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When I sit back in my seat I feel dampness on my ass. My jeans came in contact with some mystery liquid on the lavatory floor. I finish filling out the declaration card. I’d stopped in the middle after reading that I’d have to declare any meat products I’m bringing into Canada. I could’ve thrown out the hot dogs, but I’ve brought them from Chicago for Simmy because all the kosher butchers in Winnipeg have gone under and he loves traditional Jewish food. Simmy has bankrolled my life as student, both undergraduate and now in grad school for library sciences.
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When I was young I imagined that airport customs was full of hilarity. My best friend was Mickey Lichtman, and his father Lou was a customs agent full of funny stories, like the one about an old woman whose stomach literally growled. A request that she unzip her track suit revealed a bug-eyed Brussels Griffon that had papers vouchsafing his impeccable breeding but none certifying a rabies shot. I could become one of those stories with my moronic idea to smuggle hot dogs.
A tall female guard strides behind the closed booths. She has fiery red hair pulled back into a ponytail and skin so pale and pink that she looks feverish or slightly boiled. She marches athletically, like the softball or volleyball players I see on television, until she’s next to me. She smells like Lake Michigan on clear early mornings. My lower abdomen churns with a nausea that I don’t want to end.
“Reason for your trip?”
Nobody else has been sent to Processing. The other passengers strolled right through to baggage claim. This can’t be good. I lumber stiff-legged over the worn carpet. My muscles are weakening. I make little experiments, trying to lift my leg a little higher, swinging it to the side.
“Jackie, do you know what today is?”
