Men. Women. Kids. Babies. Asleep. Awake. Collapsed to the floor, resigned to the corners. Like an airport during an extended weather delay, but without the windows, exits, Starbucks, and chummy chitchat.
Names are called. Detainees escorted out. Detainees escorted in.
A short stocky man in a navy suit struts up to the counter, demands a lawyer. “I have rights,” he bellows. His voice is hoarse, crackly. He’s Indian or maybe Pakistani. But his accent, it’s British. He pivots, climbs onto his soapboax, pleads with us to join him in rising up against our oppressors. “We have our rights.”
A woman CBP officer tells him to shut up and sit down or she’ll be forced to put him in restraints. “It’s your final warning.” She’s loud. Real loud. So the whole room hears.
This is when it hits me. The brown guy, he’s an exception. Pretty much everyone here looks like me, talks like me, dresses like me. God, the arrogance, it kicks me in the head. It’s nothing I expected. Or imagined. We’re coming up on four years of this immigration craziness and we are the only people who have failed to get the message. Like our whiteness is our amulet, our birthright inviolable.
I get it now. I see what’s going on. CBP has run out of brown and black people to harass. Men in pajamas and funny hats. Women patrons of third-world H&M stores.
I feel shame. For myself. For every dumb-ass in this zoo. Winnebago seniors and 4X4 hockey moms. Country clubbers and hayseeds. Barbies and Kens. Hipsters and divas. Frumps and fatties. Geeks and glad-handers. Saints and shits. Bikers and slackers with holes in their ears and tats up the wazoo. Even the cabal of graying hippie chicks, their Pussyhats and sweatshirts and tinplate provocations.
HE’S NOT MY PRESIDENT
WE SHALL OVERCOME
GO INTERCOURSE THYSELF
MAKE AMERICA AMERICA AGAIN
OPRAH 2020
And then I come to Jordy. Jeez, I see what the CBP guy saw. Jordy is as much of an exception as the wannabe rabble-rouser. If not more. That stupid beard of his. That stupid tan. Suddenly I’m worried. Not for me, but for my best friend.
People speak in whispers, if they speak at all. As if anything they say could and would be used against them.
Squinty-eyed portraits of the president pass judgement from three walls. I stop my count at fourteen. Straight ahead, sweeping across the expanse above the glass partition, an inspirational quote in shimmery gold calligraphy:
It is our right as a sovereign nation to choose immigrants we think are the likeliest to thrive and flourish and love us.
We’re five hours in (best guess), when our names come up. They lead us down a narrow hallway and into a maze of lefts and rights, where doors outnumber walls. And portraits everywhere you turn. A freaking presidential art gallery.
They shunt Jordy one way and me the other. He shrugs, rolls his eyes as we part.
My room is a walk-in closet. I sit at a table, a vacant chair opposite. I am given water in a plastic cup. Here, His portrait has a Washington-Crossing-the-Delaware vibe, broad stars and bright stripes in perilous flight.
I doze off. Two minutes. Two hours. Who knows? My interrogator shakes me awake. He’s bald. His face a fist with smoker’s teeth. He’s a dead ringer for my tenth-grade shop teacher, Mr. Mitnick, except he’s got all his fingers.
He spins his chair around, straddles it back to front, arms hugging the seat back. “Tough day, huh? I apologize if any of my associates have behaved inappropriately toward you.”
“It’s been okay, I guess.”
“Taken from our perspective, however, you need to understand: It would appear you have quite the hate for America.”
What the hell do I say to that?
“You don’t hold back on Facebook, do you? All that rage, how our president cost you your job—your future, as you put it.”
“Because of NAFTA…”
“Quite the hate, I’m afraid. Quite the hate, son. All those Facebook likes. Any story to bad-mouth America, and you were there. Our electoral process. Our gun laws. Our healthcare. Our schools. Any idea how many likes in all? Go ahead. Guess. Guess.”
I shake my head.
“Fifteen thousand, one hundred and forty-one in the last three years alone. Fifteen thousand, one hundred and forty-one. If that isn’t hate for America…”
“I’m sorry.”
“Good. Sorry is a start. That’s why I’m going to tell you: Your friend has confessed to everything, so there’s no point in you covering up. All we need is your corroboration.”
“Jordy?”
“Your Muslim pal.”
“He’s not Muslim.”
“Uh-huh. And how long you two been a couple?”
“Like gay?”
“Two grown men? Your age? Traveling together?”
“We’re not gay.”
“Not a pro-LGBQXYZ story you didn’t like on Facebook. Not one.”
“Jordy’s married.”
“Lots of fudge-packers are.”
“Jesus, man.”
“You members of the same mosque? Is that where you met?”
“Beechwood School. First grade.”
“Who recruited him? Why’s he so desperate to get into the States?”
“This is crazy.”
“Crazy. Like how your friend insulted our president earlier? How would you like me to visit your country and call your president crazy?”
“We don’t have a pre—”
“What’s the extent of North Korea’s involvement?”
“Huh?”
“Jordan’s wife. Is she behind this?”
“Min? She’s from Seoul. He met her when he was teaching ESL over there. They’re having a baby.”
“Name me a jihadi who isn’t.”
“Jordy’s no terrorist.”
“Then why the beard? Why so much time spent on Oman and United Arab Emirate websites? Huh? Answer me that, smart guy?”
“You don’t understand. It’s for the race.”
“The Muslim race…”
“No. No. The World Marathon Challenge. Oman and the UAE are two of the countries he’ll be running through.”
“My, my, won’t that be convenient. They must be waiting for him with open arms. A hero’s homecoming.”
“Look, call his parents. Call Min. They’ll tell you everything.”
“Min. His North Korean wife. Miscegenation is a big thing up in Canada, I hear. Anything goes with you people, huh?”
“What? What?”
“You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you? Explain this, then—explain all the money your friend’s been stashing away.”
“The Kickstarter and GoFundMe things?”
“Keep talking.”
“He needs sponsors. For the Marathon. The entry fee alone is like fifty thousand—”
“State sponsors?”
“Sponsor sponsors.”
“North Korea, Oman, and the United Arab Emirates.”
“Jeez, man, look it up. The World Marathon Challenge. It’s a race. Honest. What do you want from me, anyhow?”
“The truth.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you.”
“Except for the actual purpose of your visit.”
“Sneakers, damn it, sneakers.”
“So that’s what you and Jordan are—sneaker agents.”
“Uh, you mean, like sleeper agents?”
“If the shoe fits…”
“Look, Jordy needs sneakers. They’re cheaper in the States. His wife is sick, so he asked me to drive him to Plattsburgh. That’s it.”
“Without luggage?”
“It’s only for the day.”
“What did you say the name of your mosque was, again?”
“I’ve never set foot in any mosque.”
“But Jordan has. We have pictures.”
“It’s no secret. For a wedding. A friend’s wedding.”
“And yet you still maintain he’s not Muslim?”
“He doesn’t even
believe in God, for Christ’s sake. Neither of us do.”
“That’s okay. No matter, God believes in you and God loves you. And right now, He’s hoping you’ll find it in your heart to do the right thing.”
“Jesus.”
“Yes. Jesus is hoping, too.”
“Aren’t I entitled to a phone call or something? A lawyer? The Canadian embassy?”
“That’s what socialists say.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“When was the last time you and Jordan did the hajj pilgrimage?”
“The what?”
“Do you use drugs?”
“No.”
“Have you ever used or knowingly possessed marijuana?”
“It’s now legal in Canada, you know?”
“Finally, we’re getting somewhere.”
“Can I have another cup of water?”
He stands. “I’ll do my best for you, son. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best.”
Again, he wakes me up. He tells me I’ve been denied entry into the United States. I ask why. He says, “You know why.”
“Aren’t you supposed to give me a document with the reasons in writing?” The CBC had a primer on its website.
“Let’s just say you were never here, and leave it at that.”
“Seriously?” He hands me an envelope containing my phone and watch, leads me down a hallway to a bolted steel door. “But what about Jordy?”
“Oh, yeah. Your friend. Didn’t I tell you? He was cleared to cross hours ago. Champlain Centre Mall, I think he said. Probably home and enjoying his new sneakers by now.”
The fresh air feels good as I step outside, the sun just breaking above the horizon. Holy crap! I can’t believe it’s Tuesday. Mostly, though, I can’t believe the prick went on ahead without me. And then it dawns: Jordy can’t drive. Jesus Christ, the asshole cannot drive. I turn to protest, too late.
I go to use my phone. The battery is dead.
You know the fun I had getting home. I won’t repeat. It’s dark. I’m wiped. I’m angry. And I sure as hell want to hear Jordy’s side of the story before I kill him. Here, at least, I’m glad my phone is dead. Better to cool off before calling him.
I grab a beer, turn on the TV, and I swear, it’s the first I hear of the attacks. Montana. Idaho. Minnesota. Michigan. Pennsylvania. New York. The small communities still reeling. And every target within shouting distance of the border. Including that diner north of Plattsburgh.
They’re interviewing a survivor. A waitress. “He comes running in like he’s hopped up on something. And the whole place goes up. No. No warning. Nothing. Some say he shouted that allu-whatever thing, but I didn’t hear nothing.”
The camera pans to the devastation, closes in on what’s left of the “alleged” attacker. Not much. Except a leg poking out from under a plastic sheet. A leg. The footage is shaky, grainy, but there’s no denying what I see. The stylized lightning bolts. Zigzags of yellow and black. Trexis 880s, for Christ’s sake. You bet I lost it.
Nothing fits. Nothing makes sense. I’m not even aware the president is blathering away on TV until he’s almost done—when he regurgitates the myth about the 9/11 hijackers coming from Canada. I cribbed the part from this morning’s Gazette. You need to look at this in context of what I’ve told you. Follow the evidence. Connect the dots. Or whatever.
“…tragically, once again, because Canada has opened its doors to terrorists, innocent Americans have paid the ultimate sacrifice. Make no mistake, this is a repeat of 9/11. For the second time in a generation, coordinated attacks on the United States were orchestrated on and launched from Canadian soil. Let me not mince words, if Canada insists on maintaining its reckless immigration policies…resists our calls to root out radical Islamic fundamentalists within its borders…the United States of America will do it for them.”
And then this morning, you guys knock on my door, bring me down here. You tell me you’re RCMP, I figure for sure it’s Jordy you’ve come to talk about. But this other business, when you showed me those pictures on my phone. How many times do I need to tell you? THEY ARE NOT MINE. I swear to God. I DID NOT DOWNLOAD THEM. Little kids? Me? Christ, no way. Never. I’ve got nephews. I’m no perv. I don’t care who tipped you off, you’ve got to believe me. They’re lying. Just like there’s no record of me being at the border. Jordy and I were played. Now you’re being played.
You think I don’t know how paranoid I sound? How far-fetched all this is? Yeah, well, you want to know what’s far-fetched? Look who got elected president four years ago. Look who just declared martial law and suspended the next election.
RE: YOUR WEDDING
Ruth Nestvold
From: Jenna Furlan
To: Annie Furlan
Date: February 13, 2019
Subject: Your wedding
Hi Annie,
I’m sure you heard the news and have been expecting this, but we won’t be able to fly to the States for your wedding this summer. Maksym has taken a leave of absence from his job and headed for Kiev to try and get his parents away before the Russians advance on the city. I wish they had come to Stuttgart before Donetsk fell. They never believed it would happen, not even when the US withdrew its support from NATO. And now we might well need all the savings we have to bribe their way out of Ukraine and into Germany.
I’m so worried. Maybe we can talk on the weekend when the time difference doesn’t get in the way as much. Evening my time so that Rebecca and Daniel will already be in bed?
Love,
Jenna
From: Annie Furlan
To: Jenna Furlan
Date: February 18, 2019
Subject: Re: Your Wedding
It was good to talk to you the other day, Jenna. I just want to make sure you aren’t offended at Dad’s offer to pay for plane tickets for your family to our wedding. You seemed a bit short when I suggested it.
I’m glad to hear that Rebecca and Daniel are doing fine, despite their father being away.
Have you had any news from Maksym?
Love,
Annie
From: Jenna Furlan
To: Annie Furlan
Date: February 22, 2019
Subject: Re: Your wedding
I wasn’t offended about Dad’s offer to pay our way. I’m sorry Annie, but I don’t think I have any brain cells to think about your wedding at the moment, not with Maksym in a war zone. How to pay for a vacation in the States is the last thing on my mind right now. And no, I haven’t heard from Maksym since before you and I talked on the weekend. For the sake of the kids, I’m trying to keep from tearing my hair out.
Jenna
From: Annie Furlan
To: Jenna Furlan
Date: February 24, 2019
Subject: Re: Your Wedding
Hey, Jenna, are you angry? I wasn’t thinking. It’s just that I would really like to have my big sister at my wedding. I hope you’ve heard from Maksym again by now.
Love,
Annie
From: Jenna Furlan
To: Annie Furlan
Date: February 28, 2019
Subject: Kiev
Have you seen the news? Although who knows how the media is portraying things in the States, with the way the President has been cracking down on critical journalists. What do you know about the situation in Ukraine?
The Russians are just outside of Kiev, and I haven’t heard from Maksym since shortly after he got there.
I’m so scared.
Jenna
From: Annie Furlan
To: Jenna Furlan
Date: March 7, 2019
Subject: Re: Your Wedding
Okay, I guess now it’s official, you really are angry at me. I haven�
�t heard from you in almost two weeks, and you never replied to my last message. I’m not quite sure what to say. Forgive me for being so insensitive?
Please don’t let us ruin our relationship over this. You’re still my big sister, and I love you dearly.
Annie
From: Jenna Furlan
To: Annie Furlan
Date: March 9, 2019
Subject: Re: Your wedding
Hi Annie,
I wrote you Feb. 28, but you don’t seem to have gotten my message. I changed the subject header from “wedding” to “Kiev,” though. Damn and crap. What kind of news coverage have you had of Eastern Europe over there lately? Could the NSA be filtering private emails now?
The last time I heard from Maksym was the middle of February.
And I’m scared shitless.
I’ll call you tomorrow.
Love,
Jenna
From: Annie Furlan
To: Jenna Furlan
Date: March 13, 2019
Subject: Rebecca and Daniel
Hi Jenna,
After our chat on Sunday, I talked to Dad. Here’s what we’re going to do. He is going to book tickets for the kids to come here while you go look for Maksym. You can’t take them with you, and you don’t have any relatives in Germany. But we’re here for you, even if we are an ocean and a continent away.
You should get in touch with him to make specific arrangements.
I’m so very sorry about the previous misunderstandings.
Love,
Annie
From: Jenna Furlan
To: Annie Furlan
Date: March 17, 2019
Subject: Re: Rebecca and Daniel
Hey, Sis, I get it now. No need to apologize. I didn’t realize how much you were being misled over there on the other side of the big pond. It’s been a year and a half since I visited home, after all. Back then, it was all still a bit of a circus. Sure, here in Germany we hear plenty of reports of manipulation, especially since the Republican landslide in November. But I hadn’t realized how thoroughly the media had been compromised, how widespread alternative fact has become.
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