Mark's Pages

March 9, 2003:

Twenty-two hours from Phoenix to Austin. We drive the whole way with one rest stop, Van Horn Texas, for gas and hamburgers. That and the Border Patrol checkpoint outside Anthony, New Mexico. There and back on Highway 10, six or ten or fourteen times a year, in a white Dodge stretch van packed floor to ceiling with scraggle-haired boys and musical instruments.

Every traveling band in America knows the drill. Throw your pot out the window somewhere between Deming and Las Cruces, half an hour or more before the checkpoint. There must be more marijuana plants growing alongside that highway than in all of backwoods North Carolina.

Cleanup is easy for us. Nobody really smokes, except the guitarist, who does a little. This bunch are as far from living the rock and roll lifestyle as could be imagined. We're on the Highway to Heck. That's our standard joke. To be certain, you ask him, "Dude, you ready?" Yep. Cool. Here we go.

3am on a clear, dark night. Coast to a stop at the solid white line. The usual Migra aren't there. Instead it's Texas Rangers in Smokey Bear hats, all beer-bellies and swagger. "Y'all 'r' musicians? Everbody out."

Yessir, Mr. Ranger sir, anything you say, sir. Naturally the band are unenthusiastic about having their sleep interrupted in this rude way. Yet there's no backtalk. We're keenly aware of this man's power to fuck with us. He can strip our van and leave it in pieces by the roadside if he chooses to.

Struts to the passenger side, tucks up his gunbelt, spits into the chaparral. Pokes his head into the sliding door, looks from side to side, looks at the ceiling, sniffs.

"Y'all been smokin' dope in heyah," he pronounces. "Ah kin smellit."

Time stops. You feel yourself welling with that you're-not-supposed-to-laugh-at-the-funeral kind of suppressed laughter which can't be stopped. Which would be an extremely bad thing at this moment.

To focus yourself you close your eyes briefly. You can't believe he said that. It's history's greatest set-up line. By the time it takes one synapse to fire you're ready with a killer comeback, and, worse, you're aware that the singer is too. The two of you are the world's two biggest snotheads, dangerous because much of the time you mean it. If you look at each other now you'll both keel over laughing.

Clearing your throat, you gain enough self-control to manage the crisis. Your strategy is to level with him. It's the right thing to do.

"Yes, officer, we have. But, we've been through this checkpoint many dozens of times over the years, and we're prepared to be here. I promise you that there are no illegal substances in our possession. You're very welcome to search us and our belongings, and we'll be glad to cooperate."

Good move. You've shown respect. Smokey Bear responds positively, standing up to his full height, nodding to you in reply. He searches one or two bags, but it's a pro forma gesture, a ritual, not serious, and, satisfied he's done his duty, he nods to you again and lets you go. All the while you and the singer look studiously away from each other, trembling in hidden fear that if you catch eyes you'll fall down laughing.

The singer drives. You take shotgun. Superstitiously you put three or four miles between yourselves and the checkpoint before speaking, as if Smokey Bear can hear with magic ears. All the while his set-up line rings silently in memory: "Y'all been smokin' dope in heyah. Ah kin smellit."

"You go first," you say.

Quoting himself, the singer says, "'Hey, it's our van, so if you find anything we get half.'"

Big grin. That's not bad.

Your turn.

"'That's wonderful for you, officer. If this Texas Ranger gig doesn't work out, you could always get a job as a dog.'"

Giggles like schoolboys, while the others sleep, until the dewy sunrise turns the white highway cold morning pink.

There's a wonderful road story which was legendary among the traveling musicians of our generation, about the San Diego band MDC.

MDC were an extreme hardcore unit, very political, whose name sometimes meant "Millions of Dead Cops", and other times "Millions of Dead Children", depending whether they were concerned that year about political repression or world hunger. At the time of this story it meant "Millions of Dead Cops". "MDC" was stenciled on their road cases, their personal bags, the inside of their van. Everywhere.

Somewhere in the Deep South they're pulled over by a stereotype southern sheriff in Smokey Bear hat and shiny boots. He opens the van, and there you go: "MDC" defiantly shouting from every surface.

"Y'all 'r' a band, huh?", Smokey Bear says, eyeing the gear. "What's 'MDC' stand fer?"

Gulp.

There's a long moment of doomed silence, like the realization that these are your last seconds on earth, because within heartbeats you're all going to be taken out and shot. When some genius replies,

"Matt Dixie and the Confederates!"

Let go with a warning.