his face got red like a tomato, his eyes looked like little brown pees, his body got rigid, he looked like a statue; he was frozen in time. I thought to myself: great now he’s going to shoot me.
—Go away! Go away now! Yelled Roman
I looked at him, smiled, and waved goodbye.
—Asshole! He screamed.
I got into my blue car and drove away. I was late for work.
