Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [94]
“Same here. Thanks for all your help.”
Relieved, we shuffle from check-in to Passport Control.
Forty minutes later, as we begin taxiing out onto the runway, about to begin our long, difficult, around-the-houses trip home, I sink into my seat, consumed with relief.
This shoot, more than most, has taken a major toll on my spirits, to the point where I half-wish I could quit too. Though that's just the fatigue talking. Once I'm back in Los Angeles, relaxed, rejuvenated, hanging out with friends, enjoying Christmas and drinking in the New Year, that'll all change, I'm sure, and I'll look ahead to the Alaska trip and the whole crew situation with entirely new eyes. At least, that's what I'm hoping.
It's a hope that sustains me for several hours more, all the way to Gatwick Airport in England, and from there, on our most pointless layover ever, in a cab speeding across London to Heathrow, up to the check-in desk in Terminal 4, where a woman from British Airways flicks open my ticket to begin sorting through my papers, then stops abruptly, and with the professional coldness I've come to expect from my countrymen, born of centuries of bullying the rest of the world with impunity, hands them back, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, sir, you won't be flying today.”
We're only two feet apart, but I'm thinking I must have misheard. Did she say I won't be flying?
“Correct. I can't let you board the plane.”
And, picking up the phone beside her, she calls security.
15
Emma Thompson
to the Rescue
“But—”
“Sir, there's nothing I can do.”
“But—”
“Sorry. Now, please go back to your side of the desk.”
“—But I'm on TV,” I almost say, though of course that only works in America. And maybe not even there.
Without further argument, my bags are pulled off the conveyor and put back in my hands, along with my passport and ticket, though not my U.S. resident alien visa; but that's only because, imbecile that I am, I forgot to bring it with me! Left the damn thing in a drawer at home.
America's like an ATM. You can push the buttons on the machine as often as you care to, pound them with your fists, even jam a screwdriver into the slot, but unless you put your Visa card in, it doesn't work. Resident aliens in the United States are told, “Go overseas, by all means. Have a great time. Just make sure you carry your green card (which is actually white) with you, otherwise you're not coming back in again.” That's final. There's no negotiation at all. And if the airline helps you out and lets you on board without it, they're slapped with a whopping fine.
“How … but… it's … I mean, what am I supposed to do now? I have nowhere to go.”
The starched check-in woman, already on to the next customer, is becoming what's referred to in Britain as “annoyed.” “Contact the American Embassy,” she says, handing me a phone number. “Maybe they can issue temporary papers.”
“And how long does that take?”
“A few days.”
Oh. Okay. Not too bad, then. Although it is Christmas, so …
“You're right.” She performs a quick recalculation in her head. “Two weeks.”
Two weeks????
I'm starting to perspire. Barely holding it together. I don't have any physical money on me. Don't need to as a rule; the show pays for everything. I have credit cards, so I can get by. But London's pricey. Staying in a hotel for two weeks, what's that going to cost me at current exchange rates?
“Look, how about you let me get on the plane and I'll deal with this when I reach America? I'm legal. They have me on the computers over there.”
But that doesn't wash because of the fines. And anyway, I'm too late. Security's arrived. A uniformed officer keeps maneuvering me away from the check-in desk until my fingernails are forced to let go. Giddy with shock, I retreat across the noisy terminal to dump my bags in a corner, out from under people's feet. And there are thousands of feet. The airport's busy as hell today, packed with travelers heading out for the holidays. Laughing, shouting. All with the right visas, too, I bet, damn them.