26 Federal Plaza (cont'd)

were just to get a form pertaining to me
in some small way. At this she seems to awaken and
get quite cross herself. "I have no idea why she sent
you here, all visas are given outside of the country!
Next!" So my option then was to return to infor-
mation but I just couldn’t face that line up. again, no
matter how great of a writer Orwell is.

In a desperate attempt to shed this
Canadian passive identity and get results, I
approach the friendly guard standing in the door-
way, just feet away from the information desk. I
think that if I could first talk to him maybe he could
get me to the desk, foregoing the hour long wait in
line under the circumstances that the woman had
sent me to the wrong room and wasted three hours

‘of my time. No luck. Talking to him was, well,
pointless. At the moment of almost giving up I
notice that the woman who sent me to the wrong
room is reaching for her purse, that she is momen-

tarily distracted. So too is the man next in line, he _

just looks dumbly at the crowd behind him. This is
my chance, I walk straight to the desk as the infor-
mation woman resurrects herself from her purse
below. I determinedly explain my situation to her in
the most accurate manner paying particular atten-
tion to words like "exchange student" and "student
visa", and attempt their language again by repeating
"F-1 visiting student visa stamp" a few times. This
time she looks like she understands and says "oh
yes, tenth floor." I was so glad to hear her say this
as opposed to "across the hall" where she sent me
last time and I was especially glad that I had the
courage and the opportunity to butt in line like that.
Now I’m getting somewhere. As I step out on to the
tenth floor I see nothing. I mean I see a lot of closed
doors with no markings on them save the "janitor"
sign on the one at the end of the hall. I switch back
into my previous occupation of bicycle messenger
mode and start hunting down intelligent life. After
crossing several corridors and hallways and another
set of metal detectors -- beeeeeeeeep-- I finally see a
door with the US immigration logo. O.K., so I enter
this door hoping it will be the last of my search and
of course am greeted with the tail end of a line up,
and beside the line up is rows and rows of chairs
filled with waiting people. Oh no, and I can only
imagine that everyone in this room is to be provid-

ed for before myself. Again, all the children are run-
ning everyone mad and the mood in the room is one
of utter disdain for all that is governmental. I reach
for Orwell.

But in all societies the common people
must live to some extent against the exist
ing order. The genuinely popular culture
is something that goes on beneath the
surface, unofficially and more or less
frowned on by the authorities. One thing
that one notices if one looks directly at
the common people, especially in big
towns, is that they are not puritanical.
They are inveterate gamblers, drink as
much beer as their wages will permit, are
devoted to bawdy jokes, and use probably
the foulest language in the world. They
have to satisfy these tastes in the face of
astonishing hypocritical laws (licensing
laws, lottery acts, etc.) which are
designated to interfere with everybody
but in practice allow everything to
happen.

When I finally get sight of the woman
behind the desk; which by this time is like approach-
ing a King on a throne, I see an elegantly dressed,
pleasant faced woman who looks like she would be
willing to help, rather than simply dismissing people
as quickly as they approach. I can’t decide if this is
just the overly tolerant Canadian deducing these
impressions or if this woman may genuinely help
me. I close my book and slip it into my back pock-
et. I slowly step forward until it is my turn to
approach the throne. After explaining myself in
which has now become a well rehearsed and dare I
say, elegant speech, to which the woman patiently
listens to, she opens her mouth and spews:a ven-
omous acid all over my face that takes form in the
words "What you want is information, third floor.
Next. I don’t have all day." I of course argue every-
thing all over again, explain that this is where I was
sent, and that if she could just direct me anywhere
but information I would thank her with my life in a
ritual sacrifice to appease her as God. To this she
becomes agitated and tells me all she knows about

2, *

visas is to direct everyone to information. Am I
here? What cruel being outside of myself has con-
trolled my fate to this point of hopelessness? What
can I do to escape this beurocratic wasteland? Not
information, anything but information.

: I was mumbling nonsensically as I
departed the elevator on the third floor. I didn’t
bother to be careful about approaching the desk
with the risk of butting in front of a hundred or so
people. In a monotone voice I said something stu-
pid to the woman at the information desk and just
kind of threw my passport at her. It was a different
woman this time but I didn’t care, I saw no advan-
tage in this. She asked me some questions I may
have answered. I didn’t hear the people in line
yelling at me either, I chose not to hear anything.
The woman said something about across the hall, I
said "nope", and then she frowned and said "Did
you try the tenth floor?", "yep", she said "Oh no,
wait, Pll look it up." What? Look it up? Why that
seems to make sense. After a few moments she said
"O.K., eleventh floor, room 104."

The eleventh floor had no metal detec-
tors, no security guards, it had one room labeled
neatly "104", with plants on either side of the
entrance. I heard nothing but the calming hum of
the fluorescent lights above. I walked into the room,
there was nobody there except the smiling faced
government worker. "Hello" is what he said. He
took my passport and left the room. Exactly one
minute elapsed when he returned with my passport
which was stamped with an F-1 visiting student
stamp. "There you go, you’re all set friend."

I walk out of the building, through the
last set of metal detectors, down the street to the
City Hall/Brooklyn Bridge subway station, take a
seat in the train, and open up Orwell quoting
Kipling.

White hands cling to the bridle rein,
Slipping the spur from the booted heal;
Tenderest voices cry "Turn again!"

Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel:
Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,
He travels the fastest who travels alone.

influx: Magazine April 1999

45

were just o ge a form pertaining to me
in some small way. At this she sem to saken and
{et quite cross herself. "Thave noida why she sent
You here, all vias are gen outside ofthe county!
Next” So my option then was to return to infr-
‘ation but just coulda’ face that ine up again, no
matter how great of a writer Orel is
Ta a desperate attempt to shed this
Canadian passive identity and get revolts, T
approach the fiendly guard standing in the door
oat fet away from the formation desk.
think ha if could fst alk to him may he could
fet me tothe desk, foregoing the hour long waitin
Tine under the circumstances thatthe woman had
seat me tothe wrong room and wasted thre Bours
of my time, "No luck Talking to him wa, well,
Poin. At the moment of almost giving apt
notice thatthe woman who sent me tothe Wrong
room ix reaching for her purse, that she is momen
tarly itrcted So too te men next in ner
just looks dumbly atthe crowd behind him, This
ty chanes I walk straight tothe desk a the infor
‘mation woman resurrects Rerslf from her purse
bel determinedly explain my situation hein
the most accurate manner paying particular aten-
ton to words like "exchangestadent™ and "student
vist and attempt thei language agai by repeating
F- vihing student visa stamp" afew tines. ‘Tis
time she looks like she understands and says “ob
yess tenth floor” Iwas so glad vo hear he ay this
2 opposed to "aron the hal” where she sent me
last time and Twas especialy glad that I had the
courage and the opportunity to but in ine like ha.
Now 'm getting somewhere. As step out on othe
tenth oor Isce nothing. I mean Lace lot of closed
‘doors with no markings on them save the "antor”
Sign on the one at dhe end ofthe hal I sich back
into my previous occupation of bicycle messenger
‘mode and start hunting down intligent fe. After
Crossing several corridos and hallvays and another
‘setof metal detectors ~ becececeep— 1 nally ee a
‘door with the US immigration logo, OK, so Lenter
this door hoping t wil be the last of my search and
ofcourse am grected withthe til end of line up,
tnd beside the line up i rows and rows of chairs
fled with waiting people. Oh no, and I ean only
imagine that everyone in this oom i to be provide

for before myself, Again al he children are run-
ring everyone mad and the mood in the room is one
fof utr disdain for al thats governmental. I reach
for Onell

But inal societies the common people
rst live to some extent agnine the exit,
is something that goes on beneath the
surface, unoticialy and eooreorless
frowned on by the authorities. One thing
thar one notices fone looks directly a
the common people, especialy in big
towns i that they are not puritanical
They are inveterate gamblers, drink as
much beer as their wages wil permit are
devoted to band jokes and ute probably
the outst language in the word. They
astonishing hypocritical laws (icensing
designated to interfere with everybody
burn practice allow everthing ©
happen

When I finally get sight of the woman
Lbchind the der wich by this time ike approach
ing a King on throne, Lace an elegantly dressed,
pleasant faced woman who loks like she would be
‘ling to lp rather than simply dismissing people
5 guicly as they approach. can't decide if his
just the overly tolerant Canadian deducing these
impressions or if this woman may genuinely help
te. I close my book and ali i into ny back pock
ct T slowly step fortard unt i my turn t0
spproach the throne. Alter explaining myself in
‘hich has now become a well rchearscd and dare 1
Say, clegant speech, to which the woman patiently
lites fo, she opens her mouth and spews a ven
‘ommous acid all over my face tha takes form in the
‘words “What you want is information, third foot
‘Next. Idon'thave all day” Lo course argue every
‘hing all ver agin, explain that his is where Twas
Sent and that iFshe could just direct me anywhere
but information [would thank her with my ein a
fitual strife to appease her as God. To this she
becomes agitated and tell me all she knows about

nas isto direct everyone to information. Am I
here? What cruel being ouside of mel has con-
trolled my fate to this point of hopelessness? What
an T do to escape this Beurocratic wasteland? Not
‘nformation, anything but information

Twas mumbling nonsenscally as 1
departed the elevator on the third floor I did't
bother to be careful about approaching the desk
withthe risk of buting in front of « hundred or 30
people. In a monotone voice I said something si.
pid tothe woman atthe information desk and just
kind of threw my passport at her. Ie was a diferent
woman this time but dda’ care, Isa no advan-
tage in this. She asked me some questions I may
have answered, I din’ hear the people in ine
selling at me ether, I chose not to hear anything.
‘Te woman said something about acros the ball 1
‘tid nope" and then be frowned and said "Did
Sou ty the tenth floor", "yep, she sid "ON n0,
trai Tl look i up" What Look it up? Why that
‘cems ro make sense. After afew moments she said
‘OK, cleventh for, room 104

The eleventh floor had mo metal detec:
tors, mo security guatds it had one 100m labeled
neatly “10%, with plants on ciher side of the
entrance. I eard nothing but the ealming hum of
‘he Hsorencent ihts above. Trwalked into the room,
there was nobody thee except the amling faced
feverimeat worker, “Helo” is what he sail, “He
took my passport and let the room. Exactly one
‘which was stamped with an F-l visiting student
Samp. "There you g, you all et rend”

Twatk out of the building, through the
las set of metal detectors, down the szet 10 the
ity HallBrookiya Bridge subway station, take a
feat in the train, and open up Orwell quoting
Kipling

White hands cling othe bridle rein,
Slipping the spur fom the booted heal;
Tenderest voices ery "Turn agai”

‘Rea lips tarnish the scabbarded steel:
Down to Gehenna or up tothe Throne,
He travels the fastest who tel lone

influx Magazine April 1999

45