Strange Tequila At the border crossing from Mexico to the US, I stood with my filthy backpack in front of a customs guard. He scrutinized my face without expression, and said, “Will you please take that off and place it on the table in front of me?” Instead of terror, I felt a Yoda-like calm, though I knew my two tequila bottles filled with psilocybin honey would soon emerge into the harsh desert light, clutched inside the guard’s imperious grasp. He extracted the first bottle from the damp underbelly of my dirty underwear and squinted at the grainy bits of mushroom heads and stems floating in viscous soup. “This is strange tequila,” he said. “Yes,” I agreed. “It was a gift.” Technically, that was true. A man had given me the bottles at a Palenque campground, because he liked my energy. I left before I had the chance to prove him wrong. My energy was like a two-year-old child’s crayon drawing. Yet now, stoic and self-assured. The border guard shoved the bottle back inside my pack and pulled out my cannabis pipe. “I suppose this is also a gift,” he said, but his voice was gentle, inquisitive. “I hope you haven’t used it.” “Of course not,” I said. “I just like the way it looks.” He nodded, thrust the pipe back into my pack and smiled. “You can go now.” I hoisted the load across my shoulders, gave him a jovial wave, and strolled back into the country of my birth. A pockmarked sign above read, “Welcome to Texas.” So many miles to go until Wisconsin. Good thing I still had my strange tequila.