When Niagra Falls...

“Sir, as a representative of the Canadian government, I am refusing your entry into Canada.”

I stood there with a blank look, similar to the one of a baby seal about to get clubbed. And even though the words were coming out of his mouth with a brooding sense of finality, they refused to register behind the bone of my thick skull. I pleaded.

“But sir, I am not the person described in the four pages you hold in your hand. I grew up and while doing so I made mistakes, some of which cost me my freedom and some of which still haunt me to this day. But regardless of how you view me as a person, which you’ve obviously based solely on the papers you hold in your hand, the fact remains that I served every minute of time for each one of those crimes. I paid my debt to society. I suffered the ramifications of those actions.”

His eyes glanced from me down to the documents and back to me as he calmly spoke.

“Sir, look at these charges. Assault. Resisting arrest. Felony eluding. Burglary. Domestic violence. Criminal trespass. The list goes on and on. There are nineteen charges listed here. I cannot, nor will not, allow you to enter Canada.”

I sighed audibly, exhaustedly, and looked around the room. What was I doing here, in this No Mans Land, ostensibly stuck in the small amount of space between the United States and Canada reserved for, apparently, extensive background checks.

The room was brightly lit with windows on all sides allowing the perfect view of both where you wanted to go, and where you came from. The icy water roared violently over the cliffs of the Niagara Gorge before settling down in the Maid of the Mist Pool 170 feet below. The city of Toronto looked peaceful in comparison, gazing down from its perch above the falls, alive with neon blood and casino money.

I scanned the room and settled my gaze upon the five guys huddled in the corner of the room.

“Sir, with all due respect, I ask you to please reconsider. I flew here this morning from Atlanta to meet those guys at the airport in Buffalo. My best friend is getting married and we came here, all the groomsman, to spend a rare weekend together as friends, to gamble, to go out, to celebrate one of the last nights we’ll have together. Look at the dates on those charges. ’97, ’98, ’99, and 2000. I haven’t been in trouble in almost eight years. How can it be that the decisions I made as a confused adolescent be in any way indicative of who I am now?”

The papers ruffled in the mans hands as he looked directly into my eyes.

“Sir, you can return to Buffalo and talk with the consulate about obtaining a pardon. If you return here with a pardon, you will be allowed to pass through. However, should you try to return through the border at any time without that pardon you will be deported, and as a result, you will never again be allowed to step foot on Canadian soil.”

My cause was lost and the sooner I realized that, the better. For me, there would be no bachelor party, no afternoon limo, no hotel overlooking the mighty Niagara Falls. There would be no secrets to keep, no pacts made to cover up the results of my friends blatant inebriation, and no way to get past a past that still finds a way to punish me eight years later.

I fucking hate authority. I hate cops and rent-a-cops and Mounties and security guards’. I hate jails and Customs and police stations and background checks and prosecuting attorneys. I hate the piece-of- shit public defender that convinced me to take the plea bargain that stuck me with this obtrusive felony. I hate fact that I have nineteen charges on my fucking rap sheet but more than anything, I hate fact that I am powerless to change even one of them.

The gray skies outside the building turned even grayer and the Canadian customs agent told me to meet him outside where he would give me my passport and show me how to return back to the States.

I felt like I was sixteen again, and out of all my friends, I was the one with the fake ID that didn’t work. I felt like the guy who goes out in downtown Chicago on Saturday night with sneakers on and can’t get into the club his friends are going to. I felt like I was somehow letting everyone down, like life was laughing at me and reminding me that regardless how many Windsor knots I tie, no matter how many limos I ride in, at the end of the day, I’m still me. I’m still a criminal and an alcoholic, a coke addict and a liar.

I slowly walked away from the counter and over to where Tommy and the rest of the crew were standing with apprehensive faces. The look I wore on mine said it all and with a few short sentences, I explained what had happened, that I wasn’t going with them and that I was sorry. I gave them each hugs; hip-hop half hugs full of attitude and understanding because each one of them knew it could have just as easily been them.

I walked away and through the double doors of the building, into the parking area where my rental car was parked. The wind whipped angrily under the canopy that covered the search area. Bits of icy snow fell sideways. Canada seemed like Oz, a place that I would never be able to get to no matter how hard I tried. I was angry. Unbelievably angry. I wanted to take my rage out on Mounties and anyone else who wore a fucking uniform. I wanted to show them what a criminal really was. I wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, to hit the gas on the SUV go out like a gangster.

I started the car and drove over to where the customs official was waiting. He pointed in the direction of Buffalo while handing me my passport, telling me that I had to stop and check in with U.S. officials before I could get back into the states. I took it, rolled up the window, and drove away without saying anything. Fuck him and his high horse and his French fucking last name. My life is mine and I own every bit of it. I am a criminal and I’m proud of it. I took the road less traveled and paved that motherfucker. I did my time, I paid my debts, I explained to my nine year old daughter why her daddy left. I stood trial both literally and metaphorically for all that I’d done but at that moment I felt no vindication, I felt like a loser.

I drove the short distance to the guard shack and handed the officer my passport and paperwork. He asked me why I got refused, I told him because of my criminal record and he told me to pull around the corner and park.

I slowly pulled forward and bits and pieces of my past came flooding back. I thought about the guys that I had hung out with and how a couple of them were now dead or in prison. I thought about the police chase that landed me a felony, about the .380 semi automatic that I carried with me, and the kid that I jacked for eighteen dollars. I thought about the youth that I had wasted fighting an enemy that lived within.

I thought about my parents...

(To be continued...)