Strangers, Strip Searches and the Rolling Stones

I'm generally a good judge of character. I'm always willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt but I also have that "stranger danger" alarm inside. You know the one - that twist in your gut when you have a conversation with someone new that says "something just isn't right".

Because of this, I was perfectly willing to take a road trip to Toronto to see the Rolling Stones with a man I had only known for 10 days.

My girlfriend had recently met and started dating Joe. Trish was attracted to him because he had "pretty hair" - I haven't seen hair that long on a 45-year old man in years. Joe was very proud of his hair, tan and red-tinted glasses and I'm sure that's what instigated the strip search.

The Rolling Stones were hosting a $15 concert in Toronto with proceeds going to victims of SARS. There wasn't a lot of notice but my local rock station, QFM-96 was giving away a pair of tickets. I can't even remember what my short 45-word essay said that proclaimed to the QFM-96 promotion gods that I was the most worthy of these tickets.

Maybe I'm the only one who was willing to take a last minute road trip to another country.

I didn't want to go alone. Trish was in Seattle visiting her daughter and I didn't know anyone who had the flexibility to blow off a couple of days of work. Wait. Joe was a self-employed painter - maybe he could rearrange his schedule. Two phone calls later, at midnight, and the deal was sealed.

We hit the road around 7 AM and arrived at the border crossing by 1:00 PM. The lines seemed rather short and I counted on being in Toronto by 2:30.

I'm not sure what raised the suspicions in the customs agent. OK, I was dressed for a late-July concert in a tank top, shorts and long wild hair along with sunburn from a recent day outside. Maybe it was post-9/11 profiling that made Joe look like a terrorist with his dark complexion, red-tinted glasses, unbuttoned shirt, gold chain and extremely long hair.

"Please pull into number six."

I wasn't worried about the search - no contraband was on board. After the search of my car, we were sent inside the customs building for standard questioning. I had never been arrested and Joe answered the same. When the customs agent left the room, Joe mumbled something.

"What?"

"If they ask, I'm going to tell them I thought they meant arrested in Canada."

The computer search showed that Joe had in fact been arrested more than once in his life. We were taken into separate rooms and I was sure the worst was yet to come. A female customs agent came into my room, asked me about my relationship with Joe, who owned the car and if anyone else ever drove the car. I knew something was wrong and told the truth when I said my children occasionally borrowed the car. Well, my son's habit was actually to take the car without permission in the middle of the night.

"Do either of your children smoke marijuana?"

"I'm gonna beat him senseless!"

The strip search of my car turned up traces of marijuana in the console. My car has a console? The amount wasn't considered criminal so I wouldn't be arrested but would be flagged in the Canadian customs system and I would be subject to search at any time I ever again tried to enter Canada. We were released and permitted to continue into Canada.

"You have thirty seconds to tell me why you were arrested or I'm going to leave you on the side of the road!"

Joe began his tale, a tale of stupidity of such great proportions I couldn't believe he was actually 45. The story ended with his admission that he would be pleading guilty in three weeks and would be spending the next 30 months in the Ohio prison system.

"Are you going to tell Trish?"

SARS-Stock was amazing and I rocked with a half-million of my new best friends. Toronto's finest checked on us while we were sleeping in the car. I fought my way through Toronto's morning rush hour and got lost. Trish dumped Joe and he went to prison. My man and I regularly go to Canada, through the Buffalo border crossing.

And I've never gotten into a car with a stranger again.