The Big Book of Jon Clinkenbeard, Chapter 47: Wherein I Become An International Criminal

The very first time I let myself get excited about the trip to London was roughly around hour 6 of my Chicago-to-London flight, when we were flying directly over Ireland.
I couldn’t see Ireland through the clouds, but I knew we were flying over it by consulting the huge “this is where our plane is right now” map on the plane’s television.
Yes, my plane had a television. A huge big fat-screen television. And then even more televisions than that. Every passenger had their own separate televisions, embedded in the spines of the seats directly in front of us.
Instead of jumping right into media, like I saw most others doing, I talked for about ten minutes to the very nice middle-aged lady next to me. As we finished taking off, she went directly to sleep.
Then I decided to watch The Hangover.

In airplane movies, an interesting thing happens: the movie is interrupted whenever the pilot or copilot makes an announcement, which I noticed for the first time, is quite frequent.
It’s not unlike watching a movie with someone who constantly pauses the movie to tell you that the weather outside is nice, or that they’re shifting position on the couch, but not to worry.
It would even be fine if they paused the movie correctly.
But they don’t; instead, the audio cuts out while the movie is still running for a few seconds, then the movie resumes a minute or so later into the film, and after a few seconds of video, the audio cuts back in.
Basically, you miss tiny chunks every few minutes, and your friend on the couch doesn’t give You the option to watch those parts over.
Your options are “do you wanna watch the movie, or not?”
I was still happy to watch the movie to distract myself from feeling nervous.
I’d slept maybe 4 or 5 hours the night before due to last-minute packing and cleaning, but I was too anxious about this new experience to feel tired.
I figured the movie would make me sleepy, and I’d be able to have a good night’s sleep directly afterwards.
The movie did make me sleepy, but I hadn’t counted on the English gentleman behind me, who talked loudly about recent scientific breakthroughs.
I love science; so of course I hated that he was talking about it. How could I fall asleep if I was fascinated?
I put my Chicago-Subway-Defeating ear buds in, and tried not to lie directly on the side of my head, which pushed the hard plastic uncomfortably into my ears.
The ear buds blocked out the soothing high-pitched white noise of the plane, but I was still able to hear his bass of a voice.
I calculated it all out a few days before the flight: I needed to sleep on the plane.
There wasn’t any time to adjust to jet lag; once I landed, I needed to finish settling my finances, buy an unlocked phone, and make sure I wanted to stay in the school dorm.
I wasn’t able to fall asleep until he fell quiet about 4 hours or so into the flight.
Then, I almost instantaneously woke up to sunlight and the man talking again.
Yes, the same man.
I looked at my phone.
I’d slept almost two hours, and that was all I was going to get.
Breakfast time!
I blinked a lot to remoisten my contacts.
The flight attendants passed out little customs cards for us to fill out and hand to customs on our way through.
I filled my card out for a stay of eight months.
This was a mistake.
Oblivious to my blunder, I happily ate my American Airlines brand strawberry yogurt as we flew over Ireland.

When we landed, I went to the restroom and noticed a sign: “Our bathrooms are cleaned regularly. We strive to make your bathroom experience at Heathrow airport a pleasant one. Thank you.”
Almost the exact same wording as the bathrooms in O’Hare.
As I walked down the gate, there was almost a quarter mile of airport with no one in sight. It was off-putting. I finally found everyone a few right turns away, standing in line to go through UK customs. I asked a half-asleep customs woman which line I should enter; the student line, or the US passport line.
without a word, she motioned to the US passport line, and i happily skipped on over.
This was mistake number 2.

As I made my way through the line, I noticed a large, half-bald man in a blue sweater at one of the elevated customs desks. He was lazily angry at everyone who came through, as if he constantly didn’t have time for the people trying to enter the country.

Luckily, I was directed to a seemingly chipper woman in a white shirt. I gave her my passport, and my pre-filled out customs card. She read the info, looked again at everything i’d handed her, and finally looked back at me.
“Where’s your visa?”
I hadn’t gotten my student visa yet because there was a good chance that I would be able to transfer my job and I would get issued a work visa, either of which was good for letting me stay in the country.
“I don’t have it yet. I’m going into my work today to-”
“You don’t have it?”
“No, I have to go to my job to-”
“One moment.”

She leaned back in her desk and looked at the surly half-bald blue sweater ogre two desks over to my right. She looked at another blue sweater man three desks to my left. I gathered that the blue sweaters were a higher rank, and thus, were the ones who had to deal with people like me, who didn’t have their visas yet and had to talk to someone more official.
Both of the blue sweaters were busy with other people trying to enter the country.
They both finished at roughly the same time. I was quick to point out the open man on my left, who simply had to be happier than the surly troll on my right.
But apparently this white shirt and the troll were friends. She didn’t give another glance to the man on my left, no matter how I tried to direct her attention.
She asked me to walk to her friend with her.
“We’ve got a student without a visa, Roger.”
Roger gave her a look that said, “you just woke me up by punching my face.” He crossed his arms, furrowed his brow and retaliated.
“I’m supposed to take my break now.”
Again, I pointed out that the other blue sweater man was open and that maybe we should just go over there and everyone would be happy. I was completely ignored. They started small talking.
“Having a rough day, eh Roger?”
“The worst. I’m tired of dealing with all of this, you know?”
“Take your break after this last one, eh?”
“Fine (exhale).”

The woman went back to her Andy Kaufman desk and Roger turned to me for the first time, saying nothing; sizing me up. I tried to look happy, optimistic, and non-threatening. He looked down at the handful of documents, then got out an official questionnaire.
“Name?”
“Jonathon Clinkenbeard. (Just like it says on the passport and the customs card you have in your hand that you’re reading right now, you jerk.)”
“How long are you planning to stay?”
“8-9 months. For school.”
“Do you have any proof?”
I pulled out my support letter from the school as well as my certificate of housing.
“Where’s your visa?”
At this point, a tiny middle eastern woman wandered up next to us, extending her documents.
The blue-sweatered troll became instantly enraged, face twisting into a scowl. For a half second, it looked very much like he was going to spit on her.
“What are you doing?! Stop it! Get away from my desk!!!”
Judging by her happy expression, she clearly didn’t understand english.
“Get out of here! Take your papers! Go! NOW!”
It struck me that he was talking to her the same way a person would speak to a rat they were chasing out of their house with a broom. The older woman was gently pulled from behind by a younger version of herself.
“I’m sorry, my mother doesn’t speak english.”
“Get her away from my desk! Get back in line and take her with you!”
The woman and her mother returned to the queue. Roger turned back to me, his faced still wrinkled with scowl.
“Why don’t you have a visa?”
“I need to go to my work this week to sort it all out. I was told there was a grace period.”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“The passport agency and my school both said I had six months to sort it out.”
“No. You can visit for up to six months without a visa, but you need one if you’re staying longer.”
I paused for a moment.
“So can I change that card to say I’m visiting for 5-6 months while I sort out my visa?”
“No, you’ve already told me that you’re planning to stay longer.”
“But if I’d said that I was just visiting, wouldn’t I already be in the country, so I could just sort out my visa this week?”
“Yes, but you didn’t say that.”
I paused again.
“Don’t you see how that encourages lying?”
“Well you can’t lie now. I’ve got you on file saying you’re planning to be in the country for 8 or 9 months.”
I stood there silently trying to think of some way to even more logically explain why I should be allowed into the country, but I couldn’t.
“There are people from the University who are picking me up. Can we talk to them to prove that I’m attending?”
“That won’t do any good. What company do you work for?”
“Homeaway.com; it’s Holiday-Rentals.co.uk over here, but it’s the same company.”
It was his turn to be silent a moment. He flipped back through all the papers.
“As it stands, I can’t let you into the country. I’ll go talk to my supervisor, but you need to have a seat right over there.”
“What happens if I can’t come into the country?”
“Just have a seat and I’ll be back in a minute.”
I sat down and watched people. They all shared a few sentences with the customs officials, and then were let through. The whole process appeared rather quick. I didn’t see anyone else having trouble.
I started thinking about what would happen if I was sent back. But I wanted to stay positive, so instead, I opened my George Saunders book and tried to read it. I reread a page a couple of times, never absorbing it, then gave up and watched people again.
Roger was gone for over thirty minutes. I think he might have taken his break before he went to talk to his boss.
It was about this time I realized I hadn’t had but 5 hours of sleep in the last two days.

When he came back, he had about the same face as before.
“It doesn’t look good. He’s investigating, but it doesn’t look good. You need to come with me.”
Roger led me through customs, which felt like things were moving positively, despite his words. Maybe he just had to tell me that things didn’t look good, even if they did.
“Do you have any checked bags?”
“Yes, two big green ones.”
The bags surprisingly weren’t out yet. I tried to connect with him in some way. Maybe he’d fight for me to enter the country if he liked me as a human being.
“I heard you were having a rough day.”
“Yeah, it’s busy.”
“Is it usually better?”
“Not really.”
“What’s the hardest part?”
“Well, you can’t leave. So people just keep coming and you have to talk to them.”
“Oh yeah, I know what you mean. I worked in a customer service job for a while. The worst part was that when calls came in, I had to take them, no matter how many I’d taken already.”
“Uh-huh. Are those your bags?”
I looked at him to see if he’d heard what I said. We clearly hadn’t bonded.
“No, my bags are bigger than that. There’s one now.”

I grabbed both of my huge green duffel bags and unsuccessfully tried managing them with my laptop bag and my black carry-on suitcase. Everything was over-stuffed and extra-heavy.
Roger helped me with the lighter of the two green bags, and I followed him up a flight of ramps to the security office. Again, I felt how tired my body was.
We left my bags outside an office and I stupidly asked if they’d be okay just sitting there… clearly in the middle of all the cops in the airport.
He said they’d be fine, and to tell the woman in the office I needed my fingerprints taken.
After my digital fingerprints were finished, Roger came back in and told me to look into the camera jutting out of the wall next to me.
I stared into it as he left the room. He came back in and told me to look directly into it, so I did, again.
I stared into the camera for a long time. I wasn’t sure how long, because I didn’t look at a clock. Instead, I tried to imagine the lens was a peephole and I might stare into it hard enough to see the people on the other side. I tried to lean back in my chair and rest, while still keeping my eyes fixed on the camera.
Roger came back in and told me to follow him.
“It’s not looking good” he said.
We took my bags and went through another security checkpoint.
“Do you have anything in these bags I should know about?”
“I have a folding lock knife in one of them, but nothing other than that.”
“Ok. I’m going to search your bags. Go with that man there.”
Roger gestured to a man watching us a few feet away. A white-shirt. I followed him into a small room, where he put on latex gloves and very politely searched every place one might possibly think to hide something.
We came back out, I re-packed my luggage, and followed Roger back to the security offices from before. We again left my bags, but this time we went into the back and into one of several glass and wood “interview boxes”. Roger sat down.
“Sit down. Don’t touch the walls, or an alarm will go off.”
“Thanks for the head’s up”
Roger ignored me. I sat down and didn’t touch the walls. He pulled out another large clipboard.
“Ok, what we’re going to do here is answer some questions. Probably a lot of it is things i’ve already asked you, but we need to go through them again.”
“Ok.”
“Name?”
“Jonathon Clinkenbeard”
“Why are you coming into the UK?”
“For vacation”
Roger stared at me a moment.
“I’m going to put school, since you already told me that. How long are you staying?”
I tried the only other option I could think of.
“I’m only going one semester. That’s three or four months.”
Roger paused.
“I can’t change that. I’m putting 8 or 9, since you told me that earlier.”
“No, I’m serious. I’m only going for a semester. I haven’t paid for more than a semester, and I’ve changed my mind about the whole year.”
“I can’t change it now.”
I sank inside, out of ideas.
Question 3, are you fit and happy to be interviewed in the normal way we conduct these interviews without a solicitor, friend, or representative present?”
I laughed.
“No. I’m not happy about any of this.”
Roger paused.
“I’m going to go ahead and put ‘yes’.”
“Are you bringing anything hazardous into the country?”
“No.”
“Do you belong to any organization that supports terrorism or violence to achieve it’s means?”
“No.”
“Have you ever belonged to any organization that supports terrorism or violence to achieve it’s means?”
“No.”
“Ok. And last: is there any special emergency or circumstance that you wish us to consider?”
“Yes. I don’t have a place to live back home, my home for the next few months is London. I have to start classes this next week, or I’ll lose my spot in the University. I’m tired and I just want to go to my new house and get some sleep. I’ll do whatever I need to do to and cooperate with the law or the British Government to do everything legally and obtain whatever visa or certification I need to enter the country.”
Roger wrote down every single word. Then he got up and I followed him to a holding cell.
“I’ll go take this to my supervisor, but it doesn’t look good. You’ll most likely be sent back to he United States.”
Then he left, and one of the officers in charge put on latex gloves and searched me again, just in case i’d smuggled anything in since the last time I was searched.
When he was finished, he told me that if I needed anything to just ask him.
I asked him for some water, and he pointed to a big vending machine that dispensed two different brands of plain water, several types of tea, and a few kinds of coffee.
Then he gave me a blanket and a pillow and unlocked the door to the cell.

Inside there were three guys, two who looked miserable, and the third who looked happy.
I went to a couch and set down my pillow. I took off my shoes, grabbed my blanket and tried to ignore the bright fluorescent lights.
The happy guy and the smaller, latino guy started talking back and forth in what sounded to my tired ears like this:
“(some french words) Americano (some spanish words)”
“Si, (more spanish words) Americano (more french words)”
I sat up and looked at them. They were both looking at me. The tall happy guy was wearing a pork pie hat and spoke to me.
“You are American?”
“Yes.”
“We are from Portugal. I have been here one, nine, hours”
He showed me his fingers as numbers.
“You’ve been here 19 hours?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.”
“That man, even longer”
He gestured to the black guy across the room, who was now also looking at me.
“I’ve been here 26 hours.”
“God! Straight?”
“Straight.”
I sat there in silence for a minute, then rolled back over and put my arm on my eyes to block out the light.

Over the next several hours, I didn’t sleep much. I thought a lot about Austin, and how much I missed everyone. I thought about how I’d left a well-paying job in the midst of an economic slump. The biggest reason I was going back to school was to focus on writing without worrying about rent or keeping up a day job. But why did I need such a big excuse? Why couldn’t I just make the decision to be a professional right now? Why wasn’t I taking advantages of the opportunities I had? I was giving myself a big expensive excuse to do something I needed to just do, and why shouldn’t I do it where I had a network of people willing to help me achieve my aspirations?

I was eventually taken out of the cell and searched one last time, then I was escorted to my American Airlines flight back to Chicago.
The way things ended up after a few days in Chicago? I’d be able to move back into my apartment, but my job couldn’t take me back. They’d outsourced my job in 3 days.

I spent a few days with one of my dearest friends in Chicago, mulling over my choices. In the end, I decided that London would always be there, but now was the time to start pursuing my passions. No excuses and no distractions. Now there was absolutely nothing to keep me from starting my career as a professional writer and actor.

October 6, 2009 | Categories: Uncategorized | Tags: bags, big, blog, book, chicago, clinkenbeard, criminal, england, flight, government, hangover, immigration, international, interrogate, interrogation, ireland, jon, london, memoir, plane, school, search, uk, visa, wherein, write, writer, writing | 2 Comments