Powder

At the southern border crossing between California and Mexico, a commercial car transport is moving through the check point. An officer of the border patrol approaches the vehicle. He asks the drier a few questions before indicating that the driver pull out of line for a routine inspection of the unit.
The rig driver obviously frustrated complies and takes his vehicle to the designated area. Once there he is asked to exit the vehicle and accompany the officer inside a building along with his paperwork.
Inside the building a series of questions again are directed at him before his photo is taken and copies made of his accompanying documentation. “What’s the meaning of all this?” he asks “I have been transporting goods across the border for thirteen years and never had to go through such a rigorous interview.” He continues. “I’m sorry Mr. Orwell, but we routinely do random checks on vehicles coming across the border and it’s normally event free. Why your vehicle was chosen today I cannot say but we should be done with you shortly. I do apologize for your inconvenience.” Replied the agent who continued to leaf through the paperwork. A Walkie-Talkie radio on the desk before them rang which the agent answered, “Jackson!” said he. “Hey we’re all finished out here!” the voice over the radio stated. “Ok copy that!” officer Jackson responded returning the radio to his desk. Smiling he turned to the driver, “that’s you Mr. Orwell, looks like we’re all done here. Come with me I’ll escort you back to your truck.” They both got out of their chairs and walked down the long pale hallway towards the exit. A series of photos lined the wall on one side and a water cooler sat against the opposite wall. The forest green commercial carpet led to the front door.
Once outside they made their way to the parked tractor trailer, crossing a concrete pavement as they do. “Again I apologize for any inconvenience and thank you for your understanding.” Officer Jackson said as Mr. Orwell mounted the vehicle. “Drive safely” Jackson said as he left the driver to his business “yeah I’ll try” replied Orwell. As he sat in his seat and ignited the engine of his unit.
The Peterbuilt slowly crawled out onto the highway and Orwell began putting it through its gears. He glanced in his rearview mirrors and saw the check point slowly drift into the distance, “sons of bitches” he uttered as he resumed his heading reaching for a half-eaten tortilla wrap he was snacking on.
The iconic Guerros name running across the grease paper wrapper in parallel lines. Something about Mexican food had always appealed to him, maybe it was the experience he had as a child growing up living in Texas. His parents would cross the border to on select occasions take them, him and his sisters both older than himself, to beach side camping, mainly for holidays or weekends. They would sleep in the family van of make tents depending on the availability of sites to pitch the tent. When all else was impossible they would get a cheap motel and spend the nights there. He particularly didn’t like those nights.
The days spent frolicking in the salt water at Rosa Rito or Ensenada, those were the best days of his childhood life. He made memories there that have stained his perception of what the good life is like, met people who have remained a staple of his social life to this very day. Some people from these memories are no longer in his life or even in this world, but, in those memories, those sunny days in Mexico they still smile as bright as they did the day they walked the beach. ‘How crazy are our memories better than any video tape. I almost can smell the barbecues and taste the salty ocean air, families enjoying a birthday or a public holiday’ he thought. Sighing heavily he reaches for a plastic cup and sips the iced beverage from the straw before returning the cup to the holder. “Those were the days.” He said, returning to his current reality. He checked his GPS and put on his aviator sunglasses.
Taking his phone from the holder next to the one containing his drink cup, he dialed a number from the contact list. The music form his stereo cut as the ringing sound came over the audio system of the rig. The phone had hardly rang three times when a quick “hola” came over the speakers.
“Eh, como estas?” using the little Spanish he knew Orwell replied.
“What’s happening Gordo?” asked the voice on the line
“I’m in California baby and I will be there within the coming week all things goes well!”
“Ah que bueno! When you get here I will give you directions for the delivery, so let me know once you hit New England.”
“Ok sounds good, save me some good beers. I haven’t had a good bender in over a week. Those guys in TJ were stuck on stupid for a minute and everybody was all tense. Was my worst trip yet!”
“Yeah it gets like that sometimes you know! The best part of the business is always over here…. Ok I’ll let you get back to the road. Be safe! See you in a few days.”
“Hey you guys do the same! Talk then. Ciao! Ciao! With that Orwell disconnected his call and begun searching for some road music on his radio. Lighting a cigarette he turned the volume up on the stereo and tapped his fingers to the beat as he got his mind back to the long journey before him. “East coast here I come!”