Mr. Ditch goes to Washington: Chapter 3

There was nothing for it: I booked myself onto the last flight of the day to leave town, at a price that, had I laid out a couple of weeks previously, would have gone a good way toward buying a new, non-explosive car. No matter; the overwhelming relief of hearing that my ticket was booked and that only divine intervention could now prevent my getting to Edmonton was almost worth every penny. I was asleep before we started to taxi. The next morning, I made my way to US customs, hoping my luck would change. The official was friendly at first, but a nearly visible cloud of doubt fell across his face when he swiped my passport. Containing his fear, he escorted me into the terrorist triage room and directed me to the laser fingerprint scanner/mug shot taker, and thence to a seat. I watched a “random bag check” victim come and go, so I knew I wasn’t one of them. I tried to see if the suspicious looking Asian ahead of me would be arrested or just denied entry. I looked back over my chequered past, wondering which heinous act had finally caught up with me. Had I been fingered as the guy who accidentally poisoned all those California poppies at the trailers? Had someone found out about our unlicenced show in New York? Was it the Serbs? My name was called. The interrogater started by exchanging pleasantries. “Yeah right,” I thought. “Cut to the chase.” “After college, you terminated your Optional Practical Training visa early.” Her gaze turned to steel as she stared searchingly into my eyes and said “Why?”