Here’s an image for you to ponder: a child sitting on a bench. The scuffed Buster Brown oxfords move rhythmically back and forth. Hands gripping the edge of the seat, arms stiff. It’s a warm fall day in the Mexican border patrol station at the U.S. border at San Diego. The child looks around the room for the 100th time. Nothing has changed in the last hour or two. The bright sun, just outside, is getting lower in the sky.

I sat on that bench for the better part of a Sunday afternoon. I was 8 years old. I had been brought by my mother and Uncle Sid for a visit to Mexico. We had spent the previous summer in Mexico, but that was a supposed to be a holiday; this was business. I knew that. My role was to be quiet and smile and do what I did best: look innocent.

Why we had gone to Mexico the summer before, I didn’t know. It was an odd trip. First of all, we went with my uncle. We never travelled with him. He was always too busy. Second, we had a passenger. His name was Aaron. He was the nephew of our neighbours and was a student at Harvard. He was a Mexican citizen, but his parents were German Jews who had come to Mexico to escape the Nazis. He was also a communist. We were to stay with his parents in Mexico City. Third, I was brought along even though my mother wasn’t too keen on me being exposed to many aspects of the Mexican culture. An example? We stopped at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. I went into the station to get a Coke, the only thing I was allowed to drink. When I came out a Mexican mother was breast-feeding her baby at the side of the building. “What’s she doing?” I asked my mum. “Look away, it’s disgusting,” she said.

Toward the end of our trip we had been taken to a silver factory in Taxco. It was owned by a relative of the people we were staying with in Mexico City (Aaron’s parents). They made beautiful silver products from bracelets to bowls. The owner was very proud of his goods. He wanted to be able to sell them in the U.S., but didn’t want to pay the tariff. Since I was a quiet child, people tended to forget that I was there and would say things that they mightn’t have ordinarily. The owner of the factory was talking to my mother and uncle about a partnership. They would smuggle his silver output into the U.S. and he would give them a healthy percentage of the take.

We had lived for a time in El Paso, Texas. My mother had struck up a friendship with one of the U.S. border guards there, Chuck. He was now working at the Tijuana/San Diego border crossing. He was amenable to working a deal. Of course, he wanted some of the take. Whose take would it come out of? After some haggling, they agreed that they would share equally in paying off Chuck. So, the deal was done. Our boot was loaded up with beautiful Mexican silver and off we went. This had been the purpose of the trip. When we got to the border, there was Chuck. “Well, well, fancy meeting you here!” Waved through, easy peasy, we were on our way up the California highway.

From then on, the exchange would happen at a town near the sea of Cortez. I don’t know how many times the crossing was made. I don’t know any of the details until the day I was told that they were going to Mexico for the weekend and I was to come along. The silver was put in the boot, but this time there was something not quite right. Something about bribes to the authorities was mentioned. And then, some profits were unaccounted for. It seemed as if everyone were suspicious of one another. I sat in the back seat looking at my Donald Duck comics in Spanish, trying to figure out what was going on with Uncle Scrooge and Donald so I wouldn’t have to think about what was going on with Uncle Sid and mum.

Off we went toward the border, my mother driving. As we approached the checkpoint, Chuck wasn’t there. We couldn’t turn around because there were cars behind us. When the border guard saw our car, he motioned us forward and leaned in, “Anything to declare?” “No.” “How about we just look in your trunk?” That was it. We were taken over to the U.S. border station, and then back to the Mexican side. My mum and uncle disappeared into a room and I sat on the bench. People came and went. The day drew to a close. I sat on the bench. No one paid any heed to the kid on the bench, which was fine with me. As the sun was setting my mother and uncle came out of the room. We went to the car. Chuck was still nowhere to be seen as we approached the border crossing again. Tempers were short, I kept so quiet no one could even hear me breathe.

There had been no question of looking in the trunk. It was empty. I fell asleep on the backseat listening to the conversation up front. Maybe someone on the Mexican side hadn’t been paid off. Was it because of the missing money? Were the Mexicans cutting them out? Maybe Chuck was their new courier?

I knew what my position had been. The kid was cover. It was a family on holiday, not a bunch of smugglers. And I was just about the most innocent-looking kid around. I wore glasses and orthopaedic oxfords that were always scuffed. Furthermore, I was actually related, not some ringer kid hired for the occasion.

All of that was a long time ago. They’re all dead now. And me, I have a beautiful collection fine Mexican silver. Every time I polish it, I think back to that afternoon sitting on that bench in the border station just swinging my legs back and forth and waiting.