I don't understand how some people make it through life.
After touching down in Canada yesterday, I went straight to the immigration and customs line. I took my place behind roughly two-thousand other interesting-smelling people who had just gotten off of planes from countries of their own.
Behind me in line was a couple. I think they were American.
They were deeply concerned about a bit of contraband they were carrying in one of their bags. For the better part of the two hours I spent in line, or at least the one hour that felt like two, these people argued about what to do with the item.
What were they carrying?
A sandwich.
"So, what are we going to do?"
"About what?"
"You know..."
"No. I don't."
"In the bag. The thing that starts with an 's'."
"Could you just tell me?"
[After a pause of about ten seconds]
"You know... The s-a-n-d-w-i-c-h."
"Oh. I don't know."
"We can't bring it into the country."
"Why not?"
"They won't let us."
"Why?"
"Because there's meat in the sandwich."
"They won't know."
"Yes they will. When they search the luggage, they'll find it."
"They aren't going to search our luggage."
"Do you really want to take that chance?"
"I don't know."
Then they stopped talking for a while. It was nice. I just pushed my bag along with my foot, wrinkling my nose occasionally at the odors coming from my fellow line-standers, wondering how someone comes to smell like a French cheese without being either French or cheese. I never found the answer, but I suspect it has something to do with the fermentation process that goes on inside of one's pants during international flights.
"Have you figured out what to do with it yet?"
"No."
(On a side note, I'm writing all of this on a PocketPC during the flight back to the AMERICA. Over the past five minutes, the air in the plane has gone from smelling like extreme fart to cinnamon, and now to spicy leather. If this odorathon continues, I'm going to throw up in my mouth and then swallow it to distract myself from the stench.)
"We're getting closer. We have to figure out what to do with the sandwich."
"Just bury it deeper in the luggage."
"They might have a way to detect meat."
"I guess that's true. I don't know. I'm all out of ideas."
"Me, too. Dang."
(The guy next to me is doing something weird with his Coca-Cola. He takes a sip, tilts back, and then shakes his head from side to side. He looks like a chicken trying to swallow a rat. He does it every sip, and I think he's an alien. I've just set the font-size of my PocketPC to something so small that it’s illegible, as I really, really hope that he isn't going to notice mid-shake that I'm calling him an alien. But, if he is an alien, then it's reasonable to assume that he has bionic vision, and that he can see what I'm writing even though normal Earth vision couldn't make anything of it. I might have to take him out here pretty soon with a well placed Karate chop before he becomes too much of a threat.)
"They're going to figure out it. They're going to get us. We're going to get fined."
"Or worse."
"What do you think the fine is for trying to bring meat into the country?"
"I don't know. Fifty bucks, probably."
"Gosh dang it. I wish we didn't have this sandwich."
"Just play it cool. If they find it, we'll pretend like we didn't know we had it."
"Smart. OK. So let's figure out what we're going to say if they find the sandwich. I'll be the border guard… you be you."
"OK."
"OK. Hey, look what I found here. It's a sandwich. Did you really think you were going to get away with this?"
"No."
"No! You have to say to me what you're going to say to the guard. Remember? Pretend you didn't know about it."
"Oh. Well, um, oh, who put that sandwich in there? I packed this bag myself, but I don't know where that sandwich came from. It's a mystery sandwich. I'm the victim here."
"Good. That was really good. Let's practice this until we get to the desk."
Practice lasted about another forty-five minutes.
I don't know what the punishment is for trying to smuggle a meat sandwich into Canada, but I'd like to think that it involves death by nipple-elongation.
I’ve met people like this before – people who can’t go thirty seconds without finding a new crisis in life. I try to avoid them at all costs, but it’s not always possible. Like in 1998 before I signed on for a study-abroad program. I showed up for one of the preparatory meetings – sort of an informational gathering for all involved – and listened as many sensible questions were asked (things about medicine and stuff).
I also listened as many asstards asked questions. Like Jimmy’s parents.
“Excuse me, but I have a question,” said Jimmy’s father, who looked very serious, and who was standing next to Jimmy’s mother. Each parent had a hand on one of little Jimmy’s shoulders, and little Jimmy just sat there, stunned, completely terrified at the prospect of leaving home for the first time without his mumsies and dadsies (little Jimmy was only 32 years old, after all).
“Jimmy’s mother and I have been very concerned about Jimmy’s well-being abroad. For example, is there air where you’re going?”
Unblinking stares.
“I say, is there air where you’re going? Will Jimmy be able to breathe, or will we have to pack his spacesuit?”
“Yes,” said the group leader, “there is air where we are going. Enough for Jimmy and everyone else.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Positive.”
“Because Jimmy doesn’t like to be asphyxiated.”
“Then he’s in luck. There’s air.”
“OK. I’m taking you on your word here, but it just means so much to us to be able to send little Jimmy on this trip.”
“Great. Check. Thanks for the question. Does anybody else have something to ask?”
“Actually, I’m not done yet.”
“Ah.”
“Do they have gravity?”
“I’m sorry. I’m a little confused. Do you mean-“
“Gravity. You know. Gravity. The magic that makes big things invisibly sticky.”
“Sure. They have gravity. Lots. Now, does anybody else-“
“And what if we packed a meat sandwich for little Jimmy?”
There.
I feel much better now.