Paul in Idaho

I begin my shift in the drive through of an abandoned bank turned border patrol station and ever so calmly push papers around the desk, hitting a key or two on the keyboard. At no point during my previous three days of this unexplained and unnecessary assignment have I looked engaged in the work. I am not going to start now.

I wait for Old Tom to shuffle back towards the other end of the office space that contains a folding table, particle board bookshelves with heavy manuals, and access to the kitchen. Once the shuffling gets considerably distant, a circumstance of bone spurs, I quickly log into the government issued, yet, state of the art, computer. I do a time check in the corner of the monitor, 11:52 am, and a manual login, Friday, February 14, 2048.

The building, commandeered by Idaho for its drive through feature decades ago, underwent a series of road closures, repaving, and diverging of traffic, a story Old Tom can tell you in detail. Now a complex government stronghold, it tracks everyone that passes through. The station works to record all tourists from the Northwest by car, forcing townies and tourists to slowly, I mean slowly, coming across from Oregon into Idaho. Today they make their way from route 26, or East Main, through a curved sidewalked path that slows to the drive through window that is generally manned by Old Tom, and now, more recently, me.

Of course, Old Tom is sore, thinking I will take his post.

Crap, I mutter, INCORRECT PASSWORD prompts the screen. Deep breath, slow down. Time check is 11:52 am.

Old Tom is curmudgeonly, but hardly replaceable, not to say that there is a line of young men, or woman, waiting to man, or person, the least eventful border station on the Western side of Idaho. The Boise airport is definitely a more attractive position and offers more job opportunities and perks. Most job seekers are not looking to work in sleeper towns in exile. Also, the airport lets you do searches, here its just creepy surveillance.

On the folding table is an old cathode ray tube television built into a large wooden box. To be funny Old Tom painted on knobs and speakers and likes to tell people the whole contraption is decoration. I heard him say this to my supervisor who introduced us when dropping off my paperwork. It isn’t though, decoration that is. He builds electronics from old and used parts. Has done it for decades. As soon as the supervisor left, Old Tom told me he had been taking apart LCD and LED screens years ago but liked making older parts work, until the government told him to stop. That’s when he decided to work for the government and still make his electronics. Win win, he said. I just shrugged.

My arrival announces it is about lunchtime, so Old Tom turns on the CRT screen, from a switch in the back. It slowly glows to a bright green for about 10 seconds before an actual color picture appears. As usual two actors playing FBI agents scrutinizing a scene about aliens or odd occurrences will appear. It turns out the CRT television includes an external DVD drive in the box. He’s been watching Season 3 of this series since I got here.

The border patrol job is to primarily wave people past, especially regulars from the community, or process registration for out of state vehicles and visitors. Nothing that needed two men. So, I could see how Old Tom was not too happy with having additional staff after almost 19 years alone.

“There goes Judy and John,” Old Tom hollers from behind me as he recognizes the only car on the road speeding west on route 29, “We’ll see them on Monday, and have to hear about how much higher taxes are in Oregon and the grandkids are learning, but not going to church, or some shit,” he mumbles the last part.

I look over my shoulder, Old Tom is heading into the kitchen, I turn back to my monitor, slowly, I tell myself. With an exhale I successfully sign in and bring up yesterday’s scans. I hear Old Tom shuffling into the kitchen; he’s getting ready to heat up his homemade cooking in the shockingly clean microwave. I have never met any man that had a microwave this clean. Keeping my eyes on the door, I could hear him count out the allotted time for the meal, “3… 5… 0,” then his footsteps shuffle in the direction to the cabinet as the microwave geared up to heat his home cooked meal.

I quickly type Grace’s license plate memorized from her arrival the day before and pull up the incomplete file of her car scans. One more glance at Old Tom, I decide I have three minutes and change, I turn back to review her scans. All out of state, new vehicle registrations must be processed within 24 hours or I get flagged. Time check 11:56, shit.

Hoping Old Tom doesn’t show up to look over my shoulder, he has never shown up to look over my shoulder once, I hit the keys to proceed with appropriate access and complete my review. What most people do not understand about this rundown government building, with its yellowed stained bullet proof glass and a Petri dish of mildew collecting in the corners, is the cameras and high-end scanners hidden in the walls and bushes surrounding the building. More so the scanners along the amusement park like driveway that turns and twists till you get to Old Tom who generally waves you bye. While you are directed through the longest 30 seconds of your life on a 10 mile per hour drive, you are not only treated to a friendly old man at the window, but we are taking detailed pictures of the inside of your car, and sometimes you.

And Grace, she was clearly sneaking something in. There were too many fuzzy sections in her trunk, likely Faraday bags, I think. The items look placed in a way that looks like it’s supposed to hide something. I am not sure what it is, electronics? She is hiding something, either way, there’s enough questionable images that she should be flagged.

I can’t let that happen, I determine.

While spinning my wheels about the scans, I hear Old Tom cough and almost jump out of my seat. Turning my head, Old Tom was only poking his head out of the kitchen to catch a bit of his show and having one of those old man throat clearings. I can still hear the microwave continuing to tick down.

He’s fine, focus, I sigh.

I drop my chin to my chest and take a deep breath. I can smell her lingering on the shirt I refused to remove last night and wore under my work uniform. Her thin long fingers clutching my shirt, her deafening sounds and her round brown eyes holding mine as I made her fly. I uncontrollably scribble her Pocatello address on scrap paper, not so subtly copying it from her details captured in the computer files. I’m facing towards the door to Old Tom, but my back is on the camera that tracks employees at the desk. I’m not all together sure I can get the information I need. I may have another minute and a few seconds to spare. Taking a photo on my phone would be worse, as it’s government issued. So, there is no quick way to do this other than memorizing or writing it down and tossing it in the garbage later.

Remember to get a phone, you are clearly going to call this woman. You need another phone, I think.

Getting back to Grace’s info, I am reviewing …, ok, who am I kidding, deleting her data. I know all data is archived, in case a visitor to the great state of Idaho gets arrested or they post activist statements or activity on their socials. My cursory search before I met Grace for dinner, told me she is not online, like at all. She has a couple of properties that are in a trust. The properties are not anything special. No one, fingers crossed, is going to flag me for not saving obscure files on a girl in her thirties traveling from Oregon with California plates and in that truck. Head in my hands I sigh, or will they? And what is up with that truck? Was it a good call to drive a Toyota 4Runner from the 1990s in the middle of Oregon nowhere near civilization?

The beeping from the microwave slams me like a kid in a math quiz and I am filling in the answer “c” for all the empty spaces. Time check 11:59, shit, I got distracted!

God! breathe, I tell myself.

Old Tom goes to grab the hot plate with a rag, and I can hear him dropping a metal fork. If I weren’t so rightfully paranoid, I’d think he is giving me a heads up that he is heading back. He shuffles from the kitchen and makes it across the small space to the folding table to watch his show. Something about dark matter and radiation today. I am clearly looking more suspicious because I haven’t niggled him about today’s ridiculous plot.

All I can think about is her, her in that skirt, messily pulled above her hips, her smell. All I can think about is needing her, touching her again. Hearing her panting, her fingers in my hair, keeping her safe.

I delete her files.

Overwhelmed, I began to understand what I need to do to get things done. I drop my head into my hands with a moan, finding my palms are pools of sweat. Pulling away, I look down at my hands and knock the monitor loudly, because, Jesus, I sigh, I am huge.

Old Tom scoffs.

A slow turn of my neck to look back and he is still engrossed in the show, but I am no fool, he is laughing at me. The show is not that funny, well, at least not this season. He continues to fork food into his mouth.

I glance at the note in my hand, noticing the ink beginning to bleed because of the moisture on my palms. There is no one driving down the path to Idaho, there really haven’t been, until her. Time check 12:00 pm, I’m going to throw up.

“Going to the bathroom,” I say standing and briskly walking towards Old Tom, then head past our office to the toilets on the other side of the old bank.

“Huh,” Old Tom mutters, without looking up, “you send yesterday’s scans?”

I need to find a way to see her again, safely, thinking the scrap of paper stuffed in my back pocket won’t be enough.

Realizing Old Tom spoke, “What, yea, I’ll do it when I get back.” I choke out, hand on my mouth.

Last night she joked about coming to Idaho to be a smuggler. She said it in an old-timey voice. Like she was coming to Idaho to get rich mining silver, and I thought, I want to kiss that mouth. I want to kiss that silly voice. But I knew I saw Faraday bags. I know she wasn’t kidding about smuggling. I know she may be the one to help me, if I can help her, as long as I can control myself around her.