I had been staring at my screensaver for the past twenty minutes. Literally waiting for anything to happen, when our station rookie and receptionist came waddling in and brought a heavenly distraction from nothing apart from crappy coffee and mute telephones.

‘Sir. Agent Scott?’

I slung one leg lazy over the other, giving me enough propulsion to turn my chair so I could face Rookie Gomez. Our very own coffee making, telephone answering and always helpful tiny six foot eight, skinnier than a beanstalk, clown sized feet and dumber than a fencepost Gomez, that everybody loved to make fun of. Poor sod. I looked at him standing there with his droopy shoulders, sour cream complexion, heaven only knows how he’s managed that in the New Mexico sun, and permanently pursed lips that scream: “Mouth Breather.”

He had come in a few weeks ago with a smile so wide, I thought he had turned into a letter box. When asked, “what’s up”, he had coughed up the most absurd notion: He alleged he finally had sex.

Since nobody believed him, we did the only sensible thing a bunch of agents can do when confronted with dubious truths. We grabbed him, duck taped him to a chair and short of waterboarding him, used our combined interrogation skills on him till he threw up.

His answers, although consistent, lacked substance and conviction in my opinion.

After thirty minutes of verbal torture, using bad cop and more bad cop interrogation techniques, Agent Malone had asked him:

“So, you say you had sex? With a woman. Not your mother. Born Female. Still female. Identifies as female and not an attack helicopter, under 65, still breathing, conscious, not under the influence of alcohol and legal to drive, and most importantly consenting. Is that what you're saying?”

Rookie Gomez had responded with an earth shattering, unconvincing: “Yes”, which had barely fluttered over his chapped lips between short, shallow breaths. No, I was still not convinced and had no idea if this kid would ever make it through his probationary year in the United States Border Patrol Agency. Goodness knows, if it wasn’t for his father pulling strings, he’d never have passed the physical. How is something that skinny going to drag their two-hundred-pound shot partner out of the line of fire? I keep wondering. Let alone tackle a suspect to the ground without begging the perp to lie down quietly with a …” pretty please”.

Then again, I was a rookie too. In my own right. Twelve good years in the CPD. Two more shit ones. And six months of political hell before I pulled the string and my parachute opened over a field of figurative landmines. Nobody wants a “has been” ex-military, ex-CPD certifiable numbskull. So, I went back to the Academy. The Border Patrol Agency Academy. And low and behold, probably because the USBP academy has a 0.01 star rating on TrustPilot, I was accepted. Then the haunting footsteps of someone I pissed off in the past came knocking and I was assigned to a Agency Border Post that was wiped out when someone placed his coffee cup on the map. Antelope Wells, New Mexico. Where major bowel movements make the six o’clock news.

‘Rookie Gomez, you and I went to the Academy together, I am not an Agent. I’m a Rookie, like you. You call me Officer Scott or Brad. Now, how can I help?’

Rookie Gomez looked around with wide eyes, direction Reception. The stuffy, sun baked, air churning, sauna we call Reception. Where the walls are splattered with blood and you hope never, ever to drop a pastrami sandwich on the floor. The rats around here also have a three second rule. “If you don’t pick it up in three seconds, it's MINE!”. He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder as he stammered.

‘There, there is somebody in Reception.’

Good old Gomez. “Somebody”, really? No gender? General description? A name? Pink? Blue? Small and grey? With antennas. Well, maybe one day.