So I pick up A at 7:10 and off we go to Palomas for my 9:15 appointment for my three new choppers and as we're barreling down 180 towards Bayard I say "And you do have your passport, right?" Thirty minutes later we're barreling down 180 towards Bayard again, A now complete with passport, and I'm only 30 minutes late for my appointment. A sits and reads her book while I go in for my three new choppers, which fit perfectly, and off we go to the opticians for me to pick up T's glasses, as promised.
After standing for ten minutes while the sales people hunt around for T's glasses, I remember he told me two days ago on the phone he had had to go down to Palomas for a dental emergency and would pick up his glasses himself. A and I beat an apologetic retreat and take off for the Pink Store, who need to update the bit on their website about "No visas or passports needed".
We have a great poke around in the store and contribute absolutely nothing to Mexico's retail economy but keep their service industry going by spending $12 on lunch for the two of us. Then it's off to Pharmacia Express for me to stock up on anti-biotics for the next time I scrape my leg on a rusty piece of rebar and for A to pick some prescription-needed-in-the-U.S. medication as she's quit her job (the third person I know to have done this this summer - Uranus in Aries in action?) and no longer has health insurance.
Off we go now to Border Patrol Checkpoint, or whatever it's called. A is asked what's she bringing over the border and answers truthfully with name of psychotropic drug. "Where's your prescription?" asks Mr. Border Control Agent, armed with machine gun. "I don't have one" says A, "I never needed one before." "You need a prescription for [name your psychotropic medication here]," says Border Agent. "But I never needed one before" says A, and "You do now" says BA. "If you need a prescription, it's a narcotic." "But, but -" we both say, realizing at the same time this is hopeless. "You need to take it back to the pharmacy" continues Mr. Machine Gun, to which A responds "But they don't take refunds."
"They will" says Machine Gun, and, glossing over the bit about my suggesting A call her doctor in Silver but her doctor's office doesn't answer and the woman in Pharmacia Express calling the doctor who would usually write prescriptions if prescriptions were needed who turned out to be unreachable because she'd gone to Juarez, after 30 minutes they did, A got her refund and off we went again to Border Control - second Take Two of the day.
A different agent was on duty - a woman - who asked to see A's passport, ushered her through without asking any questions, took my Green Card and ushered me through as well. As we walked to the Volvo we saw Mr. Machine Gun standing on top of an SUV attempting to make the crossing, with two other agents poking around at the innards of the ve-hickle with a German Shepherd sniffing around the tires, and all I could think, just like Winston Smith in 1984 with his "Do it to Julia," was "Thank goodness it happened to A and not me."
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