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April 08, 2006

The Only Pocket

We were in San Diego, and decided to drive about 3,600 miles up the coast road to Alaska. We didn’t make it all the way, but we did make it across the border into Canada, and up into the Yukon. 3,100 miles. That was a great drive, beautiful country.

About Seattle, we ran out of money and drugs. After a phone call home, our man was on a plane…loaded.

We had no trouble crossing into Canada, but trying to get back in the U.S. was a different story. We had some weed, some speed, and various other illegal substances. About an hour north of the border, we decided to stash the stash, so I wrapped a fat one, and we put everything else (felony resale amounts) in Baggies in milk cartons. We had a medium sized garbage can between the front seats in the van, so we carefully placed the cartons in the bottom, and threw a bunch of nasty shit on top. Canned Chili, sardines, sour milk, fast food trash, ashtray, piss, etc. I put the joint in the pocket of my jacket, and buttoned it.

We arrived at the border, and Customs immediately waved us over to the “we’re going to search your ass� spot. The Customs agent said, “out of the van boys, stand over here, eh�, while another one climbed in and began going through everything. A short time later he climbed out holding a pack of rolling papers, an asked, “where is it?� Us,�where is what?� Him, “I know you have some, I just can’t find it.� I failed to mention, there were no dogs. No dogs…we were poolside, if you know what I mean.

We weren’t really worried about a single joint, but we knew if they found it they would take our van apart with power tools, and that would’ve been a major problem.

They marched us inside for the strip search, but first made us empty our pockets. We had about ten grand between us, but one guy had all but twenty of it in his pocket. They found this suspicious, and it was, and that pissed ‘em off. They told us to strip down to our shorts, and put our clothes on the table. Polo and me weren’t wearing any shorts, so we were standing there naked, and that pissed ‘em off some more. They told me to put my pants back on, and gave me a pat down and searched my pockets, which were of course, empty.

They turned their attention to the pile of clothes on the table. We all knew the joint was in the pocket of my jacket, and we were sweating. They turned the clothes inside out, and went through every pocket. The agent who had my jacket was fumbling with the button, and apparently, since he couldn’t unbutton it easily, gave up, and threw it back it the pile. There is something to be said about a fresh Levi blue jean jacket. It was the only pocket they didn’t search.

Meanwhile, they were still searching the van, and one of ‘em came inside and announced, “I can’t find anything.� I cannot believe they didn’t search the trash, but that was cool with me. After telling us again, “we know you’ve got it, we just can’t find it�, they let us go. That was a close call, plain lucky, and we learned an important lesson.

From that trip on, we stashed the goods in a metal box we welded to the frame underneath the engine. We also added an unregistered .45 to the inventory.

You never know.

Posted by Yabu at April 8, 2006 05:30 PM | The Past

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Posted by: Lisa W. at April 9, 2006 08:40 PM