The Border Patrol

We were just leaving our dressing room after dancing at the San Diego State Amphitheatre with the Go-Go’s.
Belinda said, “Here, take this,” and shoved a fairly full bottle of tequila into my dance bag. I put it in back of my Honda Passport and I started the 2 hour trek back to Los Angeles with my fellow gogo dancers, Pleasant and Kina.We called ourselves multigenerational because we were all ten years apart: Kina was 20, I was 30, and Pleasant was 40. (We also decided to nickname ourselves with a letter and a word, e.g. I was D-Cup, Pleasant was C-Note and Kina was G-Spot–but that’s another story.) It was late and we were completely exhausted when we reached the Border Patrol. I don’t know what got into me, but I decided it would be funny if I spoke Spanish to the Border Patrol.
“Hola!” I said cheerfully as we pulled up. I then said the only phrase I can say in Spanish. “Mi madre is mexicana. Mi abuela es de La Paz, Mexico.”
I smiled.
The Patrol Officer smiled back.
“Pull your car over there, Miss.”
“Wait,” I said, “I was just kidding. I don’t even speak Spanish. We wre just perfomring in San Diego.”
“Pull over,” he said in an “I’m not messing around” voice.
Moans and groans filled my car.
“Marci! Are you crazy? Why are you speaking Spanish to the Border Patrol?”
“I don’t know,” was all I could reply. I was too busy trying to think of ways to dispose of the open bottle of tequila they were sure to find in my bag.
“Get out of the car,” the Patrolman said, holding a dog on a leash.
“What is going on? I don’t even speak spanish!” I repeated yet again.
“Out!” he said sternly, opening my door.
All three of us climbed out, Pleasant having to zip up her pants as she had eaten too much after the show.
“Why are you zipping up your pants?” They asked? I don’ t know what they were thinking.
“I ate too much,” Pleasant replied.
All three of us sat on the curb while they opened up the back of my car and let the dog in.
“It smells like alcohol in here,” they said. Thank goodness we hadn’t drank any.
“It’s hairspray,” I replied, thinking on my feet.
“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Kina said, motioning to the nasty port a potties behind us.
“What are you crazy? I’ll take you to a bathroom in a minute. You don’t want to use those,” I said, patting her back.
“Actually, I really have to go,” she said.
“No, no, no!” I said, even more emphatically. “I’ll take you to a clean one. Just hold it.”
She pursed her lips together.
Apparently the dogs were not trained to search for tequila becasue they didn’t find it. I guess they were searching for people. Creepy.
By now we were finding the humor in our situation. We took photos with the Border Patrol and continued on our way.
As soon as we were safely away, Kina told us she had a joint in her pocket and that was why she had been so adamant about going to the bathroom, she wanted to get rid of it, afraid the dogs would smell it.
I was petrified. “You had a joint in your pocket this whole time? Are you crazy?” I asked.
“I didn’t know you were going to speak spanish to them and get us pulled over!” she replied.
We pulled off to find a gas station powder room and we couldn’t find an open one as it was after midnight. We ended up peeing by the side of the car.
Nice.
In the end, there was a whole lot of construction and detours and it took us more than six hours to get home. In the middle of the night. With our gogo boots and tequila intact.
We should have stayed in a hotel, but then I wouldn’t have this great story to tell.