CHCH News - The Legalistic States of Amerika

The Customs Agent at the Peace Bridge was singular in her deportment. Sporting new BORDER PATROL - OFFICE OF HOMELAND SECURITY patches, and snapping her gum, she looked far more like the clownish Wackenhut guards Federalized into TSA than the pistol-packin,' serious-as-a-heart-attack border guards I used to see a decade ago.

"What country you f'um?" she demanded through a mouthful of Bubblicious. I rocked my head back, incredulous at this display of professionalism.

She fiddled with the screen at her console, then pressed a button of some sort. Up out of the ground shot her supervisor - a woman, about fifty, with bad teeth and a ponytail. Stepping to the rear, she quickly recorded my plate on a notepad, then stepped in front of her charge to resume the interrogation.

"How long were you in Toronto? she demanded, flashing her fangs to maximum effect.

"Just overnight."

"Why were you there?" And how is this your concern, Madam Toothsome?

"Some sightseeing"

"Kinda a long way to go just for that, ain't it?" I could just see this nutcracker with her husband. I could see him fleeing faster than any smuggler ever tried...

"Yeah, well, it beats spending the holiday in Buffalo"

"And why are you in Buffalo? You just said you're from CLEVELAND!"

Oh Judas Priest. I confess. Just gimme the papers to sign - I don't care what it is, I confess! Just so I don't have to breathe any more of this cookie's breath from her ghastly mouth...

Welcome to Amerika, 2004.

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Middle of the evening: 8:00 or thereabouts. My bank's in a section of town which is rapidly sliding downhill; the police have implemented "zero tolerance" enforcement. It doesn't seem to affect the pushers or the workin' girls on the corners; but it's open season on the clueless johns and white-bread suburban kids out looking for a dime bag.

At the light, West 117th and Lorain, a car pulled up alongside me...a car with a couple kids, young bucks with their blood up. For my benefit, the driver ratcheted up the stereo, to better serenade me with some rap presentation or other. I couldn't tell who; Droop Doggy Droppings; the Insane Inanities, the Poor Lil Rich Homies. I couldn't tell what it was they were chanting about - something about capping cops and hittin' hoes, or cappin' hoes and hittin cops. Interspaced with gratuitous references to the sex act.

I couldn't tell and I wasn't interested. They were showing their cleverness by treating me to their stereo; I decided, in a moment's misjudgement, to show my wit. I was in Enko-San, my winter beater, and I didn't much care what damage I did to the radio speakers. I cranked up the volume on The Savage Nation. Cranked it up LOUD. The punks in the other car offered up some gesture which looked like half of a "Peace" sign, and loudly called me a term both incestuous and scatological.

The light changed, their tires squealed. And I heard a squealing of another sort...the car behind me had magically sprouted red and blue pulsating lights. Oh jeez, I got the attention of the cops.

There's a ritual to this. Get the paperwork out - fast. Have your license, registration, insurance card at the ready - immediate service, no waiting.

"You know about our Car Stereo Ordinance don't you?" said the cop. "Aren't you a little old to be playing games like this?"

"What about that other car..."

"Shaddapp!" explained the cop. Cleveland police aren't exactly known for their warmth and charm. "You wanna explain it, you can do it downtown to the supervisor. Or you can be quiet and let us finish."

Okay. I'm dutifully subdued. Why, I wondered, did he stop the car with PERSIAN GULF VETERAN plates on it? To avoid charges of favoritism?

Wordlessly, Officer Friendly wrote up his citation, thrust it at me, and walked away, pointedly spitting on the street. Free to go, I guess.

It wasn't until I got to the ATM drive-thru that I looked at the ticket...and what I saw floored me. In addition to the noise citation, I was written up for a seat-belt violation.

I'd taken it off to get at my wallet, to get my license out. Welcome to Amerika, 2004.

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Unexpected company. I don't usually keep beer in the house, or even drink it; but this was a special occasion. A quick trip down to the local BP gas-and-convenience emporium.

Make the selection, carry it up to the counter...the counter with the bulletproof glass screen above it. It being early evening, the sliding 3x5 window was open.

The kid behind the counter had more metal in his face than I have in my studded snow tires. The most obvious, the most jarring, was a metal washer or collar of some sort, inserted in his ear. There was a 3/8ths hole in the center of that enormous insert in his lobe.

The metal-head scanned my beer. "ID?" he said, looking bored.

I was feeling frazzled, which means I'm not far from a blowup.

"What are you, blind?" I snarled. I'm in my mid-forties, and look it. "How old do you think I am, anyway?"

"I need to see some ID," the kid said, looking at me now with a smirk. He was enjoying this. He slid the 12-pack back further on the counter.

I called the punk a filthy name. "I'm not gonna play your stupid games. How much for this beer."

The kid grinned wide now. All those times he'd been carded to buy his cigarettes...this was payback.

He slid the beer behind the counter. "Well...I don't think I'm going to sell to you."

I called him an uglier name, and turned back to the cooler. If he wouldn't ring it up, I'd just figure up enough to cover it, stick it in the change tray in the glass window. Screw him.

He had that move covered, too. I heard a heavyTHWACK! - the cooler case had an electric lock, controlled from the cash booth!

Jeezus, what kind of police state did we slide into? I can't even get a 12-pack of beer without some butthead checking my papers?

I considered throwing something to break the glass door of the beer cooler. I considered backing my car into the front of the store. I considered buying five gallons of gas...to pour on the ground and set afire.

I considered fun and games in the county lockup. Then I considered getting the hell out, and counting my blessings

Welcome to Amerika, 2004.

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To borrow from a writer not my favorite: "Dude, where's my country?" I miss America. I miss that nation, that people who celebrated freedom and individualism - instead of legalism and group identity.

I long for the time you could joke; you could smoke; you could lust and love, and talk and mock, without by-your-leave of anyone. When personal choices and private clubs and individual income and property rights were seen as things to be protected - from the interferences of others or from government.

I love my country, every bit as much as I fear its government. But today the fearful people who cower behind the redistributive power of government, have the upper hand over those who love liberty.

I miss America; and I loathe Amerika.

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JustPassinThru is a locomotive engineman and former political-science student in the Great Lakes region, where he drives trains, worships cars, curses government - and now will try to write about all three.

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