Heatseeking Sigmon and I drove to Canada based on a five minute, sleep deprived conversation. Now, we’re having sleep deprived conversations with border inspectors.
After being seated for the largest chunk of eight hours, and being wrestlers, we limped our way into the inspection station.
Once inside, we walked up to the counter.
“Move back behind the line, sirs. I will call you up.” A skinny, dark complected man, asserted.
We stepped back behind a white tape-line that neither of us had seen. As soon as we did: “Okay. You may step forward.”
We stepped forward.
“Give me your passports.”
We handed over our passports.
“You...” The boardman said, pointing at me. “...Go have a seat.”
I went and had a seat on one of the many empty, bolted-down, grey, hard-plastic chairs.
The border station was small, cold, and quiet. Three inspectors were on duty. One at the window, one interrogating Sigmon, and one who appeared to be watching YouTube videos on his computer monitor.
Because it was so quiet and echo-y, I could hear every question and corresponding answer between the borderman and the Sigman.
“Why are you trying to enter Canada?” The borderman asked. I didn’t like the way he said “trying”; as if it was already a decidedly failed attempt.
“We’re here to wrestle. We’re on a week long tour. We won’t be making much money. We’re doing it for the exposure. We-” Sigmon rambled before being cut off by the borderman.
“So! You’re making money?” The borderman inquired.
“Well, sort of. Is that okay? It’s not much. Mostly just to pay for the trip up. We really just-” Sigmon had started to sound like a Jim Cornette promo: fast, frantic, and high-pitched, but was interrupted, again.
“Who’re you staying with?” The interrogator asked.
This question made me a little nervous, because we honestly didn’t know; we were told, “The guy you’re staying with has a couple spare rooms and likes to party. Here’s his address: …”
I cringed at the idea of Sigmon answering, “We’re staying with a guy that we have never met and don’t know his name. Though, we’re quite assured that he likes to party.” Which sounds perfectly normal to independent wrestling road vikings, but understandably insane to perfectly normal folks.
Instead Sigmon lied, “We’re staying with the promoter: Danny, the first night, but then we’re going-”
The border man cut in with, “Go. Have a seat.” Then he pointed at me, again, and said, “You. Up here.”
As Siggy and I were walking past each other, it was eerily familiar to me: like my buddy coming out of the principal's with a face of “we’re f___ed, dude” and me giving a half-smiled, reassuring look back of “no worries, I got this sh__”.
As I got to the counter, I folded my arms on it and looked the borderman in the eyes. He looked down at my arms, frowned, then looked hard into my eyes.
I had expected the same line of question, but he started with, “So, who is Donny?”
“Danny…” I said, with a good-try tone, before continuing in my usual humble-respect voice. “...Is the promoter we’re wrestling for.” Then added “He has promised us a place to stay and a little money for wrestling.”
“How do you know him?” The borderman asked.
“We’re both professional wrestlers.” I answered, which was better than “I don’t, really; just kinda from Facebook and email.”
“I’m done talking to you. Go. Have a seat beside your friend.” The borderman told me.
The walk back to sit beside Siggy seems eerily familiar; my partner in crime looking at me like “think we’re gonna be alright” and me looking back like “I don’t know, I may’ve f___ed us”.
Instead of leaving the customary space between seats, between men, in empty seating arrangements, I sat right beside Sigmon. Partly because I wanted to be able to talk quietly among ourselves and partly because I wanted to snuggle up to his warms; because it was colder than the borderman's icy stares he was giving us over his computer monitor, while we whispered like gossiping pre-teens.
The borderman clicked away at his computer. I assumed he was running background checks. Sigmon and I waited.
The borderman clicked away at his computer. I assumed he was checking the promotion’s website. Sigmon and I waited.
The borderman clicked away at his computer. I knew he was watching one of my promos for the tour because I heard myself scream, “Greetings, grappling fans!”, before he muted it with a look like a couple of ill mannered gentlemen had just flopped their gravity+time=well-lengthed scrot’s into his half-eaten bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats.
The borderman continued to click away at his computer. I had run out of assumptions. Sigmon and I continued to wait and had begun to shiver from the combination of being colder-than-hell-when-the-USA-Men’s-National-Ice-Hockey-team-crushes-the-Canadians-at-the-2018-Olympics-666-to-0, and as nervous as a plate of poutine around a ravenous ‘rassler.
It was taking so long that one of the other borderfolk came and looked over our guy’s shoulder, at his monitor, and said, “They seem alright, eh? Just let ‘em go.”
Our guy looked at the other guy like he had just suggested he bring his mother to Booty Shake Monday’s at the World Famous Palomino Club, of which Siggy and I were running late for.
So, he continued to type away and we continued to wait.
Not completely unlike how I will continue to type away, while you wait (hopefully) for part 4.