In late May I traveled south to Seattle early on a rainy Thursday morning. Took the 9 a.m. Amtrak bus from Central Station here in Vancouver. Yes, North America’s oldest, most decorated passenger railroad also operates a legitimate bus-line.

Why? Who knows.

My Amtrak bus journey was uneventful. I sat in one of the front seats and dozed. Watching the windshield wipers work always transfixes me and makes my mind wander into cozy corners.

The only dramatic moment happened at the border. Everyone had to exit the bus and bring their belongings and carry-ons through immigration. This is a ritual that first involves a Dr. Suess-style questioning (“Where are you going? Where have you been? I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them Sam-I-Am.”); and, second, involves putting the carry-ons through an X-ray machine.

You should know at the outset that I had a pair of apples stowed in my shoulder bag. You should also know that I neglected to tell the two guards stationed at the X-ray machine about the apples. I honestly did this somewhat inadvertently. (More on this in a second.)

“LOOK AT THIS, FRANK,” the uniformed woman behind the counter said loudly, not only for Frank’s ears but also obviously for mine. She pointed theatrically at her computer screen. “I ALREADY SEE AN APPLE.”

“First apple of the day and it’s not even noon yet, Doris,” Frank answered. “Going to be one of those blue-ribbon days.”

Doris hauled my bag from the mouth of the X-ray machine and slapped it down on the stainless steel counter in front of me. She did this dismissively, like the bag wasn’t a bag at all now, but a disgusting object that I was forcing her to deal with.

Doris stood back and crossed her arms. She let out a theatrical sigh. “OPEN THE BAG, SIR,” she said.

I unfastened the buckles. And there, right on top of my clothing, were the two apples.

“WELL, WELL, WELL,” Doris said to her partner. “WHAT DO YOU KNOW, FRANK.”

“Looks like Colonel Mustard did it in the library with the candlestick,” Frank said.

Doris turned her grey eyes towards me. “DIDN’T I JUST ASK YOU APPROXIMATELY EIGHT SECONDS AGO IF YOU HAD ANY FRUITS OR VEGETABLES IN YOUR LUGGAGE?” she asked. “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME ABOUT THESE?”

“Easy there, Doris,” Frank said quietly. “You’re up around 10 right now, but we need you back down around six.”

This is what I told Doris: I told her that I’d forgotten about the apples, which was mostly true. I’m in the habit of bringing an apple or two with me in my carry-on whenever I fly. The apples have always sailed right through airport security, i.e. the most rigorous of security measures that we have. I’ve been doing the apples-in-my-carry-on routine for more than a decade now. The two things I need when I travel are fruit and water, to keep HQ operating smoothly. With apples in my carry-on, I already have 50-percent of my needs met when I land at my destination.

But terrestrial travel, I was learning in this moment, has more rigorous standards than air travel. Apples weren’t allowed to cross the border down here on solid ground.

I attempted to relay this information to Doris in a genial way. Doris wasn’t having it.

“IT’S A $300 FINE. DID YOU KNOW THAT, SIR? DID YOU?” She grabbed a dull, grey, government-issued pamphlet off the counter and opened it to a page where it explained, in fine, government-caliber print, that fruits and vegetables were definitely not supposed to cross the border.

She handed the pamphlet to me, assuming that I’d want my own personal copy. I took the pamphlet reluctantly, and I peered at it, as if it were a document that contained magical answers to many of life’s mysteries.

Then Doris picked up a trash can and held it out to me, the same way that teachers held out trash cans in high school when they’d caught me chewing gum. “RIGHT HERE,” she said. She waggled the can a bit.

The truth is that it’s tough to get decent apples during this season, here in early summer. When you find good apples like these, you don’t know if you’re going to find apples that are this good again for months. I pulled them out of my bag and tossed them into the waggling trash can.

Thoomp. Thoomp.

Then I buckled up my bag. I pulled it over my shoulder and turned to go. “AREN’T YOU FORGETTING SOMETHING?” Doris asked. She shook the pamphlet in my direction, flapping it frantically, like it was a moth that was determined to annoy me. I took the pamphlet because I had to take it.

“NEXT TIME, IT’S $300. YOU THINK ABOUT THAT,” Doris said.

Before I stepped back on the bus, I spotted a trash can near the curb. I somewhat discreetly deposited the government pamphlet here, right through the can’s swinging door. When I did this, I caught a glimpse of the contents of the can. Inside were at least a half-dozen copies of the same exact pamphlet.