RED FLAG

I don't travel much, but when I do the U.S. Customs Service seems to take an inordinate amount of interest in my movements across international borders. This trip was no different.

The Houston border agent was very engrossed in rifling through the many plastic bags contained within the lugguge of the guy in front of me. Each one was caressed, sniffed and probed with blue fingered plastic gloves. I had to make my connection to NYC. I checked my watch, sighed and tapped my foot. The rest of my fellow "flagged" passengers fitcheted and shuffled in line. Finally other agents arrived and the line began to move. I, of course, got the stern, scowling, obsessive cowboy.
"Any tobacco, alchohol, money over $10,000, illegal drugs, dinosaur bones, etc...?" I shook my head. "No sir." Then, instead of opening my bag, he took my passport, and turned to his computer. 10 minutes later the fidgetty line of red flags had disappeared to their waiting planes, as my man still furiously clicked away on the keyboard. Then he turned back to me, and daintily unzipped my bag. "Tell me, why do you live in NY? I was there once. Never again." I knew this routine well. When cops get conversational watch out! I played along. I explained I lived in the sticks. He saw all my scribbled, coffee stained lyrics. "I write songs." He nodded. Then a Cuban Cohiba box fell out of my boot. He smiled. He thought he had me. "Empty." I said. I smiled. He continued the search.
There's something that always comes up on that computer screen. I don't know what it is. Cuba visits? Pot bust? Blog? Politics? The time I told that cop in Montgomery to go fuck himself? I ask my now friendly border guard. "Nothing big." he says, then goes back to examining my Frye boots. "You ride?" he asks. "No." I say checking my watch again. I'm going to miss my flight if this guy doesn't wrap it up. "They interest me." the agent says, and heads for the xray machine. JEEEEzus.
Just short of full body cavity search, the cowboy waves me through with a smile. "Welcome home." he says. I just make my flight. After a good night's sleep in NYC I catch a cab to Penn Station to get my train upstate. My cabbie is an Afghan. We get to talking. I ask about the Taliban. He snorts and laughs. 'The Taliban are all in Pakistan. Then come and go as they please. I work here and make $100 a day and go home to Kabul and live on $10 a day. The mountains are beautiful. And the flowers smell like...." he closes his eyes "...like perfume." A truck blows his horn and cuts us off. A string of Afghan curses follow. We talk and laugh all the way up sixth ave. When he drops me off he shakes my hand and thanks me for talking to him. "You are the nicest American I ever met." he says. "Welcome home." Now that's a welcome back. Why can't my countrymen be as nice? Next year maybe Afghanistan. That should be a breeze coming back.