I learned a hard lesson recently: my devotion to my buddies is not as Hardy Boy-rock solid as I immaturely imagined it might be.

I recently drove from Thunder Bay to Edmonton. After I met two Toronto-bound photographers there, we decided the drive to Hogtown would be more tolerable through the States, and we made plans to drop into Chicago en route.

This being our neo-liberalized home and native land, and them being photographers (I don’t know what it is with photographers-increased ocular blood flow must enhance darkroom acuity) they claimed to have a quantity of a certain substance on board which ameliorates the stresses of long-duration motor vehicle operation. These stresses must have been great indeed, as copious quantities of the substance were consumed from Edmonton right on down to the North Dakota border. I, of course, fully abstained to maintain clearheaded journalistic acumen.

Until we entered The Land of IHOP, our little ’91 Topaz was infused with unwashed fraternal camaraderie. Sure, there were disagreements over how many consecutive plays of It’s Getting Hot in Herre are acceptable and some protests broke out over foul gaseous emissions, but smoldering mounds of substance covered up the smell in a pleasant, herbaceous way, so no biggie there.

But the greasy braids of our companionship began to unravel as we pulled into the inspection line at the 49th parallel. We were not surprised that the customs agent, after one look at our reddened eyes, demanded that we pull into the inspection bay in all haste.

Waiting in line, we squabbled in hushed tones over whether we had expunged every last crumb of substance from each conceivable nook and cranny, a paranoia-inducing process which was made all the more so by the hasty methods by which said expunging took place about a half-hour earlier.

Things hit the fan when Long-Haired Photographer produced a packet of cigarette papers while emptying his pockets, which he had forgotten (regrettably, a side-effect) to remove during the expunging. The crew-cut customs agent, no older than 29 and decked out in a surprisingly well-cut jumpsuit, who was no dupe when it came to substance-ingestion paraphernalia, informed us that if any substance were discovered in the course of what would now surely be a very thorough inspection, we would be very sorry we ever crossed the North Saskatchewan. All three of us were invited to sit in what was basically a jail cell with an open door.

While Dubya’s Finest picked through our 15 pieces of luggage with the kind of fine-toothed comb you use to clean out a regular fine-toothed comb, the mood in our room turned sour. While exhaling loudly and tapping my foot and participating in forced-cheer conversation, I was mentally preparing to plead that any found substance belonged strictly to Short-Haired Photographer, who I had met only the previous day and was just now cultivating a strong distaste for. Hell, I was willing to rat out Long-Haired, who’s been my friend for years-but on the hard stone bench, his ponytail looked greasy and his beard criminal and how could I even think of going to jail for someone that sketchy, despite all the jams he’s rescued me from?

But, before you could say fermented raisin prison booze, the crew-cut dude popped his head inside our cell and gave us the all clear. While shakily re-loading our trunk, flooded with the kind of relief you get when the doctor calls to say he mixed up the diagnosis sheets, I was already telling myself I’d do just about anything for my photo-snapping pals. But later, zooming past South Dakotan cornfields, a wave of self-loathing washed over me as I realized how fickle my alliances are. That is, until I noticed the beady stares of my disheveled companions and figured they would’ve done exactly the same to me, had incriminating substance been discovered within my Agassi-style neon-pink tennis duffel.

My central revelation was that platonic relationships are as comforting as they are because the level of commitment to your chums is so labile, especially for commitment-o-phobes like myself. Terrible, I know. But it’s queerly satisfying, in a karmic way, to know your buddies are just as willing to screw you over in a pinch. It’s just too bad it took a gun-totin’ sheriff clad in anal-grade latex gloves to force this realization.