So Close
This may or may not be a true story hidden as a fictional account (it's totally true)
He walked out of the building, sun hitting his face, a brain full of mangled thoughts of relief and frustration. Anger started creeping into his body like a sore throat coming on before a flu. He ushered his family onto the pavement and saw his van, doors wide open, the large back trunk door completely up.
He knew his car had been searched. The other cars had all of their doors open. Some had their engine hoods up. A government employee had suitcases on a large metal bench near his car, opened, searching. No owners in sight.
“I guess they don’t need probable cause,” he thought.
His eyes locked with the agent. He smiled at the agent, trying to appear as unmenacing as possible. He was, in every way, a law-abiding US citizen just coming home from a quick Easter trip to Canada.
But the same question kept bouncing around his head: “Why did they ask to see my arms?”
It all started with a few simple questions.
“Why were you in Canada?”
“Just visiting and seeing a friend.”
”What are you bringing back?”
“Nothing.”
”Nothing? You didn’t buy anything?”
”No. Well…”
He reached down to show a half-eaten pastry purchased two hours before getting into the border crossing line, an innocent item that was maybe now proof of a white lie.
“Just some pastries and coffee. I mean, we bought food to eat in Canada but we’re not bringing any goods back.”
Skepticism was tattooed all over the agent’s face. No eye contact but the veins of his neck puffed like little worms wringing themselves out of soil.
“Have you ever had trouble crossing the border?” The agent, stern, didn’t peer away from a screen.
“Nope.”
“Never?” More worms.
“Um. Nope. I just traveled to Costa Rica in November and breezed through customs.”
No eye contact. A simple “hm” from the agent.
He made eye contact with his wife, the kind of look that says paragraphs worth of awareness and thoughts that can only be deciphered by someone who has spent decades with you. Everything was deciphered; nothing was said out loud. They could tell something was “off.”
Then the notepad and a bright orange paper.
“There’s a criminal wanted by the courts who is very close to your identity. Go to your left, follow that agent’s directions, and go in to clear this up.”
“What did he say?”, the kids said.
“Nothing. We just have to clear some things up.”
We parked our car in what reminded me of the Costco parking lot in Maui, long areas of parking with a large hangar overhead to block the Hawaiian sun and heat. But this parking lot’s heat was coming from the sun.
“You’re not in trouble. You just have the same details as someone else.”
Just be cool.
He checked in, got directed to a line with his family, and waited a few minutes. A nice agent, all smiles, greeted him.
“Hey. How are you? Why were you in Canada?”
“Just visiting. Quick end of spring break trip with the family.”
“Cool. So looks like someone with your details is wanted by the courts and we just want to make sure you’re all good.”
”Yup. Great. So someone with my name or what?”
”Yea. Well. Close.”
“Close.” It’s what they kept saying over and over, like a lighthouse beacon reminding you it’s there.
A flurry of questions.
“Where are you from? Where do you live? Where have you lived? What’s your date of birth? What’s your social? So you’ve never had trouble crossing the border? Ok thanks. Just wait over there and we’ll call you over.”
He smiled, answered, and before leaving the desk.
“Oh can you show me both arms?”
Without missing a beat, sleeves go up. It’s the immediacy of following these rules that he equates to street smarts, knowing very well when the profiling is happening and making sure he’s in control of the chess match. He’s been doing this his whole life, like a ju-jitsu fighter knowing moves before moves and adapting without even thinking.
“Ok. Go wait over there and we’ll call you up.”
His wife was the only Caucasian person in the room. Four other families or individuals. Minorities. Like him. He started thinking.
“I’ve never been detained. Why did he ask about the arms? Why does this feel a little embarrassing? Do all US citizens have to go through this? I wonder what details are ‘close’ to mine? I wonder if the kids are scared.”
Five minutes. 10 minutes. The kids stirred. Seconds started feeling longer and longer.
“Have you all been helped?” said another agent.
“Yes.”
“Ok, because we’ll have people here for six hours and they haven’t even been helped.” Laughter.
The family didn’t laugh.
Finally, a call.
He walked up to the previous, smiley agent.
“So you’re sure you’ve never had trouble crossing the border.”
He kept thinking this is where they get you, this is where they want to see some form of inconsistency, this is where they guide you to a trail that makes you stumble all over yourself.
This time with a bit more sterness, the type he imagines rich people of privilege can flex and that he’s seen so often.
“No, sir. Never. This is actually the first time I’ve been detained, ever. It’s a bit baffling.” Light chuckle, the kind saying that he’s in control without saying anything at all. “I’m curious what you’re seeing because I know it isn’t remotely close to me.”
The agent, sensing some confidence, flexes.
“Look, someone really close to your identity is wanted, and we need to double-check these things. I will write a note here to say it’s not you.”
A little over 30 minutes detained for something abstractly close.
As he closed the doors on his car, checked his belongings, and strapped kids back into their carseats, he simply kept thinking if other US citizens have to go through this,too.
As he usually does, he texted his close guy friends, the friends who will understand without much explanation.
“Just got detained because someone close to my identity is wanted by the criminal courts. First time.”
Within a minute, his friend, a US citizen of Latino descent and who travels often, wrote back.
“That just happened to me! I wonder if all the John Smiths in the US are going through this now, too.”
Palette cleanser: Some photos of magnolia trees, blooming up north.
And here’s a photo of a rented hawk, working a shift to scare away the seagulls so tourists could eat in peace.
For the first time in 15 years, Stereolab has a new single (and album). One time, Anna and I went to see Beirut, and Stereolab opened for them. We danced and loved it, but no one really knew who they were. We felt old but alive.
Happy Sunday and thanks for reading.
There’s a fine line between “I’m sorry you had to go through that” and “Wild story, thank you for sharing”
I’m somewhere on that line.