The Mexican Standoff

       We were 20 minutes from the Mexican border when we hit the checkpoint. It seemed to appear out of no where, emerging from a blur of heat waves, bringing with it a small army of federal agents and US Border Patrol. I wasn’t prepared to go through Customs and Immigration. I had my shirt off. Neither of us were wearing shoes. We were smoking joint. Biggie Smalls was playing from the tin cup speakers of the 1982 Winnebago. As we slowly approached, I ate the joint. We creaked to a stop.

       “What seems to be the problem, officer?”

       My good friend Algernon asked through a cloud of smoke.

       The officer laughed and fanned the air. Several more cops circled us. They had dogs. Big, scary dogs. I was nervous.

       “What’s your boys business this far south?”

       The cop asked through tinted aviators.

       He thought we were from Mexico. He thought we were drug smugglers. He thought we were bad guys. I knew I had to think fast to change his mind about the tenacity of our character, so I said the first thing that came to mind.

       “Were not, like, from Mexico or anything...”

       The words fell out stoned and stupid, just like me.

       “...officer.”

       I hit the ground hard and felt the stiff pressure of a steel toe boot on the back of my neck. Next thing I know, Algernon was right there with me, face down in the desert, spitting dirt from his mustache and grinning like an idiot.

       “Good one, Kosmo”

      I had fucked up good and knew it. Border Patrol put us in cuffs and sat us up against the wall of the checkpoint as 7 agents and 2 German Shepards ransacked the Winnebago. They cut open the tires and crow barred the walls to splinters, they dismantled the engine and plumbing system and pried open each and every door, cupboard, corner, nook and cranny possible until, eventually they found the two joints in the freezer.

        “Listen up fuck-o’s”

       The head officer began,

       “This is whats gonna happen: you’re both under arrest, your vehicle will be confiscated by the Government of The United States of America, you will be fined $10,000 and face a minimum of five years in prison.”

       He read us our rights and split us up into two 4’x4’ holding cells. It was dark. I was still high. I had burned my tongue eating the joint. I missed my Mom. I wanted to die. I could hear the officers talking in the other room. They wouldn’t be able to transfer us upstate until the next morning, so we would be forced to stay the night in cramped quarters of the US Customs checkpoint.

       It must have been Midnight when the feeling hit me. I’m not sure what started it or where it came from, but I felt my mouth begin to water and a dull aching in my stomach. At first I didn’t believe it was happening. After everything I had been through, the trauma and tribulation, the pain and suffering, the cold steel cage and relentless agony, I couldn’t wrap my head around this feeling that was taking over my body. Maybe it was the futility of the situation, the dire circumstances and impending doom, maybe it was the pure hopelessness that brought it on. But regardless of what caused it, I knew this feeling and I knew it well; I was horny.

        “Fuck it”

        I thought to myself

       “If I’m already $10,000 in the hole and spending the next 5 years in lock up, I might as well have one last hurrah before I go”

        So I closed my eyes, whipped it out, and came all over the walls.