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| Artwork courtesy of Greg McLeod |
Dusk had settled in Detroit when
the Argyles and Alexei Martov arrived at
the Canadian Border. The lines were short; they pulled up to the window almost
immediately. Greg handed our six
passports to a female border guard who assumed a prickly disposition towards
us. “There are six passports here. I can only see two of you,” she quipped—referring to our tinted windows—as
if she was trying to give us some other pretext for sending us to “the canopy”
for further inspection. After her other inquiries, her last question sealed our
fate: “Are you guys a band?”
The canopy was a sort of parking
garage where we could see border guards combing over the other vehicles. On one
side, about ten guards were conversing, obviously on some sort of collective
coffee break. We had been instructed to wait in the van until someone came and
greeted us, but after twenty minutes we began to doubt these instructions. Were
they playing mind games to make us sweat a little? Then GD decided to take the
initiative and ask what the deal was. It turns out there had been some kind of
miscommunication. They went inside with our passports, leaving the six of
waiting once more, but now outside of the van.
Two border guards returned. As if
from some kind of television show, they assumed a good cop bad cop. While one
made some small talk about majors and how he is the only border guard with a
PhD, the other said nothing and maintained a cold disposition towards us. Then
we got down to business: “Today is your lucky day,” he began, as if delivering
some piece of good news, “instead of us searching your stuff for the next three
hours, we will be using the dogs instead.” Upon hearing the news, GD went into
the van to retrieve the keys for them. The bad cop’s expression hardened. Then
he pulled out his flashlight, alternately shining it at GD and then back at us,
as if we were trying to communicate that GD should shove the crack into his
anus. “Step away from the van!” he commanded. “I was just trying to get the
keys for you,” GD responded. “Step away from the van!”
Having unloaded all of our stuff, they
instructed us to line up shoulder to shoulder ten feet in front of the van, in
our “penitent stance,” the good cop jested. Then came the dog, an adorable
little grey mutt—I had to repress my instinct to say awww—led on a leash by a
third guard. Telling us to face forward, although I was able to sneak peeks in
periodically—they led the dog up and down the line. After taking the dog to our
stuff and back, the guard muttered “number 2” to the good cop and apparent leader
of the group.
“One of you has set the dog off,”
he told us. It was Argyle frontman Greg McLeod. Never shedding his rock and
roll expression, he was instructed to put his arms behind his back and right leg
forward by the bad cop. He then proceeded to pat down his entire body and
thoroughly search his pockets. None of
the guards seemed to mind that I looked on. I could see in his eyes a quiet
anger, but he maintained his composure.
When they found nothing on the
Greg, they moved to the next person in the line. A startled look came across
Matt Dowling’s face as he was asked to take a step back and put his hands
behind his back. He seemed to be hiding a smirk about the situation: Matt
Dowling, the responsible one, the upstanding citizen, the fiery Canadian
nationalist, being subjected to thorough bodily search like a common criminal. This
expression soon subsided to a look of quiet resistance. When they were
finished, all we could do was stare at the ground as the good cop approached.
He told us they were finished, and we could start breathing again.
But the work was not over: they
harassed Matt Dorfman over having an empty work permit as we waited in the van.
I asked the guys if I could take a picture to which I received a resounding no.
They were probably right. Finally, we drove away to Windsor, all a little
stressed out from the event. But the hours passed and we were thankful for
Uncle Earl’s gracious hospitality and company. We all seemed to mellow out a
bit more. We had all made it back.
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