Scott Marks 4 p.m., Dec. 11
After two hours in the pedestrian line, waiting to cross into the US, I'm often a bit knackered by the time I get to the CBP Agent Interrogation desk. I have my papers in order, I have a sharp stone in my shoe and,at my age, that sudden gust of air conditioning you get halfway through the building gives me a renewed sense of urgency. I'm praying that the restroom is open. The the CBP Agent decides that he is going to need a full interview In order to determine if I m worthy to re-enter the US. He stares at me as he starts the interrogation as if he is the human lie detector. I've done this enough times that the answers just come tumbling out with no thought at all. Q. Where are you going? A. To a restroom that doesn't look and smell like a portal to hell guarded by the demon swarm of flies.
Q. What were you doing in Mexico? A. I opened doors for little old ladies. I helped the blind to see. I got no friends cause they read the papers. They can't be seen with me and I'm getting real shot down and I'm feeling mean. Oh, and in my spare time I feed the hungry.
Q. Que trae? A. No thank you, I had a few too many in Mexico.
Maybe they are just trying to make conversation while they wait for their 486 DX2 to read the passport barcode, search the archives on the ENIAC housed in its own 3 story building next door to the customs inspection lot via its 14.4 megabaud modem before it fires back someone else's photo followed by an error message and the blue screen of death. Orange card and secondary, what a way to start the day.