We did not slow down as we snaked thru Phoenix on I-10. We crossed into California at Blyth just before ten thirty in the morning and lined up at a border station.
“They checking for illegals?” Wayne asked.
“No. It says Department of Agriculture—they don’t want us smuggling in any fruit flies or nematodes, I’d imagine.” I answered.
We waited our turn and were soon greeted by a Hispanic young man in an official uniform—a bit tight around the middle, but with a new shiny badge and all. He eyed the cab of the truck suspiciously, and said, in a clipped and professional voice, “Are you people carrying any produce?”
“Well, we’ve got a couple of bananas back there, I know. Do we have any of those oranges left, Mac?” Wayne said.
“Naw, we ate the oranges just outside Lordsburg. We still have two apples, though.” I said.
“Apples? Where did you get the apples?” asked the guard. He was closing in and I was starting to feel like a deer in the headlights.
“We bought them at the HEB in Kerrville, Texas. I paid $1.29 a pound for them—they’re Pink Lady Apples—real good eating,” I answered, worried, but trying to be helpful.
His chest swelled up and, with visible relish, he said, “I’ll need you to hand over those Texas apples. I’m going to have to confiscate them—you cannot bring tainted fruit into the state of California!”
“Those are good apples, not tainted—we were going to eat them at noon—won’t that be alright?” I asked, with a bit of desperation in my voice.
“You can keep the bananas, but I will take the apples—we cannot allow diseased fruit into the state of California.” He said with official finality. We gave up the apples.
There are plenty of apples in California. We will have no problem replacing them and I don’t mind an agriculture border guard doing his job. We were paying $3.95 for a gallon of gas, so the two bucks for apples wasn’t a major thing. What got me was the obvious pleasure the little Hitler-acting Pinko-Commie got out of taking our apples. He probably fed them to his kids that night, while he told them about his satisfying and rewarding day at work.
We continued west until I-10 hit the ocean, which turns out to be the Santa Monica Pier. Wayne and I saw the sights there, had great seafood at a little place on the beach in Malibu, and drove up the coast to Santa Barbara, where we spent our second night on the road.
Next morning, we were lined up with about forty other folks to ride the bus up the hill and tour Hearst Castle. If you know my friend Wayne, you know that a captive audience is a treasure for him, and he had one in that waiting room. Soon, I heard him say, very loudly, to a complete stranger with extraordinary boobs, “We’re on a sort of bucket-list Road Trip here---I’ve known that old man over there for sixty years and we decided to strike out and see some sights and a little bit of this great country.”
The lady said something like, “How nice.” That was plenty of encouragement for Wayne. The waiting room grew quiet as the rest of the crowd listened.
He said, “Yeah, for sixty years that old guy has embarrassed me. We stopped for gas yesterday, and before I could stop him, he asked the attendant, ‘How far is it to San Josie?’
The attendant said, ‘Oh, you’re not from around here, are you, sir? Out here, we pronounce the “J” sound as “H”, so you want to know how far it is to San Ho-Say, not San Josie. How long are you going to be here?’”
“Then, again before I could stop him, Mac said, ‘Oh, I don’t know---until Hune or Huly!’”
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