This was like a bad scene out of a bad movie. The male rubber gloved customs officer told me to sit in "that chair" and he went over to my car. Thank God if there was going to be a cavity search it was going to be on the car... at least for now. He and the mean lady customs officer went through my car with such precision and attention to detail, they made the Mountie who looked under the floor mats seem blind.

They didn't actually rip up the carpet or take any parts of the car off but short of that, they went through that fucking piece of shit rented SUV with a fine tooth comb. I sat in the chair, eyes closed, praying.

Dear God. I beg you. Please don't let there be so much as a left behind roach on the floor let alone a kilo in the side panel.

I had been that terrified twice in my life before. In jail for felony bribery during my cab days, (a previous post. "The Wood Chip Story") and when I ran with the bulls in Pamplona in 1980. Maybe I'll tell you that story one day, but apparently some other author told his version and while different than mine, it's a little intimidating, but we'll see. Kind of like if I had dated Annie Hall twenty years later and made a movie about our relationship.

So, I'm praying like a banshee, unable to look anymore at the two officers, who are dying to find anything, rifle through my car. But then I hear the hood open and I look up. The guy is going through the fucking fluids in the car! The water, the oil. I mean, mother fuck me!

Satisfied I had no bomb making things or liquid heroin in the transmission, they closed the hood. It had been 3 hours now and was 5AM. Time for the interrogation when I was good and tired.

"Where'd you get these CD's?"

"In Texas."

"Why do you have so many?"

"Because I like music."

"Why are some unopened?"

"Because I haven't opened them yet."

"Why not?"

"Because I was listening to other ones."

"Why did you buy so many?" He asked for the second time. I didn't think it wise to remind him it had already been asked and answered. The stenographer apparently had the night off so it would be his word against mine and I would lose that battle I was sure.

"Because I like music."

"Why are some unopened?" You've got to be kidding me.

"Because I haven't listened to them yet.

"Do you have a receipt for them?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I saw no reason to keep it."

"Where is it?"

"I threw it away."

"Where?"

"In the trash."

"Where was the trash?"

"Outside the store."

"In what state?"

"Texas."

"Why do you have so many CD's?"

"BECAUSE I FUCKING STOLE THEM OKAY!!! I'M A CD ROBBER!!!" I didn't say that. He was wanting me to say anything, even sarcastically, that would incriminate me so he could absolve himself of my obvious tone and take the sentence merely for the words it contained and say I confessed. He would then be able, I assumed to rip the car completely apart having probable cause I don't fucking know, all I knew with ever fiber of my being, the same complete fabric that wanted to scream out that I was an international CD robber and smuggler, that I should just answer his questions calmly as many times as he wanted to repeat them.

I did. They went on for another 2 hours until 7AM.

Whose numbers were those in my phone? Where did the people live? Why was I on a road trip? Why hadn't I shaved? On and on and on and on.

The only small moment that evidenced I had any balls at all and wasn't a complete pussy was when the evil lady was going through my suitcase I said, "I have some very expensive shoes in there please be careful. I bought them in Paris and they cost 900 dollars." Now I know that makes me sound a little gay, but at least gay and standing up for myself.

Why the fuck I had my expensive JM Weston Chelsea boots along on my Montana road trip... well, the same reason I brought my passport. You never know when she might arrive and I would want to have my best outfit. Shoes being the most important obviously to any woman. Both on her and on him.

Finally, the man handed me a pamphlet and said I could go. I looked at the pamphlet in my hands: "Your Rights."

What a fucking joke. My bill of rights for my "interrogation" was given to me when it was all over. I leafed through it cursorily and found a dozen infractions in the first couple pages. I looked up at the cunt man. "You certainly make me feel awfully safe in my own country." He searched my eyes for sarcasm and found none. As pissed as I was, I meant it. And deep down understood that if I had been him, I would have treated me the same way. I had sketch written all over me in terms of the situation.

I drove through the gate into America. My relief was short-lived as you can imagine. A thought popped into my head.

What if they're following you in a helicopter?

I reenacted that great scene from Goodfellas when Ray Liotta is trying to ditch the helicopter that's following him, although in my case there wasn't one, all the way to the nearest town that had a Motel 6 and checked in under an assumed name. No not because a heartbroken supermodel was trying to track me down friends, because I was trying to stay out of maximum security prison on... what? CD smuggling charges? I don't fucking know! I can get crazy! You take the good with the bad. If Lucy Fell, Starved, my new book, and this shit. It's the flip side of the coin. You guys only get the upside... I live with the downside.

I slept for a few hours and when I awoke decided that road trip was over and flew home from the nearest airport. I wanted nothing to do with that car. It was time to get home.

That's how I felt sitting on the side of Route 40 Semptember 13th as I waited for this Nebraska State trooper to call his brother at the Montana border so they could both finally arrest me.

He came back a couple minutes later with a ticket and I split. Luckily, I had no warrants in fucking Nebraska for long lost speeding tickets. I got one more speeding ticket outside Baltimore and the lady cop was way friendlier.

"I understand your town was bombed but we want you to get home safe," she said and I started to cry. I had reached my mother by that point so I knew she was okay.

I drove over the GW Bridge 48 hours after I had left LA. It was Thursday night. The planes had hit Tuesday morning. I drove downtown. It was midnight. I met my friend Jenny at Sheridan Square and wept in her arms after seeing my first bus stop filled with fliers advertising missing loved ones instead of piano lessons and apartments for rent. We ate bacon cheeseburger deluxes and chocolate milk shakes in a coffee shop and tried not to die.

I was angry I hadn't been there. If anything was going to happen to my town I wanted to be there to protect and serve. Like my old friend Mark had done. From the Coast Guard boat in the harbor, as he watched the second plane hit. That I am grateful I didn't see and my heart goes out to him and everyone else who had to witness it. The images from the aftermath and my imagination of the suffering when it happened brings tears to my eyes now, I can't fathom what it must be like for those who have the memory of the reality of the moment. I'm grateful Mark survived. God bless all of those and the families and friends of those who didn't. It was a gorgeous day today in New York City, bright, clear and chilly. Like it was September 11th. I've lived her for 45 years. Who did I help today?

Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 11:48 AM

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