This Is Only A Drill
The terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001 spawned two wars, intense political divisions, legislation legalizing warrantless spying on Americans, sometimes undecipherable chicken-hawk rhetoric, growing awareness of terrorist threats and Islamic extremism, a growing security apparatus and restrictions, plus the burgeoning infringements on civil liberty in the name of safety. And that’s just a shortlist of how the USA began to unravel, tearing itself apart just so others couldn’t. That infamous, cruel and bloody day also birthed contents for a fictional tale I was writing.
The story incorporated actual targets of interest for terrorists in the event that they penetrated American borders and began a “Holy War” in the name of midnight beliefs. It detailed the targets — dams, power plants and army bases — and their locations and practical reasons for destruction. The information I uncovered concerning these areas of significance was inscribed in my notebook along with my other writings that had little or nothing to do with 9/11, terrorists or war.
A writer’s notebook is often a closer companion than a lover. Its pages are clean and clear, ready for every thought. It does not criticize what is written or mock the sentiments. And it makes for a comfortable traveling companion. I took mine with me everywhere.
So in the summer of 2002, it should come as no surprise that my notebook rested in the back seat of my car as my friend and I conversed with U.S. customs agents. We had spent the previous night drinking booze until the early morning hours at an Irish pub in downtown Montreal, Quebec, Canada. Now we were attempting, as it were, to enter the United States at a checkpoint northeast of Buffalo, New York. Being young and vagrant-looking, along with heightened, more intense security measurements, we expected a bit of a hassle crossing the Northern Border despite having our passports and the necessary identification to prove our American citizen status. We had no idea, however, the extent to which we would be scrutinized.
Waiting in the customs lobby, we were denied use of the bathroom, frisked, questioned about our previous travels (I to Peru and my friend to Germany), had inquiries made into our families’ and our own private lives, and ultimately were made to wait for more than two hours while my car was searched, stripped and disheveled. We later found that they had made no attempt at replacing our belongings as they had found them. Instead, our clothing and other personal items were strewn about the floorboard and trunk of my little coupe, making it very difficult for us to track down anything that we might have immediately wanted or needed to continue on our cross-country road trip.
When finally informed as to the nature of the delay and suspicion, the situation became hilariously remedial. The agents had come across my notebook — with all its comprehensive data on possible terrorist targets — early in their investigation and became convinced that my friend and I were conspirators in some grand plot to destabilize the country. We were homegrown terrorists and they had unearthed our disaffected musings. Or, so they thought.
After finding no other evidence to substantiate a threat, the agents were left with no choice but to set us on our way. Before taking off we shared with the agents the story behind the notes and their fictional purpose. We had some laughs, mostly at their expense and the fear that my notes had generated. We thought about being imminently blacklisted and found the notion more comical than disturbing (turns out we were for several years, always stopped and frisked at airports).
I was perturbed by the inconvenience of the situation for a short time following. But after some reflection, I was able to compromise my disgust with the understanding that a good story is always worth the trouble and wait.
