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By Kevin McGeehan
In October of 2009, I was briskly walking through the Port of Miami. Moments earlier, I had signed off of a cruise ship where I had lived and worked for the last 119 days. I was about to start a brand new chapter in my life and I was very excited. I was wheeling two very big suitcases behind me and I had a backpack on my back. This, all told, comprised about 46% of what I owned in the world.
I rounded the corner, full of vim and vigor, and then I saw the dog: more specifically, the drug sniffing, German shepherd.
I stopped dead in my tracks because I knew that I had made a horrible, horrible error in judgment.
In my wallet, wrapped very tightly (because it was premeditated) was the equivalent of four dollars remaining of a ten-dollar bag of marijuana.
I had no other option, so I proceeded forward, hoping that I had killed any smell the dog might detect with the generous amount of scotch tape I had used to wrap my tiny stash. I felt uncontrollable, nervous sweat drip from under my arms as I passed the dog. I smiled politely and nonchalantly at the Customs Agent holding the leash. He smiled back and the dog gave me a friendly sniff. The agent looked at me and said in an overly friendly tone, “I haven’t had him too long. I don’t know if he bites.”
I gave him a ‘Ha-ha-ha-ha, everything’s cool!‘ laugh and I continued walking. I got about two feet from the door when I heard him say, ‘Excuse me, sir. My dog has just informed me that you have an illegal substance on your body. Is that true?’
The dog was absolutely correct. It was my word against the dog’s and I assumed the customs agent regarded the dog a much more reliable source. I was backed into a corner and I had a choice to make.
Since I had absolutely no recourse, I chose honesty; so with a big, stupid grin, hoping we could be buddies and laugh this whole thing off, I said, “Yes, sir. I do.”
The friendly demeanor was gone. In its place was a fair, focused, and VERY firm tone. “All right, sir, Here’s what’s going to happen. I am going to ask you to step with me into this room. There is a federal officer behind me.” A man appeared out of nowhere. “He and I going to escort you back. We are going to search your bags and we are going to treat you with courtesy and respect. Do you understand everything I just said?
My big, stupid grin disappeared and the sweat rings under my arms grew in size. I guess we weren’t going to be buddies. “Yes, sir.”
They brought me into a back room that had a number of long tables. My bags were laid out and opened. I was asked to stand behind a line and told that I was not allowed to touch anything I own.
I was assigned a Customs Agent that took on the role of “bad cop”. From this point on, I will refer to him simple as – The Hard On. His job was to fill my head with worst-case scenarios.
“You are in so much trouble,” threatened The Hard On. “You messed up big.”
I had no choice but to believe him.
“What’s going to happen to me?” I inquired nervously.
“I don’t know, man.” He said with a flippant, yet menacing tone; seemingly enjoying this power over me. “You could go to jail, but you’re definitely going to be brought up on Federal drug charges.”
Suddenly, all the sweat that my body was able to quickly produce appeared under my arms.
The Hard On took the small bag of marijuana from my wallet, opened it and took a whiff. “Ooo, this is pretty strong stuff. How much did you pay for it?”
“Ten dollars,” I said. Then I smiled, hoping my wit and charm would shine through the situation at hand. “I would say there’s probably 3 or 4 bucks left in there.”
He found this neither informative nor charming.
Three agents were tearing through my bags, undoing the hours of Tetris-ing I had done to make everything fit. One of the older agents pulled out a small, manila envelope that had been buried deep in my suitcase. He held it up and started to undo the clasp. I knew immediately what the contents were and my heart sank. I was about to be horribly embarrassed.
Inside the envelope were five unpackaged DVD’s – that were, to put it vaguely…just part of my collection – and once he saw the title and cover art, he was going to know exactly what they were.
I knew I needed to call it out. I summoned all the courage I could muster, and with a forced amount of bravado and cool, I announced, “That’s porn, sir. You’re opening an envelope of porn.”
He opened the envelope and I was proven correct.
The Hard On sternly turned his head to me and said (and I quote), “Kiddie Porn?! Better not be kiddie porn! You’re in enough trouble as it is!”
This was another situation where I reacted verbally, hoping my cleverness and charm would prevail. Every one of the DVD’s had a title that in some way stated or implied the ages of the “actresses” in the movies, so I knew I had irrefutable proof that I was in the clear. My gut told me to shut up, but my stupid brain (that thinks it’s so clever sometimes) vetoed that instinct. I don’t know where I summoned the moxie, but I responded sweetly, “I know marijuana’s a gateway drug, but I think kiddie porn is pretty far down that path.”
Once again, he found my statement neither informative nor charming.
They escorted me into a little Guantanamo Bay-esque room where they were going to pat me down and search my bathing suit area. The Hard-On asked me to undo my belt and the other agent with him said, “I’m going to touch you. Is that all right?”
Once again, I don’t know where this moxie came from, but I said, “Oh sure, as long as I’m not forced to touch you back.”
This was not met with the laugh that I had hoped. I wasn’t having a good day on a number of levels.
The Hard On was even less happy with me at this point and joined in searching my bags. He grabbed my backpack, where I kept my most personal and valued items, and opened it. He began to pull everything out until he eventually found something that piqued his interest: a small, handwritten, brown book.
This was my journal from 2006. More specifically, this was my intricate, meticulous, and easy-to-read journal from 2006.
The Hard On took the book and opened it. Something caught his eye. It was a newspaper article that I had paper clipped to the corresponding day in October of that year. The headline read, Family Held Hostage Overnight in Heist.
This intrigued him and he continued flipping toward the beginning of the book, stopping every few pages to read or look at the pictures I had diligently placed in it. From January to October in this journal is one important and life-changing event, something I had pored over and tried to find meaning for a very long; and this was the day-to-day account.
He looked up at me, pointed at the book, and asked, “What is this?”
My heart sank. I knew I had to answer him, but I truly didn’t want to share with this guy, since he had very recently accused me of owning child pornography and threatened possible incarceration. I had no interest in sharing with him something this personal.
With a much more inquisitive tone, The Hard On repeated, “What is this?”
I took a deep breath. I had no choice. As had been my instinct the entire morning, I went with honesty, and I gave him a brief account of the events of 2006.
What I told him changed everything. He discovered a startling connection between us, and with actions that completely contradicted his earlier behavior; he then made it his goal to get me released without charges.
Staring At Your Own Tree is the story of what he read in that journal.
Staring at Your Own Tree
The Second City Hollywood
6560 Hollywood Blvd, Los Angeles