a i m l e s s

Disguised in her black hoodie , barely-slept, emotional and unkempt, she approached Immigration.  Her walk exposed her slightly cocky bravado.  She strode to the desk and greeted the official with mock-warmness.

It was her third visit to England.  First backpacking, then a few years later working with a boyfriend at festivals.  Her first passport recently expired, the fresh clean pages of the new book stuck together as she flipped to her photo.  The old one was better, she thought, I look tired.   The man behind the desk held her there for quite awhile, asking questions about her bank account, her return flight, and her recently renewed passport.  Her annoyance was apparent in her short answers and even shorter attention span.  The two bloody marys on the plane didn’t help; neither did the sleepless flight or the big fight with her boyfriend prior to boarding.

Somehow, she was convinced it was all his fault.  He wouldn’t come to the airport to pick her up.  He was too tired, too busy, too important, or so it seemed.  She grumbled and grunted, though her heart felt sore and a little droopy.

She decided not to tell the officer about this man.  She didn’t have his phone number written down, or his address.  She did have his mom’s information, so she strung out a story about meeting her at the Glastonbury festival the previous year.  The thing is, the officer kept asking questions: how old is your friend?  Does she live in an apartment?  Does she have any pets?  What’s her phone number?  What is your itinerary?  What is her occupation?

Oh-oh.  Panic and lying ensued.  She wasn’t a very good liar, but what to do?  The officer didn’t miss the way she searched into the bare corners of the room for the answers to his questions.  He sat her on the bench for hours, and hardly offered her a glance.  She could imagine her backpack spinning round and round the conveyor.

Finally, a female immigration official approached her.  She was escorted to pick up her pack, and then through a locked door that opened with a security code.  The official wouldn’t make eye contact at all.  Her heels clicked on the waxed floor, as they made their way through the maze of hallways.

She stood shocked as the officer dissected her personal belongings.  The official disemboweled each bag, intensely inspecting certain items and carelessly scattering others across the metal table.  Pack that.  Open this.  The official paged through her journal, pausing to scoff at pages with colored-pencil drawings.  The girl got a sour taste in her mouth and shrank in her seat a bit.

The official confiscated a card pressed between pages of her journal, written on the plane to a friend in jail.  She couldn’t remember exactly what she wrote, but had a bad feeling about it.  She felt violated and scared, eyes widely awaiting what would become of her.

After being fingerprinted and photographed she was led to a locked room.  She must wait here to be questioned again.  How long? she asked.  Anywhere from an hour to 24 hours, stated the official, there are some apples on the table if you get hungry.  She sat on the plastic seat chained to the floor, and felt the impulse to grab her passport and make a run for it.  She created the scene in her mind; pummeling officials with apples, swinging plastic seats over her head, screaming, roundhouse kicking, and making a big ol’ ruckus.

Arms folded, she attempted a half-assed stomp in her slippery leather sandals.  It wasn’t even close to the effect she was looking for.  She despised everything about the room, and let the hatred spread to the officers, her boyfriend, her country, polluted waterways, GMOS, and politics.  Observing her surroundings, she couldn’t decide which she hated more; the watercolor Bob Marley wall-hanging or the Seeking Asylum? poster in 12 languages hanging beside it.

She was led to a tiny room by a young officer with crooked teeth and a deceptive smile.  He took out his smashed screen iPhone and touched ‘record’ on the voice recorder app.  This is what it is like to be a fugitive, she thought.  She had never been incarcerated before.  Will they arrest me? The new officer asked all the same questions in his syrupy sweet voice.  She carefully strung her story as before, trying to tell the truth whenever she could.

Improv wasn’t her forte, and her story didn’t make sense at all.  This officer obviously wasn’t buying it.  Her cheeks were red hot, and the more she struggled to explain the more entangled she became.  With no cracks to leak the guilt, she started to feel her own heart fill to capacity and sink.  Black ink swirled in her mind.  The black first held its ribbon of color, but soon, became the abyss.  All clarity was gone.  The space between her clavicles felt like it was badly bruised.  Her lower gut turned inside out, moaning and groaning.  Her body was twitchy, and as she swallowed the lump of regret that seemed stuck in her throat.

Eternities later, in the holding room, a thought bubbled to the surface of her mind: I’m a yoga instructor, I should breathe.  She settled into her seat, closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and exhaled completely.  Heart beats slowed, breathing softened, as mind began to clear.  Clarity ensued; she started to see the reality of what was actually happening.  What am I doing? she thought.  Just tell the man the truth, you idiot!

The officer allowed her to make her confession, and thanked her afterwards.  She tearfully told him why she had lied, how it was a silly mistake.  His smile turned upside down as he spoke.  You lied to an immigration official and signed your name to it.  I have send you back to the US.

And so it goes, they deported her.  Not because she shouldn’t be in the UK, but because she lied.  She was stunned.  She managed a hopeful expression, and asked if there was anything else she could do?  The officer wasn’t smiling, so they both let the question slide into the sound of papers rustling, and disappear into silence.

As she awaited her return flight to Newark, her mind ran around in circles, like a dog tied to a tree, tongue-hanging, panting, and barking its ass off.  She felt ashamed.  What a waste of an entire grand of her hard-earned cash to sit on a plane and sob between strangers.  She felt embarrassed, terrible, horrible, no-good, and very-bad.
Somehow, it always surprised her when her luck went awry.  She often felt karma’s breath on her neck, keeping a close watch.  If not karma, then something.

A devious and curious creature peeked into her consciousness every so often and she was known to deny common sense and act spontaneously.  There was a time she forged the date on her eurail pass in attempts to extend her ticket, and boarded the wrong train in Italy and spent hours lost, confused, and backtracking.  Nothing is worse than backtracking.  Another time she lazily left her car windows open and someone snatched her computer.  Photos, memories, files… gone.  Poof.  Or the time she made fun of a friend for being overly cautious with his pack, what a traveling newbie she thought.  Moments later, her own wallet was swiped (by children in broad daylight.)  Each time she tried to cut corners the universe was there, delivering flat bicycle tires, disease scares, and addictive smoking habits to teach an important lesson.  She kept forgetting to remember.

The message was clear: don’t be a dick.  As the jersey-bound plane lifted off, inspirational quotes got her tears to slow down.  The gears began to unstick themselves.  The universe always delivers.  Everything happens for a reason.  What goes around comes around.  Be grateful you have legs.  Money is replaceable. She drew some deep, wavering breaths.

Alas, this emotional ambush came into focus.  She gathered her soul-diers to discuss strategy.  In a quiet voice she reminded them to stand tall, to breathe, to keep their eyes peeled for road signs on the ever-winding path, and most importantly to deeply investigate this poignant moment that stressed her to the point of irrational lying.

Hey melis, remember that time you got deported?  How funny was that? I’m sure I’ll be laughing like crazy, someday.  Oh, the idiotic things you do in your 20s.  Oh, the stupidity and grandeur of youth.