unexpected encounter

Coming off the plane, rough flight, the line at customs daunting.  It makes the lines at Disneyland look like child’s play.  Languages of all types being spoken.  In the chunk of line I’m in, I don’t hear any English.  There are TV monitors overhead, one playing the news, the others with instructions on what to expect when you finally reach a customs officer. 

I try not to let my eyes wander up to them, because when they do I find it exacerbates my feelings of nausea and airsickness from the bumpy flight.  I guess because the images are shifting, camera angles changing. 

The line for International passport holders snakes back and forth.  My purse is heavy.  It has a shoulder strap but I have it hoisted up on my hip like a small child, to help carry the weight.

Right before I get to the front of the big line, where they break us up into smaller lines, the custom officials decide to shepard a bunch of us over to the custom officals that are for US passport holders.  I don’t know if this is a good thing or not.  We go across the large room to the other side.  There are smaller lines of 5-6 people, but one of the lines only has 3 people waiting.  I step into that line, pleased at my good fortune. 

Sometime later, I understand why.  The other lines have come and gone and we are still waiting.  There are only two of us in this line now, but that is because the person in front of me has slipped off to try his luck at another line.  People join the line behind me, but then, once they see how things are going, dissipate like ghosts. 

Watching the face of the young man who is being questioned as he becomes increasingly distraught, shifting from pale to flushed and then pale again, his acne spots standing out in stark contrast on his blanched out face.  He is skinny.  Too skinny.  White with sandy coloured hair.  It is clear he doesn’t have money.  He is trying not to fidget, trying not to let panic rise to the surface.  It is hard to tell his age.  He could be anywhere from 19 with a hard life, or 27 with a regular one.  He is struggling to answer the questions, I can’t hear what the customs guy is asking, just see the face of the young man as his mouth wrestles with English.  I don’t know what language he normally speaks.

Why did the customs official stop him?  Did something come up when he scanned the passport?  Or was it because he’s been doing this for so long that he can see something the rest of us wouldn’t notice?  Or maybe he is having a bad day and this guy reminds him of someone?

The custom official’s face is a blank.  It’s like looking into a stone wall and trying to find a person there.  He is stamping things on the passport, on papers.  Then comes out from his booth.  He holds a finger up to the man and me who are still waiting in his line.  “I’ll be right back,“ he mouths or says, I don’t remember. And then he and the young man disappear around the bend to some other mysterious part of the customs area.

I get a little stab of fear in my belly.  Like maybe I’ll be detained, denied entry, that would be terrible.  Maybe I should move to a different line?  But I make myself stay.  I am not smuggling anything, my passport is up-to-date, I am a grown-up.  There is no reason to be scared.  But I am.  Are they going to take my photo like the TV monitors say?  Am I going to be fingerprinted too?

After a while the custom official comes back.  He is alone.  He waves the man in front of me in.  I am on the red line now, waiting for my turn.  He asks the man a lot of questions.  More than they usually do.  He lets him go through.

It’s my turn now. 

I walk up to booth and hand him my passport.  He looks at it and then glances up to me.  There is a rather substantial red mark on his forehead, slashing upwards right above the first third of his left eyebrow.  People look at him all day long.  I don’t know how long it’s been there, but he needs to know.

He opens his mouth to start questioning me.  “Excuse me,“ I say.  “But you have a red mark on your forehead?“

He blinks. “What?“ 

“Right here,“ I tap the matching spot on my forehead. “I just thought, if it was me, I’d want to know.  I think maybe it’s…pen?“

He rubs the wrong spot.

“No, it’s over this way.“  I point with my finger.  He leans his forehead towards me.  I’m startled.  He’s a customs official.  He could deny me entry, but at this moment, he is like my child.  Vulnerable.  Trusting.  I touch where the mark is.  His forehead is warm.  I slide my finger the length of the mark so he’ll know where to rub.  It feels intimate.  Like we are connected.  I step back, the feel of his forehead still on my finger.

He doesn’t seem like a customs official anymore.  He is a man, human, who is able, for a second, to let the face of his job receed.  From somewhere he procurs a little wet wipe and scrubs at his forehead.  It takes two goes before his forehead is clear.

“Thanks,“ he says.  “I’ve been having trouble making,“ he gestures at the marker on his desk, “this work.“  His face so different now that the wall’s down, there is amusement, and gentle warmth and he feels like a friend.  And in that flash it’s like I see inside him and I know he is a real good father, a good husband, a good man.  And I feel blessed, like I’ve just received a gift. 

He glances down at my form.  “I have an apple in my purse,“ I say, “that’s why I checked fruits.“

“They’ll make you toss it at agriculture.“

“Okay.“

“What’s the purpose of your trip?“

I tell him.  He hands me my paper.  “Have a good day,“ he says. 

“You too.“  We smile and I pass through.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Sunday, May 22, 2011 in Chewing the Fat