Desperado

A poster on a storefront, the picture of a wanted man
He had a reputation spreading like fire throughout the land
It wasn't for the money; at least it didn't start that way
It wasn't for the running, but now he's running everyday

Five minutes drive north of Tombstone, close to the junction of the Jefferson Davis Memorial Highway and state route 82, I pass a roadside sign with a warning: PREPARE TO STOP AHEAD. Traffic cones either side of me squeeze the lane down to the width of a truck. As I top the summit of a long upward incline I see an orange trailer on the nearside verge about five hundred meters distant. A US flag hangs from a high white pole, with barely enough breeze to cause a stir in the harsh heat of mid-day. Moving at the regulation 15mph speed limit I’m now close enough to read the words ‘US Border Patrol’ on the side of the two four wheel drive vehicles parked in the shade of a roadside shelter.

Up ahead, an officer is bending forward as he talks with the driver of a stationary Toyota through the open side window. The red brake lights flicker, then go off and the patrolman straightens up, motioning the car to move on with a sweep of his arm. He turns my way and beckons me forward. I switch off the radio and take my passport from the glove box, leaving it in my lap.

Despite the early afternoon temperature the officer is bareheaded, but his eyes are shielded behind aviator-style sunglasses. His uniform is pressed and sharp, his manner is loose and amiable. From a sideways glance he could pass for Brad Pitt. He drops down to meet me eye to eye.

‘Hello Sir, what brings you to highway 80 on this magnificent afternoon?’

I look for a sense of irony. There is none. He means it.

‘Oh, I’m just passing through. Came down from Willcox to Douglas this morning, then on through Bisbee and Tombstone’.

‘Did you cross into Mexico when you were in Douglas?' he says, his teeth white against his glowing tan.

‘No, I didn’t have the time’.

“OK Sir, can I see some ID please?’

‘Certainly'. I hand over my passport.

‘Right, you’re a citizen of the United Kingdom', he says, perfect teeth set free once more. ‘Outstanding’.

I have no answer and can only smile meekly as he flicks through the pages until he finds the stub of the green visa waiver form that I completed on the plane coming over. Satisfied, he moves on to the last page, then, with an elaborate magician’s flick of the wrist, hands the passport back to me.

‘Where are you off to next?’ he says, grinning like a college boy out on a spree.

‘Up to Tucson, then Phoenix’, I say, putting my passport back in its place and shutting the door with a slam that has more force than I intend.

‘Well you be sure to enjoy the rest of your stay here in the United States of America. Drive safe and a have safe flight home when it’s time’, he says standing up, his face out of sight.

I take my foot off the brake and ease forward, ‘Thanks, I will’, I say, raising my arm in a gesture of farewell. I keep my speed down until the roadblock is gone from my rearview mirror and only then do I press my foot to the accelerator and turn up the volume on the radio.

The highway is my legacy
On the highway I will run
In one hand I've a Bible
In the other I've got a gun
Well, don't you know me
I'm the man who won
Woman don't try to love me
Don't try to understand
A life upon the road is the life of an outlaw man