The Leaking Room

The room is gloomy and bleak. It gets smaller by the minute. I am consumed with claustrophobia. The white walls are entrapping me, the “Welcome to America” posters encroaching on my face. The people sitting around me don’t help either. The cold wooden chairs are too close together. I guess they have to be, or else they wouldn’t all fit. There has to be room for the officer’s desk. I think I’m coming down with germophobia from all the people sitting there with me. It’s a full house today. I’m guessing it’s the same kind of people as always. It would be an average Sunday at the office if not for me.

I don’t think they get a lot of folks like me, and I don’t mean Mexican. They get plenty of those. What I mean is nebbish college freshmen that look like they’ve never gone out on a sunny day. Even after emerging right from the beach, I’m still paler than most of the people in here. I stand out like a Rice Krispie in a bowl of Cocopuffs. This makes me feel more alone.

If this is going to happen every time I go back home, I’m never leaving this country again. There’s a light that won’t stop flickering. It’s driving me crazy. I think I should tell someone to fix it. No. In these moments, the best thing for me to do is keep my mouth shut. Maybe if I don’t cause much of a fuss, I’ll get out in less than an hour. Dammit. The roof is leaking.

What else can you expect from a ceiling like that? It hasn’t received maintenance in years. The leaking is getting worse. Water drops on my uncovered knees. Why did I wear shorts? This of all days. It isn’t even that hot. They make me feel comfortable, generally. I always fly with these. But now a few moments of comfortable legwear have lended to this everlasting suffering. I feel an acute pressure in my crotch. Probably because of the leak, in some kind of subconscious association. I need to tell someone. I look around the white room. Is it me or are there fewer people? How many were there before? It looked like a thousand, though I bet that was only because they were squeezed together like sardines. Who do I even ask? There’s no one here who can help me. Only the officer, behind the desk, and he seems to be busy with some woman. When is she gonna stop crying? I hope she doesn’t sit beside me, or I’ll have two leaks pouring on my legs. I’m practically soaking now. I need to tell the officer. Sorry lady, I feel bad about you wanting to see your family, but it’ll have to wait.

“Excuse me” I say softly.

The entire room is silent. Eyes on me. I’m the sudden protagonist in this crowded setting. The woman is not crying, the officer is not shouting and it even seems the ceiling has stopped leaking. He’s looking directly at me. He’s accosting me with his eyes. The air in the room is now just tension, and maybe soon the smell of my own urine. I am going to explode. This silence must be broken.

“I need to pee.”

“Do you think you are in a position to talk?” he shouts with a strong Brooklyn accent – and I mean Larry David strong.

“No?”

“Are you getting funny with me, boy?”

“Do you want me to get funny?”

“Are you retarded?”

That wasn’t very nice.

“Excuse me?”

“I asked, are you fucking retarded or something?”

“I’m not sure if I understand.”

“Listen, just sit there and shut the hell up. You are a felon right now. If I were you, I would start thinking of an excuse for what you did.”

And so I did. At least I would have done it if I knew what I was being accused of. A few hours ago I was enjoying some oysters on the beach. Now I’m in a Kafka-esque nightmare soaked with every kind of imaginable liquid. The leak, of course, but also the tears. My shoulder is covered in snot from the people sitting beside me. I don’t blame them. There aren’t even any Kleenexes. This was my favorite shirt though. It has Darth Vader on it. I can’t even look at it now, it depresses me. Maybe these are my own tears. Maybe I started crying. Not because I was overhearing the conversation of the woman who only wanted to get into the country to see the teenage son she hadn’t seen in 14 years, but because I literally could not hold my pee for one more second. It makes me sound awful, I know. For some reason, the woman’s crying makes me want to pee even more. “Fourteen years,” she kept repeating. “I have a son, please!” There’s a beat. It’s horrible to say, but there is, and I need something to entertain me in this prison of a room. I need to get out.

I have to get out. I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack. None of this should be happening. I did everything right. I had my papers, my passport, all of it. Why can’t I just go to my dorm room and go on with my life? I want to scream until my lungs leave my body. Everything they told me about these places was true. How to define it in terms of quality: It’s like the chicken they serve at my university’s cafeteria, but worse. Believe me – that’s as bad as it gets. I don’t know how long I’m going to be in this room. The woman is still there. Her face is different though. It’s as if she has changed it like three times. I don’t know what to make of it, but I need to get out. Why am I even here? I don’t even remember how I got into this room. Maybe this is hell. Maybe I got hit by a bus and died and now I’m in hell, condemned to spend eternity at the brink of pissing my pants and listening to an endless number of Mexican ladies beg the Trump-loving officer.

And that whistle. My lord, someone might as well insert a razor into my ears. I love what he’s whistling, though. Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Da, Zip-a-Dee-Day, Wonderful Feeling, Wonderful Day. It’s a beautiful and despicable type of irony. I can just tell by that, that Officer Whatever is the kind of guy people aspire to be like. He absolutely loves his job. I bet he’s never seen this job as a burden for a single day in his life. He loves deporting Mexicans. That’s his thing. Some people are good at baseball, others are good at destroying lives with no remorse. And by lives, I am referring to the life of my bladder. He’s in good shape too. I bet he works out every morning so he can look his best when he comes to work. He’s even got this presidential sort of look – straight back, thick hair, glasses. I respect that. At least he looks like he belongs in a position of power, however miniscule it may be. It doesn’t matter to him, he has it, and that’s all. I’ve never experienced it, but I bet it’s the best feeling in the world. Having the power in your hands to drastically affect the outcome of someone’s life. Who wouldn’t accept a job like that? They’re basically paying you to play God. Even if you had to work in this shithole of an “office” and had to deal with your least favorite minority on a day-to-day basis, you’d still come in every day with a smile embedded in your face and a song in your heart. And he did. For him, this is a wonderful feeling, and this is the most wonderful day there could be.

Now I’m fainting. The leak is drilling into my head, punching my bladder. I can’t hear anything else. The white walls are a white blur. Maybe this is purgatory and now I’m being sent to Heaven. At least I hope it’s heaven. Or maybe I can just pass out and piss my pants.

“Bross!” His presidential voice calls my name right on time. Thank God I didn’t faint. I would have been arrested for pissing all over the parole office. I can barely stand, but I do, amongst all the people waiting, and go up to the front of the room where his desk is. He never looks away from me. I’m just glad I got away from the leaking ceiling, but now my face and pits are leaking. What do I do? How do I act? Do I ask why I’m here? Do I demand my rights? Lick his balls? There’s no time to think.

“Take a sit,” he says firmly. I have to admit – he does command a presence. He stops whistling the second I sit. His smile disappears. It’s like a poorly-done version of good-cop/bad-cop. “So why are you here?” All of his sentences are delivered in a punch.

“I honestly don’t know.”

My voice is soft and trembling. I’m not sure if that was a conscious choice, to appear submissive, or if my bladder is affecting my speech.

“Do you think I’m stupid or something?”

“Not at all. I’m just telling the truth. I gave my passport to the migration officer and he just sent me here.”

“So you don’t know why you’re here?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Wow, you really are retarded.”

Maybe if my body wasn’t begging me to get the hell out of there and find a bathroom as quick as possible, I would have told him to fuck off, but I just nod instead.

“Son, you forgot your SEVIS I-20 Immigration Student Form to legally get into the United States.”

What the fuck is he talking about?

“Of course,” I reply, “I am so sorry. I will not forget it the next time.”

“Oh no, there will not be a next time. We’re sending you along with these other fuckers back to Mexico.”

“What for?”

“For not having the proper documentation.”

This really is hell. I’m going to get deported. Should I beg?

“Please Officer, I didn’t know better. I swear it will never happen again.”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“I might have a picture of the document in my laptop.”

“Then take it out.”

And so I do. I scroll through every document I have saved on my computer. What am I doing? Is this a diversion tactic? Have I gone delusional? Here it is. The SEVIS I-20 thingy. Now, the only thing I have to do is turn the computer screen and not piss my pants in the process.

“Here it is.”

“Do you want to be an American, son?”

“Yes.”

No.

“With all my heart.”

I might have gone too far with this one, but he bought it.

“Okay, I’m going to let you go because you look like a good kid” You look white so you’re not as bad. “But this will be on your records.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you so much, sir.”

I get out of there as quickly as possible and go directly to the bathroom. I don’t know exactly how long I was in there, but from the amount of pee I released, I would say a couple of hours. I’m proud of myself, of how I handled the situation. It was like a poker game wherein I had the worst hand but had to pretend that I had a straight flush. It was a tasteful way to deal with an act of discrimination, if you could even call it that. Now I am here, in a well-lit LAX baggage room. Now I realize that it was more than one woman. They were at least three of them with the same problem. They probably did go back to Mexico, and won’t ever see their sons again. I’m shaky, but safe. Now there are no Kafka-esque distractions. There is no leaking room any more. No more cheerfully sadistic officers. No more wailing women. And for some reason, I think about these people more than when I was in there. I mostly feel sorry for the officer. He has to ruin someone’s life to stay happy.

That must be a drag.

Jan Bross is a sophomore studying film and literature at USC. He was born and raised in Mexico City to a Jewish family, and has always had a passion for storytelling. His interest is in giving a voice to characters that are usually in the shadows, and he draws upon his background and experiences to realize this. His field of study is purely based on understanding and developing his storytelling skills, as it is the way in which he connects with and understands people.