17
WAYNE WROTE through the night, his handwriting getting larger and sloppier the more exhausted and excited he got—reading, writing and rewriting until he crafted the last few pages from memory and the final crescendo of words felt like his own. “Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us,” he scribbled with throbbing fingers. “It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther … And one fine morning—”
He climbed the stairs, buzzing with the beauty and wisdom of his prose until he glimpsed his reflection and remembered how little he resembled a twenty-eight-year-old F. Scott. He cracked the refrigerator, saw nothing but condiments and Bombay Sapphire—Fitzgerald was a gin man—and then searched for his medicine, feeling less and less like a daring young author.
Over the last few days, that little book had often struck Wayne as the most exquisite novel ever written. At other times it felt like an over-hyped novella about irrational love. Was it truly the great novel about American aspiration and self-reinvention? Or a melodramatic yarn about an eccentric’s relentless obsession for a woman he couldn’t have? What was so singular about that? How many men, he wondered, saw Sophie Winslow as the green light at the end of their dock? Maybe that was it, the commonality of Gatsby’s misguided quest capturing whatever irrational dreams we all harbor. Clearly, F Scott knew he was writing a masterpiece; his letters proved it. He’d be dead before the critics and the masses concurred, but he knew. And perhaps such faith is essential for greatness. For several flickering moments that morning Wayne had felt the language thrumming through him. Now, though, it was gone. He lifted every newspaper and couch pillow twice before finding the half gram of skunk crushed beneath the next book on his reading list, Ideas: A History of Thought and Invention, from Fire to Freud.
He botched the first joint watching the Vanderkool boy drive his battered truck, erratically as ever, along Boundary Road, slowing to study something in the ditch before turning south on Assink. Wayne couldn’t come to terms with the sudden fanfare. America loved a hero, any hero. But a kid who looked at you like he was trying to make a Picasso out of your face? Whose paintings gave you that same good-for-you sensation you got watching the Special Olympics? You might as well call every cloud, tree or wave a work of art. Every tweet, flutter and fart.
He messed up the second roll obsessing over Madeline. He’d never had the stomach to confront her directly. In fact, he’d almost encouraged her mischief because he was so delighted she wasn’t as proper and predictable as her sister. And after Marcelle died, he’d let Maddy do whatever made her happy in hopes she’d stick around. But he’d never pictured this reckless apathy. When he called Nicole for advice, she’d grunted and said you can’t help people who don’t want help. She had volunteered, though, that she and her mannequin husband would make an appearance at his sixty-fifth. Beneath the words, it sounded like a chore.
By the time he finally had a serviceable joint, he questioned whether he should smoke it. His pain was mild, and he wanted a clear head when he called Maddy. He tended to get more philosophical with each toke, until he crossed some line and turned ridiculous. It was the same thing with wine, and he’d always made a point of never writing op-eds or art reviews with more than two glasses in him. He had a flame poised, his eyes on the Vanderkools’ dinghy full of blooming yellow tulips, when he heard voices up the street and remembered Sophie’s invitation.
WHEN TONY PATERA explained that congressmen were coming out for a briefing, she’d encouraged him, while oiling his arthritic toes, to do his show-and-tell in front of her house. Where better to make his case? But she was surprised he took her up on it, and even more astonished by the gallant mob that spilled out of BP vans in leather-soled shoes. Seeing as how there was nobody else to charm, the politicians all fussed over her, flattering and touching her. And when she brought out the camcorder, Sophie was greeted anew with warm smiles and improved postures.
She listened to Patera begin his spiel, stating the obvious as if it were revelatory. “Yes, this is, in fact, the border. Right here. And, yes, this two-foot ditch is actually one of the better barriers we have. A few hundred yards down the street”—he pointed toward the Cascades—“is where we now get drive-thrus on almost a nightly basis. All we have to guard our busy sector, ladies and gentlemen, is a small, dedicated crew of overworked agents and outdated motion sensors. So, as you can imagine, if we’re not already in the neighborhood when some smuggler or alien—or bomb-toting terrorist—crosses …” He shrugged. “We frankly can’t respond to more than half of the sensor alarms. That means we mostly catch the dumb ones, understand? Still, we’re on pace to apprehend twice as many illegals as we did last year, and we’ve seized over twenty thousand pounds of marijuana over the past twelve months, up fivefold from three years ago. However, we’re still probably intercepting less than five percent of what’s rolling through. Keep in mind that two thirds of Canada’s marijuana production is grown indoors in B.C.” He wagged a finger to the north. “Unfortunately, the Mounties don’t have the manpower and Canadian courts don’t have the will to do much about it.”
The politicians eyed their security expert for confirmation or skepticism, but the grim little bureaucrat in the gray suit ignored their glances and didn’t veer from his melancholic pacing.
“When the Mounties do try to enforce,” Patera continued, adjusting his Eagle Scout tie clip, “seizures usually involve basement operations with about five hundred plants yielding several one-point-five-million-dollar harvests a year. So we’re talking real money. With ninety percent of their market down here, of course they get it across in every way imaginable. If they don’t want to risk sneaking it through the ports of entry, they jump this ditch here or run it through raspberries over there or put a car on each side, make sure we’re not around, then throw some hockey bags over, drive off and poof—gone before we can respond. Plus, they can paddle across the bay in kayaks, or use helicopters, snowmobiles and remote-controlled planes.”
“What about putting in concrete barriers like we have in front of the Capitol?” twanged a Tennessee congressman who later called the Canadian border the Mexican problem squared.
Grateful for the question, Patera smiled and paused for effect. “That was my first idea, and I’ll tell you what I was told: Every civil-liberties organization would start howling as soon as—”
“They’re gonna howl,” the congressman interrupted, “no matter what we do, aren’t they? If we made decisions based solely on who’s gonna complain—”
“What about cameras?” asked a politician Sophie recognized by his grimace.
Patera bunched his lips, as if the gravity of what he was about to share warranted a moment of silence. “Cameras,” he said. Then, after another flamboyant pause, “If we had about thirty cameras on fifty-foot poles at strategic locations, we’d have a level of deterrence I truly believe would be tantamount to tripling our force at a third the price.” He cleared his throat. “As some of you know, this subject has been studied before, but its time has come.”
“How much?”
That’s when Patera rolled out a number half again as large as the one he’d shared with Sophie. While “fifteen million” echoed through the crowd, he evangelized about other surveillance options, including tethered blimps and unmanned drones and even a virtual fence made up of ground-based radars that could all serve as “force multipliers.”
“As you well know, most of the bud is run by organized crime. And there’s also evidence that terrorist cells in Canada are getting into the business to raise money, which of course means the war on drugs has, in fact, become the war on terror. And yes, sometimes, with a combination of teamwork and luck, we get a twofer like we did last month when we caught a suspected bomb-carrying, bud-smuggling terrorist.” He talked right over a mumbled question. “This has become the border of choice for almost anybody trying to sneak into our country. During the past two months alone, we’ve caught illegals from Algeria, Bosnia, Bulgaria, France, Germany, Iran, Iraq and Mexico—yes, we increasingly catch Mexicans flying to Vancouver on Japan Airlines and walking across here because it’s so much safer. Plus, there’s Morocco, Pakistan, Romania, Sri Lanka and … I’m missing one.” He winced, feigning concentration. “Oh yes, Nowhere. We caught two people from Nowhere.”
Patera nodded while the politicians scrambled to catch up, but his clever little parable about the Prince and Princess from Nowhere was interrupted by a sudden drizzle and Wayne Rousseau scampering up to the Canadian edge of the ditch under a red umbrella.
“Greetings!” he called.
Sophie zoomed in on the exhausted professor, then panned as Patera’s distracted audience prepared to meet a real Canadian despite the rain and the muddy ditch between them.
“As the interim spokesman for the great nation of Canada, I ask you to please not let my good friend Chief Patera persuade you that you need to throw more agents at this border or pay for intrusive cameras or whatever other placebos he’s hawking.”
There were chuckles and smirks in Patera’s direction while the scrawny Canadian lit his homemade cigarette beneath his umbrella. The wind was drifting the wrong direction, so all they could do was whisper uncertainly, their nostrils twitching, sensing this might be the story from their border tour.
“Meet Wayne Rousseau,” Patera announced, “retired UBC history professor, known for his frequent—”
“Political science!” Wayne corrected. “I taught poli-sci.”
“—and colorful condemnations of the United States,” Patera concluded grimly. “We’re in the middle of something here, Professor, so if you’d please—”
“Anybody care for a puff?” Wayne asked jovially. “Come on.” He hinged forward, readjusted his footing, extending his arm, smoke curling, eyes bulging, grin quivering. “Meet your enemy.”
After a flurry of clumsy jokes and questions, Patera mustered a mumbling explanation of Canada’s medical marijuana laws.
But Wayne didn’t stop talking. “Jefferson and Washington grew this stuff. I mean, seriously, how can you get more American than that? Yet despite the wisdom of your founding fathers, you all keep climbing over each other to—”
“I must correct you on that point, sir,” bellowed a stout Michigan congresswoman. “Washington and Jefferson did grow hemp, as did many colonists. However, the hemp they grew wasn’t smoked, nor was its psychoactive potential known at the time.”
Her colleagues shared grins and winks. Something else to recount: Miss Piss ’n’ Vinegar sparring with one of Canada’s pothead intellectuals.
Before anyone could praise her command or bluster, Wayne shouted, “Marijuana’s medicinal and psychoactive properties have been known since ten thousand B.C.!” He shrugged. “Didn’t you people learn anything from Prohibition? Oh, that’s right. I forgot superpowers don’t study history. You spread freedom.” He shifted into a folksier drawl. “‘Americans have freedom of expression and freedom of conscience and the prudence to never use either.’”
“Who are you misquoting now?” Michigan wanted to know.
“Twain.” Smoke leaked from Wayne’s lips. “Your very own Mark Twain, madam.”
“Mr. Twain,” she snapped, “never even graduated from elementary school. And no offense, Professor, but I personally don’t find your country’s peculiar brand of socialist monarchy worth emulating.”
While Patera retreated toward Sophie’s driveway, wheeling his hands like a coach calling for a huddle, Tennessee wondered aloud whether the retired professor was the ideal spokesman for Canadians. But Wayne’s audience lingered until he flicked his roach into the wind and everyone stopped to watch it bounce off his umbrella. Then they began their retreat, exchanging glances and smirks. “Yeah, you all go back now!” he taunted. “You’ve been standing in Canada illegally this entire time anyway.”
Michigan turned and pointed at the concrete pylon on the far side of the ditch.
“The border’s at forty-nine degrees, correct?” Wayne shouted, then lobbed a pocket-sized GPS across the ditch.
Michigan stepped forward and snared it angrily. She squinted at the screen, wiped it with her sleeve and squinted again, three colleagues crowding her. “I’ll be damned,” she muttered, glancing again at the border pylon.
“What’s it say, madam?” Wayne mugged for Sophie’s camera, then broke into a lecture she’d heard twice before about the border being an arbitrary line agreed upon in 1846 by politicians in London and Washington, D.C., and how finding and defining the 49th parallel soon turned into a comic competition. Charged with divvying up the overgrown West, dueling teams of ill-equipped astronomers and surveyors felled trees as wide as houses and stacked cairns every twenty miles or so. Biased sextant readings resulted in multiple-choice borders, with incoming settlers discovering an American, a Canadian and a compromise in-between. In the early 1900s, intrepid border teams headed out on a Monty Python-like quest to find the original rock piles and establish permanent monuments along a still imprecise line that nature erases every few years anyway.
“And now it’s your turn,” Wayne shouted to the suddenly attentive politicians. “You all are the latest act in the ongoing comedy to see what can be done, by God, about securing this nonsensical border you know so little about.”
The discussion that then broke out looked like it gave Patera a toothache.