The border guard grunted and heaved like a man with three mounds of fat at the ends of his chin. Poking and prodding his way through this RV of ours would be the most strenuous exercise he’d do, not just today, but perhaps for the rest of the entire year.
Me and Winona listened, and I heard the familiar clicking sound of a fluorescent light being turned on shining upon the hard rock beds above us. A few of the shimmering lights even made their way into the bathroom me and Winona were currently squeezed into.
…With Benjamin. In Felicity’s brilliant wisdom, she thought our best chances of getting through the border were for them to think Benjamin was taking a shower by the time Felicity had pulled into border control.
The tap was running, and me and Winona were getting soaked. Benjamin was sitting idly on the bathroom seat, his hair wrapped up in one of the endless supplies of shower hats Felicity had brought with her. He was naked, save for the slim linen towel that was wrapped around his waist.
The border control officer picked his way through the decorations that lined up the RV, making his way towards a soft, sombre pillow along the way.
“Irish Navajo?” he asked.
“Our band name,” Felicity replied confidently, causing Winona to stiffen. “He’s Irish, and I’m Navajo.”
“That’s true!” Benjamin yelled, and I felt my ears starting to bleed. I held Winona tighter, who didn’t seem to mind if Benjamin was pretending to shower or if I was hugging her closer.
She was smiling. The things we do to make our dreams come true.
“You don’t look very Navajo,” the border controller muttered back.
“Well, I’m only one sixty-fourth,” Felicity chuckled back in a southern accent.
“Only one sixty-fourth?”
“But it counts, officer!” and I could just picture Felicity’s grinning teeth as she lied. “I’ve the dreamcatchers and pipes to prove it!”
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Now Winona was truly pissed off. “I’m southwestern, not southern,” she whispered under her breath.
“Yes dear,” I murmured, rubbing her shoulders. “I know.” She wasn’t as drenched in cold water as I was. My big, towering head had taken the brunt of the waterfall. Which reminded me that maybe we should all plot out a visit to Niagara Falls if we were this far down the Canadian line.
All we had to do was just get past this stumbling man of a border patrol officer. Every step he took felt as though the whole RV might crumble apart regardless.
He stopped, then turned to the shower door. “Out now, would you?”
“But sir,” Felicity whined, “he’s really, really just taking a shower.”
It was almost like she wanted us to get caught as the officer tapped the door furiously with the baton. Winona stiffened, and my throat clenched up in panic.
A blurry film reel of the worst things that could happen to us flashed through my mind—imprisoned, the RV confiscated, our parents being phoned up and having to come to the Canadian border to bail out their bumbling, idiotic kids and their respective crushes.
The kind of story that filled me with dread at the time but one I could spin to make it sound more hilarious when me and Winona’s grandchildren gathered round to hear us talk about our earlier lives.
Me and Winona’s grandchildren. Not me and Felicity’s grandchildren. An important distinction. In fact, it made me freeze, not helped by the officer beginning to jam his way into our locked bathroom door.
My heart sank, and Winona sunk her head further into my chest. She could keep her head there all day as far as I was concerned—I loved it so much.
Thankfully, peace upon his Jewish soul, Benjamin Cohen decided to save the day for once and rushed out of the bathroom in a scowling, angry Irish fit. He hadn’t even the care or the warmth to at least knock off the shower for us.
“What are ya doin’?” his words were slurred, mimicking the many drunk paddies me and Winona had come across during our treks to the abyss of Quincy. “Who da fook is this guy?”
“Just a border inspector,” the officer murmured nervously. From the quick glance I saw of him as Benjamin pushed him out, he was far more than just a normal officer—he was a force of mounds of fat. His head, clean-shaven save for the small patch of dark at his scalp, didn’t help the sudden Homer Simpson comparison that swirled in my head.
I’d been far too charitable—this inspection would be his only physical exercise for the next decade as well.
“Get da fook out of our humvee, ya eejit!” Benjamin was frightening when he was dressed only in a shower cap and towel. “Or I’ll unleash a torrent of Irish Mafia piss on ye!”
I cringed. I thought only Felicity was capable of such underhanded racist commentary, but I was wrong about the depths of depravity that Benjamin Cohen could sink to. So was Winona, who frowned at his horrible impression of me.
Nonetheless, it did the job. Fearing for his life, Homer the border roller gave us the all-clear to press into Canada. Irish Navajo and our reservation quest were off to a firm, but shaky start.
