The gates of ...

Once you're in, you're in. The lineup, that is. U.S. border crossing. Cars ahead, cars behind. Sometimes even on each side, although we usually aim for the boonyville crossings to get this shit over quick.

Americans fascinate me. And freak me out.

For all the superficial similarities between us up here and them there, I can never escape the impression that the civilization's lacquered on 'em pretty thin. The very institutions that structure their notion of civilization seem to exist only grudgingly. Their courts and their various levels of government in particular seem to perform every function with an unspoken but apologetic preface to the effect that they really have no business exercising any control over any moment of anyone's life.

Until they have your ass. Cause, weirdly, the moment you're out the wrong door of whatever bureaucracy has processed you with an unfortunate result, my take is that you're pounced upon by state and individual citizenry alike in a briefly healing consensus of savagery that presents as something like 'the best we can do for now'. From a watchful populace that worships nothing more fervently than the perfection of endless torture in an endless hell.

They worship many other things, as well. Course they do. They're a worshipful bunch.

Family, for instance. I've watched them pat my kids on the head in their diners and their Wal-Marts and ask them dumb questions that represent an incredibly powerful kind of love practised by dumb people who doubt nothing.

I've seen that these people would kill or die for my children with less hesitation than I would. The same lack of hesitation with which they'd roast the little buggers alive if god, good order and group dynamics required it.

A moment back I used the word 'weirdly' describing the riot that ensues when American people and American institutions transcend their uneasy relationship and get to rip someone to bits together. Well, of course, there's really nothing weird about it.

Not when we're talking about the powerful impulse to violence. And the tension resulting from the attempt to control it. Of, by and for a violent people. And about the release that results when it's suddenly made okay.

I've had my share of encounters with American cops. Highway Patrol, Border Patrol, State Troopers and, of course, the endless variety of municipal cops.

Cause it doesn't matter, down there, if the town was too small to notice that you just blew through it. It's got it's own police force. And it's own football team. And it's very own mythology that some there will take your ass down for if that's what's right. And do it slowly, so it hurts longer.

Oh, and I've never had a bad one. Cop encounter, that is. In fact I've always been treated with a kind of decorous respect that is unfamiliar to me up here where we all just kinda act normal.

And if I sound like I'm scoffing, I'm not. I recognize that this decorum is a small part of a value system they're heir to that means they'll protect me/mine and die doing it if they've gotta. And it sure ain't for the shitty paycheck.

I've had them knock on my window at 2 a.m. with my whole family crashed out in the van at a wide spot in the road, expecting to be sent on my way. Instead, an apology for disturbing my sleep.

Just making sure y'all were okay. Sir.

Made me feel pretty sure we were okay.

But I've never missed that coat o' varnish that was mentioned above. Cause it's down across the eyeballs of every one of them. And I've never missed that the respect and service are not really for me. They're for a codified certitude that transcends absolutely fucking everything, and for which they'd kill me/mine as righteously as they'd kill/die for us, with no measurable change in pulse. At least that's what they'd shoot for. They're human, after all.

So no Americans fascinate me and freak me out quite like American cops. And customs officials are no exception. I've got a disquieting hunch they're paid even less than other kinds of cops. And that it, equally, ain't about the money.

And when you're in, you're in. The lineup.

And Tammy got her lip pierced just before this particular trip. Same day we went down. Salt water, said the piercing chick. About the swelling. Organic sea salt, of course. This being B.C. Bulk.

Just a plastic bag with a few grams of an unidentified white powder somewhere back there in the van. I remembered. As we inched forward, surrounded.

Away from all things gentle and toward the gates of their wooly new Rome.