My Encounter with American Justice!

On a recent trip south to Dunsmuir, California, to torture myself by hiking up a very steep path at Castle Crags, I learned something new which made me stop, think, and finally taught me respect.

There are these little detours we motorists must make whenever crossing over the border to California. Here we are, happily speeding along, going a bit too fast and watching for cops, when we come upon that inevitable sign: Agricultural Inspection Station.

These interruptions have been around for as long as I can remember (which, admittedly, isn't very long). For those of you who are unfamiliar with this ritual, it involves driving though a large building and having a guy or gal lean out of a toll booth and ask you if you have any fruit. To which the motorist replies, "No." The Agricultural Official then says, "Thanks," or, "OK," and sends you on your way.

Of late, I have taken to saying "Nope" instead of the more straightforward "No," which is my subtle way of mocking their authority. (Rebellion comes in many forms. Sometimes, it's a fat guy with too much spare time.) Occasionally, they hand you a magazine about California when you pass through (not lately, though, which is a total gyp).

The more diligent of the Fruit Police will sometimes go beyond merely asking the passing motorist if they have any fruit. Sometimes they will ask, "Where you headed?" I don't think I've ever heard them say, "Where are you headed?" It's always "Where you headed?" I guess this word omission is to keep from wasting time.

Other than "Where you headed?" the only other question I've ever heard posed is "Where are you coming from?" They generally put the "are" in this one, probably so as not to be thought ignorant (which is a rich observation, coming from someone with such deplorable punctuation skills as mine).

Now, I am a pretty patient guy, but this never-ending ritual has slowly begun to annoy me. I used to just laugh and shake my head after passing through, but for about the last couple of years, I have taken to saying, "That is sooo stupid!" in a suitably irritated voice. I mean, let's face it: I could have had an apple under my seat! I could have had a whole trunk full of pears.... Do they check? NO! What are these people being paid for!? And do they make more money than me?

Then came the trip a few weekends ago. As I drove wearily towards the Inspection Station, I was faced with a choice of lanes. The one on the right had two cars and a truck. The one on the left had two cars and one was leaving. I chose the left, feeling cagey. BIG MISTAKE! What transpired next was wholly new to me.

The car in front of me was from Beautiful British Columbia (that's in Canada). The Fruit Police took one look at their license plates and asked them to... "Open the trunk." I gasped. Never before had I witnessed the Agricultural Inspectors in action! The obedient Canadians popped the trunk and boy, was it full of stuff: clothes and luggage and shopping bags full of other things (I couldn't really see everything). The one thing that was not in the trunk, however, was fruit.

At this point, I was feeling a little embarrassed on behalf of the good ol' US of A. I mean, here we had a nice Canadian couple on vacation, and what happens? Some fascist in a brown vest was poking around in their trunk looking for a toxic banana.

After closing the trunk, the official returned to the driver's window and asked about fruit. To my amazement and chagrin, it transpired that this couple had a huge bag of cherries in their car. Brown Vest calmly told them of the danger of out-of-state produce and even offered to let them eat the cherries at the inspection station, but insisted they may not take them beyond this point.

I couldn't hear what these caught-red-handed Canadian fruit-smuggling scumbags were saying, but I knew they were giving him a hard time. I could tell just by looking that he wanted to pull his gun* and make them get out of the car so he could tear that sucker apart and see if the bastards were sneaking any other illicit produce across, but he kept his cool in the best tradition of Californian police.

Eventually, these foul fruit fiends handed over the bag. Brown Vest scowled at them, but let them go, which was mighty big of him if you ask me. The Canadians sped off no doubt thanking God and resolving never to have such a close brush with American justice again. Brown Vest turned around and tossed the deadly cherries into a wastebasket.

I drove forward with some awe. "Do you have any fruit?" he said, in a voice that sounded to me as the voice of a mighty Caesar. "No," I whimpered. "OK," he said, "Have a nice day, American citizen."**

That day, I learned a couple of things. I learned a newfound and deep respect for the men and women who stand, ever watchful, ever vigilant as the first and only line of defense against dangerous fruit terrorists in California.

I also learned that Canadians aren't smart enough to lie about their cherries.

* I didn't actually see a gun anywhere, but I just bet he had one!

** He didn't really say that, but I thought it would have been totally cool if he did.