by IMAN K. F.
“Uhum,” he says, and not a word more.
I don’t remember how far we’d got, but Lucas has an upgraded memory. He’ll definitely remember. “Where were we?” I ask.
“You were talking about your teen years and the fact you didn't see much future sticking around or going to local colleges.”
“Right. So I didn’t really know exactly what I wanted when I was a teen. And when I turned eighteen it became a real struggle—I was clueless about what I wanted to do, but knew without a doubt that I had to leave New Persia. I’d looked into some college options abroad, but the chance of me getting in was almost zero with my grades, not to mention I didn’t even have the money to apply. Also, I would not have met the career experience and education requirements to qualify for working class immigrant. That left only two options: one was applying for immigration lotteries, and the other was entering the countries illegally. That second option absolutely terrified me, so I decided to take my chances with immigration lotteries, and at the time, the only country still doing immigration lotteries was the United States.”
I’m getting a headache from squinting in the sunlight, so push a button on the arm of my bed to close the curtains before I continue. “So I filled out the forms and applied, spent most of my savings from farm chores on lottery applications. I applied for two consecutive years, but had no luck. Entering my early twenties I was more desperate than ever to find some sort of direction. I’d decided I was only going to apply for the lottery one more time before moving on to something else. They say third time's the charm. You see, I was planning my life based on luck. Wasn’t that smart? ” I pause and say jokingly, “Nooot.”
I turn my head towards Lucas, a semi-smile on my face. He smiles back, which makes me grin even wider. Must be feeling less pressure since my recovery from my earlier sadness.
His smile emanates warmth. There’s so much power in smiling. I always wondered how nice it would be if smiling was as contagious as yawning. But maybe then they’d lose some of their value. Better to have them rarer, more precious gems. And while smiling is good, fake smiles have the opposite effect on me. Expressing genuine feeling; that’s where the true value lies. Somehow, not only we have all learned how to fake feelings, but we have made it into an expectation: I expect people to feel sorry for me, or laugh at my terrible jokes, even if they don’t know me.
I suddenly realize I’ve been quiet for some time while lost in thought. I resume where I left off. “Although third time’s the charm, I never applied for that third time. The very day before I was going to, I ran into my old friend, Cameron. We used to be neighbors, but his family had moved to the north side of the city, and we lost touch for several years. We chatted awhile—I asked about his family and his older brother, Cyrus. He mentioned Cyrus had left the country and had been in the U.S. for the past two years. At first I thought he meant Cyrus had either immigrated or become an international student, but it turned out he had crossed the borders illegally. Apparently, since then he’d become a U.S. citizen, and now had a good job.
“‘That's it,’ I thought to myself. ‘No more wasting time hoping to win the lottery.’ I asked for Cyrus’ contact information so I could find out how he had done it in more detail. It couldn’t have been that hard—Cyrus was neither bright nor hard-working. If he had found a way across the border, I definitely could too. Oh how naive I was.”
I pause, noticing Lucas shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He’s scratching at his arms, at his chest, and his cheeks are red. “It must be uncomfortable wearing the coverall and the mask,” I say, switching topics.
“It's not too bad,” he replies cheerfully. “The coverall is pretty light, and has a small temperature control system to help keep me cool. I am feeling a little bit itchy though.” He laughs sheepishly. “The air supply to the mask works pretty smoothly as well. I will admit, I’m not crazy about the gloves though. They're pretty tight, and make my hands sweaty.”
“Still I’m not sure why you wanted to put yourself through it,” I say, “wearing all that uncomfortable gear. We could have done this through Halo-Skype.”
“Holograms are great, but I wanted to be completely present to get the full picture. Don’t get me wrong, I think virtual meetings are practical and efficient, but I didn't want to miss any details in your case. In my opinion, being here in person helps us to fully engage all our senses, and allows for a deeper human connection,” he says assertively, leaning forward in the chair. “Your story is important. Others need to know about it, so I need to get it just right.”
I am not sure how to respond. I feel flattered—nice to know what I’ve done might matter.
“Well, It’s good to have you here,” I say.
But am I being sincere? Do I really care whether or not he’s here in person? Then again, he’s probably not being completely honest either. I mean, really, is my story that important? I can’t tell if he actually cares about me, or if he’s simply trying to earn himself a name by any means.
Wondering about whether or not our conversation is genuine leads my thoughts back to something I’ve been trying to work out for some time. All my time in this bed, I’ve had a lot of time to reflect about human nature. We are often selfish, to some extent, as humans, but sadly we’ve become so good at not to only hiding this fact, but also expressing it in such a way that pantomimes humbleness. We have mastered how to hide our true intentions, and instead mask them as doing others favors, even if the motives are completely selfish. Even more interesting, although others may sense such behavior, their expectations and preferences are still to experience that phony attitude from others, rather than the truth. No one wants to hear the harsh reality— we are okay with others being fake, as long as they are nice to us.
At this stage it is hard for me to distinguish Lucas’s true character. Nor should I care, really. It doesn't matter; regardless of his intentions, my story might help someone. I guess.
CHAPTER 2
The sound of Lucas clearing his throat snaps me out of my thoughts. ”Sorry, daydreaming.” I smile tiredly, and pick up where I’d left off. “After my conversation with Cameron, I contacted Cyrus right away. He told me how he’d found a human smuggling group through a friend of his. This illegal organization had reps in the former MEU, the U.S.—all around the world, and Cyrus informed me where I could find them in New Persia. Now, most would probably think groups such as this would be hanging out in secretive places, like dark allies or abandoned warehouses, but no; I had to meet them in a public library. The library was actually a great choice, as nowadays not many people go to them, except maybe the anti-technological individuals who still swear by the old-school ways of doing things.”
Lucas snorts. “Stuck in the past.”
I nod, smiling a little. “So Cyrus gives me a bunch of cryptic instructions, and I end up at our city's central library the very next Sunday at 12:30PM. I went down the Art History aisle, trying not to look suspicious, picked up a book, and pretended to read it with one hand in my pocket—just Like Cyrus had said. I didn’t have to wait long before a nice-looking girl approached and asked for the time. I answered ’5PM,’ even though it wasn’t yet 1. She checked to make sure no one was nearby, then passed me a booklet, told me to open it and point to the country I was interested in. Inside was a list of countries, along with their smuggling costs. High prices—most around $50k. But I didn’t hesitate, and put my finger on USA. She nodded, flipped a few pages, and asked me to read the instructions there.
“I saw bank account information for the money transfers, which she had me write down. And I had just two weeks before leaving Panama. I asked whether she needed my contact information, but she assured me they could find me if necessary. Then she smiled like we’d just had a casual conversation, and took the booklet back.”
Lucas is leaning forward in the chair, watching me intently. I take a deep breath, already dreading talking about what came next. “The next two weeks were the most di
fficult time of my life. I had to do… things. Things that I am not proud of.”
Thinking about what I’d done makes breathing harder, and saddens me deeply. I look at Lucas with watery eyes. “I never had strong religious or spiritual beliefs; I wasn’t a man of many values. The only thing I ever truly believed in was doing my best never to hurt anyone. What’s the point, if we are religious or spiritual, but our actions and behaviors still hurt others? So often these beliefs lead to even more prejudice, discrimination, rather than the gracious message most religions try to impart. True value, in my opinion, is not worshiping a higher power, but engaging in acts of kindness and respect. I always thought I could avoid hurting others, even if I have to lie. Just make sure that lie only affects me—no one else.”
I sigh, shake my head in disappointment. “A nice theory, but I failed miserably even in just that one belief. I made others suffer. And the crazy part is: I am not sure if I would act differently now given the same situation. Does that make me an evil person?”
Lucas frowns, eyes narrowing. “You hurt who? How?”
“I hurt my parents,” I say, hands clenching at my sides, the feeling of the bumps making me cringe, filling me with disgust as it did every time “I needed money—a lot of money. I had a couple thousand saved up, but that was only enough to buy a plane ticket to Panama. I needed another $50K to pay the smugglers, and on top of that I’d need a few more grand for initial living expenses. I had limited time and limited options. My parents had no savings, and even if they did, they wouldn’t have given it to me, to pay a group of smugglers. Let’s face it; I wouldn’t have trusted me with it either, not after I’d already wasted so much on immigration lotteries. So I approached a few of my friends, but they were even more broke than me. That left me with one option… I decided to steal our family heirloom necklace from my parents’ safe, and sell it.”
I watch his face closely, hoping to see some sort of reaction, how he’d judge me. To his credit, he didn’t as much as twitch.
“This necklace had been in our family for generations,” I continue. “Its beautiful green stone was stunning. My grandmother had given it to my mom, and she was most likely planning to pass it on to my wife at some point. If I ever got married. The necklace was my parents’ backup plan for rainy days, and although they never wanted to sell it, I thought the arrival of those rainy days was inevitable. Farm crop margins were low, and with no savings my parents probably would’ve been forced to sell it for retirement eventually, especially if I wasn’t there to support them.”
I pause as the guilt hits me again. Still no response from Lucas. “I know you probably think I’m a monster; how could I possibly do something like that to my parents?” I grit my teeth, angry at myself all over again. “But I was selfish and desperate. My dad had shared the safe combination with me so I could access it in case of emergencies. So I took the necklace, and went to some jewelers to determine market value on days my parents weren’t home, and put it back before they returned. After a few days of extensive research, I found a store willing to buy it for around $58K. Even more than I needed. The other offers weren’t even enough to pay the smugglers. I decided to sell the necklace just before leaving the country, so my parents wouldn’t find out until I’d already gone.” I’d always hated conflicts, and tried to avoid confrontation. So now that I think back, I am not surprised that I had come up with a such a plan—leaving my loved ones without the slightest heads-up or even a proper goodbye “Finally, I had a plan. I purchased my ticket to Panama, scheduled in less than a week. 5PM on Jan. 9th, 2053. I still remember the exact date. Maybe because the guilt was killing me.
“In those last days on the farm, I did everything I could to help: woke up at the crack of dawn, finished all the most labor intensive tasks. Anything to make me feel a bit better about myself.” I lick my lips, take another sip of water. “It didn’t work.
“I remember every moment of my last day there. Near the end of the day, I lay in the grass, facing the scarecrow I’d known since childhood, and watched the New Persia sunset for the last time. My mom came and lay down beside me. We chatted for a while until the sky was dark enough to see the stars. She told me how proud she was of the person I’d become, how times were tough but, working together, things would get better. I couldn’t help it. The tears started to trickle down, washing my face. And although it was dark, I could still see the scarecrow. I envied it for not having any feelings.” I blow out a heavy breath. “That was the longest night of my life.
“Despite my sense of guilt, I still proceeded with my plan. I had to leave. There was no future for me there—nothing. One day I’d make it up to them. Make them understand why. ”Still Lucas’ face is stony. I push on. “The next morning I pretended I wasn't feeling well, and needed to stay home and rest. I hugged my parents, held them both for a few seconds, capturing the moment with every part of me, and then said goodbye. I truly cherish those final hugs. I knew I might never see them again… or even speak with them.” To this day I still close my eyes sometimes and reminisce about those final moments. I remember every tiny detail: their voices, their scent, their loving eyes.
“I left them a letter, poured my heart out in it. I tried to justify my actions, hoping they could forgive me.
“Around noon, I left for the jewelry store with a duffle bag filled with some essential clothing and the necklace. When I walked in the seller recognized me. He was a skinny fellow, with a yellow shirt tucked into black jeans, belt wrapped tight around his waist to keep the pants in place. Black chest hair curled up at the collar, just tickling the bottom of a long neck. Dark, bored eyes stared at me through heavy lids. He kept licking at dry lips, and had one of those haircuts that looked like Elvis Presley. He was a smart guy; he’d noticed the duffle bag, and asked where I was planning to go afterwards. I came up with some lame explanation, but I’m certain he didn't believe me. He told me that he’d made a mistake and the price had changed. He could only offer me $48K. I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach—it wasn’t enough. I tried bargaining, but he wouldn't change his price. Must’ve known I was desperate, and maybe had a hunch I was planning to go away. Anyhow, his price just wouldn’t work for me, so I left the store furious, with no idea what I was going to do next. I’d only gone a few steps when the seller came after me, said his final offer was $53K. This was turning into a poker game, him bluffing and me trying to get a better price. I was never good at this game, and I didn't have much time left, so I accepted his offer.
“He wrote me a check and I headed for the bank right away. I did everything old-school to minimize any automated banking security flags. I transferred the $50K to the smugglers account and got the rest in cash. After the hold-up with the jeweler I was tight on time, but was lucky enough to get to the airport just a few minutes before cutoff time. I passed through security and boarded quickly and, before I knew it, wheels started to roll and then the plane lifted. I looked through the window, wondering to myself: was all this going to be worth it?”
“How did you feel at that moment?” Lucas asks. His eyes are glued to me, wider than usual, absorbed in my story.
“I had a mess of mixed feelings,” I reply. “On one hand, I felt all that guilt over what I’d done to my parents, but on the other I was feeling hopeful for a better future. I just wished I could get there without having to hurt anyone. I get that what I’d done was inhumane, but it was what I had to do to reach my goals. Actually, I would imagine that most of the time when people commit crimes, it isn’t because of some desire to break the law, but rather a result of desperation and helplessness. If a thief is wealthy, does he still prefer to steal? Probably not. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to justify cruel behavior or breaking the law, but in general I think humans have good intentions. They just get influenced by so many other needs that it’s not easy to do the right thing all the time. I know what I did was wrong, but I’m just saying—”
Lucas interrupts me. “I ge
t it. I am not judging you. I might have done the same if I were in your shoes.”
His commiseration hits me in an odd way, brings the tears back to the surface. “Please emphasize in the piece you’re writing that I was sorry and ashamed of what I had done.” I sniff, wipe at my eyes. “I need people to know it wasn’t easy.”
Talking about the ordeal feels like reliving it all over again, and I can’t hold back. I burst into tears. Maybe, if I say it out loud, in some way they’ll hear me. “Mom and Dad, I am so sorry. I wanted to become successful and come back and fix things between us.” I’m sobbing now; it feels like something is ripping the words from my throat. “It’s too late now. I am sorry that I never contacted you—I was ashamed of what I’d done. You deserved a better son.”
Trying to speak in between gasping sobs leaves me choking for air. I start to cough, hack, wheeze. I can’t find my breath. Is this it? Is it finally here?
Lucas jumps up from his chair. “You okay?”
I can’t respond, and he begins to panic, and calls for help.
Next thing I know the room is crowded with people, and someone puts an oxygen mask on my face, while someone else injects me with something. Almost instantly I feel better, and way more relaxed. Whatever they injected me with is certainly effective. I feel level-headed and calm, but take a few more minutes to allow my breathing to completely stabilize.
Seeing me relaxed once more, the orderlies file from the room, leaving me alone again with Lucas. He’s standing by the chair, dark eyes concerned beneath his protective mask. “I think it might be for the best if we don’t continue. What do you think?” Lucas asks doubtfully.
“Sorry Lucas, for putting you through that, but I’m feeling fine now. I just got a bit overwhelmed; that’s all. I’d like to continue,” I insist. “Let me tell you what happened when I arrived at Panama.”
