not again?...

in line at the u.s. border now. i give the patrol lady my "congrats on being booted out of canada" form. mr. miyagi had made it sound like i would be able to go right thru the border with that form; but that's, of course, not the case. i'm told to pull over once again and wait for an officer to come out to talk to me. 15 minutes go by. he brings me into the station and starts with the questions. so, have you ever been arrested for anything? nope. you sure? umm... (for some reason i actually have to think about this. been to jail a few times but i think it's always been to bail someone else out) nope, nothing i can think of. you have to think about it? no. so, if i pull up your record, i'm not gonna find anything? nope. you got nothing on me. why were you refused entry? i was told because of the "cosmetics" of my car. you know they can be hard about that. every car in canada already looks like yours, or worse. i chuckle... sadly. he directs me to pull my car into a garage and wait in the station while he inspects it. the garage door closes - a police officer... my car... alone... together. yeah, i felt pretty sick to my stomach. i wait and wait and wait... start thinking - it's probably illegal for me to be driving that car; in it's condition; endangering the safety of others. i bet they're gonna impound it and bring me back to the police station. they're gonna take to me jail just because i wanted to go to canada. a fitting way for this to end. "kid in crappy car gets busted for said crappy car while trying to cross canadian border." part of me wants that to happen. i wouldnt' have to worry about driving it anymore. could fly or take a bus somewhere; after i'm released from the station that is. he's just looking through all those service records; looking at the car; looking through my journal; i can see the gears in his head turning. well, if he lets me go, i guess i'll try to drive back down to grand forks, or fargo. figure something out there. maybe fly to denver? shit, i'm not gonna make it of here. 40 minutes or so go by. he walks back into the station. i wait for a response... he's not looking at me... i'm concerned. you're free to go. follow me. i'm relieved but not. the car, remember? he walks me out to the garage. gives me the keys and looks at me very much concerned. listen, you just be real careful, okay? real careful. take care of yourself and be safe. i nod my head, "i will. i will. thank you..." i get in the car and look around it's a complete mess. everything is in disarray. a photo of a friend bent in the dashboard console, some crumpled maps, the now crushed loaf of bread under the cooler, the mess of clothes, and bedding. there's the service records under some of the clothes; and there's the journal. the journal? on the floor of the front passenger seat, it is opened to my last entry (also known as exhibit D) - written from a gas station in pembina, nd just a couple hours prior. i felt sorry right then. i don't think for myself, but for the officer...