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us tired and defeated in the detainee room for several more
hours.
After being left once more to ponder our eventual fate, the
gravity of the situation was beginning to weigh heavily on me.
Inside my head, an endless loop of "should-haves" flickered
inside my brain. Should have printed out our flight itinerary,
should have got the street address we were staying at, should
have known everyone's last name, should have researched com
mon tourist spots in Manchester, England, and on and on and
on.
And there we were, sitting in silence on a cheap airport
bench, everything we had looked forward to suddenly slipping
away—it was inevitable now. We were not going to be let
in, and all because I was an ignorant moron. Stupid, stupid,
stupid.
I had got two full-force shots in, before Becky grabbed my
arm and hissed at me to stop it. I felt the lump growing
just above my right temple and the dull throbbing gave
me something else to focus on, something other than the fact
that we had just pissed away $1,500 on airfare, would soon be
canceling the tour, and subsequently our long-anticipated shot
at international exposure.
Even more so, the sickening fact that we might not even
get a glimpse of our friends in Hotpants Romance, let alone
the nearly three weeks of fun we had planned with them.
We also would be missing Keith John Adams, Phil Wilson,
all the myriad support bands and promoters who had agreed
to help us with shows, folks we had met at either Athens, New
York or New England Popfest, plus the clubs, pubs—the entire
British travel experience.
T he next time the immigration officer returned, it was with
paperwork neatly explaining our denial into Great Britain,
citing "insufficient reliable information" on our part, as
well as us having "used deception" to gain entry and fail
ing to give "satisfactory answers to the Immigration Officer's
enquiries."
Also included was a rather pithy paragraph regarding the
Immigration Officer's assessment of Becky and myself. It is as
follows:
"NATHANIEL THOMAS MITCHELL—you have asked for leave
to enter the United Kingdom as a visitor for three weeks, but I
am not satisfied that you are genuinely seeking entry as a visi
tor for the limited period as stated by you because you initially
could not name me anything you wished to see in the United
Kingdom. You knew very little about your friend in the UK.
You initially stated that you met your friend through another
friend, but after your baggage search it transpired that you
had met at a gig in the United States and were here to take
part in open mic sessions and promote your band. The only
luggage you hold are a stack of T-shirts relating to your band,
which I believe you are here to sell. Furthermore, you have lim
ited funds for a three-week visit."
Becky received the exact same paragraph on her paperwork,
even though she had done the majority of the talking.
We were informed that our return ticket with American
Airlines had been transferred, so that we would be sent back to *
Chicago on the next available flight, which would be Nov. 26.
We attempted some feeble protesting, requested phoning
the U.S. Consulate, the British Embassy, any legal assistance
we were due, but none of our requests were entertained in any
way.
Instead, we were given the first of many pat-down friskings,
taken into a separate room adjacent the detainee lounge, pho
tographed and fingerprinted.
Closely accompanied by two security personnel wearing flu
orescent vests over white shirts and dark ties, we were led by
elevator to a separate detainee area, our luggage searched and
inventoried, our meager cash counted, removed and signed for.
T he room at Terminal 2 was a rather bleak affair. Bright fluo
rescent lighting, a television without controls blaring over
head, a few benches and desks, magazines and kids' toys
strewn about, giving the feel of an employee break room at
Wal-Mart crossed with a waiting area at a walk-in clinic, minus
the thick plexiglass separating us from the desk of security
personnel scheduled to monitor us.
A payphone was available, although we had no British cur
rency, although Becky was initially able to use our trusty debit
card towards making outgoing calls, although even this privi
lege was short-lived. For reasons unknown, the card suddenly
stopped being effective for placing calls.
I had no desire to communicate with anyone, and I imme
diately lay across one of the airport benches in desolate numb
ness. The television's piercing banality was overwhelming me
and I requested our wardens switch it off or at least lower the
volume but was ignored.
Instead, I stuffed some toilet tissue in my ears and covered
my head with a dark-colored sweatshirt, sleep staved off by the
bright lights overhead and the muffled, noisy chatter of the
television. •
There I lay, awkwardly, across the molded plastic bench with
the thinnest of cushioning. Becky had been able to talk to the
Hotpants girls, who were doing their very best to arrange over
turning the Immigration Officer's decision.
Bleak as my mood was, I doubted any such action would
have much effect in the allotted time. If we had traveled
British Airways, we would be leaving on the very first flight
back to America that same night.
I continued to lay down, crushed, heartbroken, despondent,
dark thoughts of self-harm flickering up every now and again,
unsure of whether to attempt legal recourse, or merely accept
defeat.
the midst of these downtrodden thoughts, one of the
security officers entered and told me that due to our
flight being scheduled for Nov. 26, arrangements were
being made to transfer me to an all-male detainee center in
Oxford.
Becky was now asleep on the opposite bench, waking up in
time to see me being led out of the room by the two security
watchmen. She frantically inquired as to where I was being
taken, and I told her I didn't know, although one of the guards
produced a business card with information on the facility and
handed it to her.
Briskly patted down once again, I reclaimed my cash and
was led to a waiting transport van. The guards loaded me
onto it and then we drove a short distance around the airport,
where I was again patted down and then transferred onto a
different van, reinforced with a thick metal grate.
Once inside the van, two other detainees—one with dark
skin and a thick Jamaican patois, and a smaller, quiet man
with vaguely Middle Eastern features—greeted me.
The Jamaican introduced himself and offered me a bag of
crisps, which I accepted although I had no appetite. I provided
a brief synopsis of my situation and he related his getting
pinched by Immigration, noting that he had been confined to
the van since 10 a.m. (by my estimation, it was now sometime
between 9 and 10 p.m.).
We departed from the airport and began driving. At first I
took interest in the motorways we were traversing, but quickly
succumbed to nodding off.
I awoke to find we were pulling into a different facil
ity, greeted by a large metal gate. We stopped in a concrete
encased parking area and sat still for nearly a half-hour.
Eventually another male detainee was led onto the van. His
appearance seemed European but he was oddly quiet when the
Jamaican attempted to engage him in conversation, as if he
was unable or unwilling to talk.
We continued on for about another 45 minutes, stopped for
fuel at what appeared to be a Mobil station, and by this time,
nature was indeed calling.
I requested use of the toilet, but the security officer
informed me that I could only make use of the facilities at a
jailhouse or detention center, testily adding that we had just
been at a jailhouse.
My reply was that I was unaware of these conditions,
wherein I was told I would just have to try and hold it until
we arrived in Oxford, a mere 90 minutes away at this point. I
gritted my teeth and prepared myself for a long, uncomfortable
journey.
After an hour and a half of enduring the discomfort of a full
bladder, we arrived at the detainee center in Oxford. The van
pulled in front of an imposing, barbed wire-topped fence and
sat idling for what seemed like an eternity of complete stasis.
The Jamaican was much more vocal at expressing his frustra
tion than I was, angrily making suggestions to contact an offi
cer inside to open the gate, his suggestions either rebuffed or
ignored by the drivers.
After nearly a half-hour of sitting idle, the gate was finally
opened by two guards, one of which was leading a German
Shepard.
Never would I have fathomed, when sitting in the coach
of American Airlines Flight 54 from Chicago to Manchester,
that I'd be led into such a sinister-looking facility as this. The
whole situation suddenly started to seem incredible, unreal.
I secretly wished I had been caught smuggling some sort of
explosive device, just so there would be some justification for
winding up at what ostensibly appeared to be a prison, replete
with armed security, barbed-wire fences and attack dogs.
to be continued...
Nate Mitchell
Cars Can Be Blue
146 e. clayton st. • 354.8631
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