When we last left your humble humorist, he was touring Uzbekistan helping legless pig farmers resettle into their native homeland. Vowing a vacation on his return, we now rejoin our intrepid adventurer…
SHG:
This is the worst vacation ever, and I had to spend an entire week with the in-laws once.
So the IDEA was for me to return from Uzbekistan to the States by way of Florida, where I would meet my family and enjoy a nice little beach trip prior to Thanksgiving.
What I got, in reality, was far worse.
I touched down in Fort Lauderdale late in the afternoon. While making my way through customs, the agent started sniffing the air in front of him.
“You smell like roast pork,” he told me. That was apparently enough to pull me out of line.
So I’m taken to a room with my baggage. They toss my belongings and find your Christmas present: a preserved pig’s head Hadji gave me as a sign of love and affection for all the work I did over there. I named him Cy Vance as I thought you’d get a kick out of it.
Apparently you’re not allowed to bring pork products of that kind into the US in such a fashion. I guess that’s one of those things for the Crime a Day guy’s next book.
Anyway now your pig’s head is in Federal custody. Sorry about that.
Next I’m taken to a new room, handcuffed and shackled, and forced to explain myself to CBP and ICE hacks. As I try to explain everything I’ve been doing was all part of a peaceful NGO mission, one of the ICE idiots seems to think my thick Southern accent actually sounds similar to the Uzbeki accent I heard around the natives who spoke passable English.
My efforts were for naught. The ICE and CBP agents decided my passport and driver license were fraudulent. I was deemed a non-citizen without legal status by a goofball with ICE credentials, and carted to a holding cell while they figured out what to do with me.
After getting put on a bus and riding for what seems like hours to a windowless hellhole, I found myself in a facility where no one spoke either English or Uzbek. Fortunately, I still retained a bit of Spanish from high school days, so I was able to get some information from those around me.
If I’m getting the translations right, I’m at a place called the “Broward Transitional Center” in Pompano, Florida. I’ve never heard of this place or the town, but both suck monkey balls. This place is a fucking jail, Scott, but according to the bizarre euphemism on the doors it’s a “transitional center.” Go figure.
My days are spent in a room with thirty other people. All I can do is clean dishes, which works well since I’ve always been the only dishwasher in the family. The other inmates (and that’s what we are, despite the cute names the screws use) are nice enough to not care if I accidentally appropriate their culture.
I can’t reach anyone outside of this letter I’m being allowed to write, so no one can put money on my commissary account. Speaking of which, could you please loan me a few bucks? I’m really craving some Zapp’s Voodoo New Orleans Chips right now.
No one can really tell me when I’ll get to see a judge and plead my case. I do know the judges preside in courts inside the Transitional Center, so they are probably all nasty old men who don’t see the sunlight. One can only imagine how a lack of sunlight or English speaking defendants hurts one’s judicial temperaments.
And I don’t get a lawyer assigned to my case either, because removal proceedings are considered administrative hearings and not punitive.
SHG, if you get this please, PLEASE send Mario to me. I need to get out of here and back to my family. Even if it means visiting the in-laws over Christmas this year. I’ll do anything, I swear.
I’ve got to get out of here.
Best (please HELP),
—CLS
That’s it for this week, folks! Special thanks go to Fault Lines Alumni Mario Machado, who was gracious enough to help me fill in a few blanks for this little idea of mine.
Hope you enjoyed it.
We’ll see you next week, everyone!