Behind the Green Veil Ch. 02

------------ Orkideh --------------

A thousand thoughts went through my head as I weaved through the cue to face the American immigration agent. It had been such a long and unexpected day. I was so sad leaving my brother's house, not because I would miss him specifically, but because it was one of the now rare occasions that my whole family can be together. My sister in Montreal was the first to leave Iran when she turned 20, accompanying her fiancé who found a job as a programmer for a Canadian telecommunications company. It was not long after that my brother moved to Malaysia with his new wife. My parents, my second sister and I remained living in Tehran with my maternal grandmother, my last surviving grandparent. About a year after that my remaining sister, Hannah, decided she wanted to go to school in the UK and moved to London. She had just graduated high school.

I am three years younger than Hannah, so it was yet some time before I finished high school and started medical school. When I decided that I did not want to be doctor, I applied to also attend college in the UK to go be with Hannah, with whom I felt closest. Four years after I left our grandmother died. With no other family to hold my parents in Tehran, they started flying often to Montreal to enjoy their new grandchildren.

By that time, I had moved to the US for my graduate studies. The problem for me was that on an American student visa, I could not easily travel outside of the US. I could travel back to Iran but I could not travel to Canada without securing an additional visa. These travel restrictions and complications plagued us all, a product of being Iranian. The result was that it was extremely difficult for us all to be together at the same time as a family. By some miracle the stars had all aligned for this trip to Malaysia and we had such a good time all together. Leaving was bitter sweet. My parents were getting older and I could see the years taking their toll. I had nieces and nephews that I had only seen pictures of on Facebook or talked to briefly on Skype, and I wondered how long it would be before we were all together again.

When I boarded the plane to head back to the US that morning, I was feeling all those emotions while also trying to come to terms with the fact that I now call the US home. I was also happy because I missed my fiancé. I had been away from him for two weeks and I really wanted to be back in his arms again. I was shocked to realize that during the whole flight I had only thought about him fleetingly, and that was when Jackson put his hand on my shoulder while we were standing looking out the plane window.

Dearest Jackson... What a wonderful surprise it had been meeting him. I had wanted his touch yet I knew I couldn't take it. It hurt me to have to draw the line at physical contact. But I was so happy he didn't let that kill the chemistry we had for the rest of the flight. I desperately wanted to share that last coffee with him and say a proper goodbye. So when I went through security and that sour cunt bitch started giving me a hard time, it was the missed time with Jackson that incensed me the most.

I tried to remain calm when they took me to the back room to do a more thorough security check. Still, I hoped that they would just look through my luggage and it would be all over with. But they questioned me for over twenty minutes, and I knew Jackson would be gone and that our opportunity was lost. It was the fact that the security agents had deprived me of that opportunity to say goodbye to him that perhaps made me so angry that I lost my cool. I snapped at the steely-eyed security agent asking me the same question that he had asked me once before, and something changed in his demeanor. He looked to his partner who stood at attention at the door, as if I might decide to run for it, and a sadistic smile crept up over his lips just barely noticeable.

They grabbed my luggage and dumped all my belongings out on the table, then with their gloves on they methodically went through every item, every piece of clothing. I had my dirty knickers in a separate knapsack and they emptied that as well, lifting up each of my panties to inspect them. The bastards weren't even getting off on them, they did it just to embarrass and humiliate me. I tried my best to remain stoic and not give them the satisfaction. If they wanted to paw through my dirty knickers, fine. They even emptied my purse and checked every item, making sure my makeup was really makeup. When they got to my phone, they demanded that I key in the password so that they could look through all of my pictures. I just sat there looking at the wall, curtly answering any questions they asked. When the steely-eyed one saw that I wasn't giving him the indignation that he desired to see from me, he picked up his radio and asked that a different agent be sent in, a person named Richardson.

I heard the security badge click of the door and turned to see that agent Richardson was a woman. Gloria Richardson, it read on her security badge. The other two agents left without even attempting to put my clothes back into my luggage. Once they had gone, agent Richardson informed me that she was going to do a search of my person, and instructed me to remove my clothing down to my bra and panties. I looked at my watch. I had 10 minutes before I would miss my flight. I looked up at her and the expression on her face said it all before I could even speak up in protest: she didn't give a damn about me missing my flight. I removed my clothing and stood there in silent humiliation.

I almost cried. But I didn't. I was determined not to let them get the best of me. Agent Richardson moved the hand-held metal detector over me, then slid her gloved hand underneath my bra to make sure I had nothing hidden in there. Then with the back of her hand she patted down the crotch of my panty and my bum. She then told me I could get dressed. I guess she decided to spare me the complete humiliation of a cavity search. Part of me was grateful and another part of me hated her even more for giving me reason to be grateful to her.

Agent Richardson then stood at the door and told me I was free to pack my things and go. I was shaking with anger as I repacked my luggage and put the belongings back into my purse. I packed up everything except my hijab, which I decided to wear. Strangely, at that moment I felt there was little difference between Iran and the US. Wearing the hijab was the only token act of protest I could do in that situation, even though I knew that such a small token sign of protest go right over her head. Bitch.

I looked at my watch again. My flight was gone. Even worse, the time was late, and I wondered if there would be any more flights to Boston that evening. I dreaded going to customer service and asking for a flight reassignment. The last time it happened, the airline did not consider my individual security delay something they needed to pay for. It had cost me $180 in fees to book another flight. Bastards, the whole bloody lot of them. I grabbed my luggage and walked toward the door. Agent Richardson opened it for me and told me to have a nice evening. Dry scabby cunt. I didn't say anything.

I exited the private security screening room and looked up to try and see where I needed to go. I glimpsed the sign that said "customs" to my right and I turned in that direction, nearly knocking over a guy who seemed to be standing right in my way. I was startled to see Jackson's soulful eyes staring down at me. I flew into his arms.

"I'm so glad to see you," I whispered. The emotional rollercoaster that I had been on almost made me cry again, but I held on to my tears.

"I'm so glad you're ok," he whispered down into my ear, so close that I could feel his breath blow into my ear and down my neck giving me chills. He held me tight like he never wanted to let me go. Before I could think better of it, I put my face into his chest and inhaled deeply, taking in his scent. It was something I had wanted to do for nearly the last 14 hours. His face was pressed against the top of my head, smelling my hair. I thought I felt the slightest press of his lips just above my hairline near my forehead then my senses suddenly came back over me.

I gently pushed away from him but held onto his arms. I was startled for the briefest second to see an intense look in his eyes and my pulse quickened as his gaze seemed to strip me naked. "What are you still doing here?!" I asked incredulously. "Is your plane delayed?" His arms felt firm beneath my grasp. Even if I couldn't hold onto him like I wanted to, I had no intention of letting his arms go any time soon.

"Yes," he answered and his eyes looked down and to the left, avoiding mine.

"Is that true?" I asked, not believing him. He thought about it for a minute then met my eyes.

"No," he answered softly. "I missed it."

"Why in the bloody hell did you do that?!" I asked, then was sorry that I did. He just looked at me with his soulful eyes but didn't say anything. He didn't need to. We just looked deeply at each other for a moment.

"Jackson," I said, finally breaking the silence, "that was really sweet." He smiled but there was a hint of sadness under his smile. "I really wanted to say goodbye to you, too," I added, wishing I could let him wrap his arms around me again.

"Let's go check on your flight," he finally said, before the moment could turn awkward. The perfect gentleman, he took my larger bag and dragged both of our big pieces of luggage behind him while we walked to the flight board.

"I'm betting it's gone," I said dejectedly. "Unless it got seriously delayed, I'm betting it's gone."

"If it is, we'll deal with it," he said confidently. "And besides, you're not alone. I'm in the same boat."

Sure enough, my flight was gone, and I didn't see any additional flights to Boston up on the board. It was 11:15 pm. He walked me over to US Airways customer service, the carrier for my flight to Boston. It was in another terminal, so we had a long walk. There was silence as we both weighed the connection between us and tried to figure out what it meant. I asked him if there were any more flights to Houston that evening and he said he didn't think so but had not yet been to customer service to find out. I told him I would go with him after we were done getting me settled.

The woman in customer service wanted to know why I had missed my flight to Boston, since my connecting flight was on time. I tried to explain my story but she was claiming that there was nothing that she could do. I would have to pay the fee for missing the flight and booking the next one for the following morning. And I would have to find a hotel to stay in and pay for it on my own while waiting for the morning flight.

It was at that point that Jackson stepped in and started arguing my case for me. I normally hate it when men try to speak for me but this time was different. He politely said that he understood that her hands may be tied and asked for her manager. We had to wait ten minutes before the manager was free and came over to talk to us but it was worth it. Jackson not only verified my story to the manager but elaborated quite a bit. By Jackson's version, I had been hooded and subjected to complete sensory deprivation and then interrogated while a barking and raving mad German Sheppard was held by leash just inches from my face. With added indignance, he emphasized how ridiculous it was that a graduate student going to visit her sick mother was treated in such a way. I had to suppress a smile.

The manager waived the fee for changing flights and gave me a voucher for a hotel for the evening. I sincerely thanked him and then we were off looking for the Continental customer service. As soon as we were out of earshot of the US Airways customer service we broke out laughing. I was amazed at how quickly he had brightened my mood. On the walk over there I took Jackson's arm and squeezed it, silently thanking him for his help and his continued generosity with his time and friendship. I thought about kissing him on the cheek but I thought better of it. He looked so scrumptious, too – a gruff five o'clock shadow of stubble growing on his angular chin after not shaving for the past day.

Jackson was in a worse predicament that I was in trying to explain why he missed his flight. He had no excuse about security delays. When he told the guy that he had been waiting for a friend who got held up in security, the man politely told him that the airline could not be responsible for that. I stepped in at that point to come to Jackson's rescue. It was only fair. I told the man that Jackson was my fiancé and showed him my ring. Then I explained in vivid detail everything that had happened to me in the private security room, minus Jackson's vivid imagination. The truth was bad enough on its own. Jackson had not yet heard the details, and he took my hand and squeezed it as I explained the humiliating ordeal of the strip search. I did not lower my voice while I gave my story, either. I said it loud enough such that all around us could hear. It worked... mostly.

"I sympathize with you two, and I'm sorry for what you went through, Miss," the guy said, looking embarrassed that he had even given us a hard time to begin with. He started punching away furiously at his computer. "Here's what I can do. I can waive the rebooking fee and only charge you the $80 fee for missing the flight. That will allow me to give you a hotel and meal voucher for the night and book you on the first flight out in the morning. That's the best I can do."

Jackson accepted the offer and pulled out his credit card to pay the $80. I felt good that I was able to help him but at the same time I felt bad that he was going through all of this for me, seeing as I couldn't fully return his affection in kind. At least we both had a hotel to stay in for the night. Unfortunately – or maybe fortunately to keep me out of trouble – they were different hotels. When he was done with his transaction and had his vouchers in hand, I had an idea.

"What do you say we take a cab and drop our luggage off and then you let me take you to dinner? It's the least I can do to say thank you." It was late and I should have been dead tired, but I was also hungry and you could always find food in New York at any hour. More importantly, I wanted to spend more time with him. Since he had gone to all that trouble to wait for me, it seemed a shame to waste the opportunity and just go to the hotel and crash. I was hoping that he felt the same.

"I would love that," he said simply. "Let me make a quick phone call and then I'm all yours." He pulled out his phone and began to dial. It reminded me that I needed to call Brian, my fiancé, and tell him that I missed my flight and that I would be home in the morning. He was supposed to pick me up from Logan airport and I needed to reach him hopefully before he left the house. I felt ashamed that I had almost forgotten.

I stepped away to give myself some privacy while I waited for Brian to answer, then felt guilty like I was trying to hide something. I loved Brian and I knew I wasn't going to cheat on him. I was just going to have dinner with a wonderful new friend. Was that wrong? If not, why was I afraid to explain it to Brian? He was outraged when I told him about my ordeal going through security and vowed that he would call someone and complain. I told him not to bother – I really didn't want any more attention to the matter. I wanted to put it behind me. Besides, part of me was now feeling grateful that I had more time to spend with Jackson. Brian told me that he loved me just as the thought of Jackson occurred to me, making me feel even more guilt. I told him that I loved him, too, and promised him a special treat when I saw him in the morning.

I walked back over to Jackson and we headed for the airport exit and then looked for a cab. We made a plan to drop the luggage off at my hotel rather than both of ours to save time. He knew of a Senegalese place in Brooklyn with great food that was relatively quiet and stayed open late. I was intrigued and so I checked into my hotel, we dropped off our bags in my room then jumped back in our cab and we headed west down Memorial Highway toward Brooklyn. He didn't remember the address and the cabbie didn't know the place, but we were able to look up the address in my iphone.

While driving there Jackson, with his natural outgoing personality, struck up a conversation with the taxi driver who told us that he was from Iran. Jackson let on that I was also from Iran, commenting on what a small world it had become since he left on his trip.

I couldn't be mad at him. There was no way he could have known. There are certain questions I would have asked before admitting where I was from; questions that would allow me to know the type of person I was dealing with – their religious and political philosophies. I was an unmarried Iranian woman, out late at night, wearing no hijab or other clothing to protect my modesty. An Islamic hardliner would certainly take offence and look down upon me. Plus, the connection between Jackson and I had most certainly made it seem as if we were intimate with each other – or at least a religious hardliner would interpret it that way.

The driver's eyes narrowed and focused on me intently as he stared me down in his rear-view mirror. It was de ja vu all over again, except this time instead of a softening look of understanding he gave me a hardening look of judgment. His lips moved as he stared me down and I thought for sure he had mouthed the word "jendeh," which is how we say "slut" or "whore" in Farsi. I saw him reach for his phone and punched in a text message. Then he reached down to his little keyboard at the fare terminal and hit a button. A tiny red light came on above my head and I looked up to see a camera there. Many New York taxis have cameras in them now, and this one was obviously on.

The mood in the cab had suddenly become real tense and Jackson was looking at me trying to figure out why. My heart was racing. I didn't have time to explain to him that the Iranian government has an extensive international network to hunt down dissidents. Our cab driver was not likely one of them but if you support the regime you can earn money by reporting any dissidents you come across. I didn't know for sure if that is what was happening but something in my gut told me that it might be, and I really didn't want to take a chance.

I looked at the meter. Our fare was $18.50 so far. I cautiously took a $20 bill out of my purse. Jackson saw me and looked puzzled as we obviously weren't at the restaurant yet. I pulled him close to me and he seemed to get that he needed to stay close. At the very least, he understood enough not to ask any questions. As soon as we came to a stop at a traffic light, I quickly shoved the $20 bill into the fare hole in the thick sheet of plexiglass that separated the front seats from the back seats and bolted out of the cab, dragging Jackson with me.

"Madar gjende!" I heard the driver yell as we bolted toward the sidewalk, not even closing the door behind us.

"Tu goh khordie!" I yelled back. There was a 24-hour CVS drugstore on the corner and we ran inside.

The traffic light turned green yet the cab driver waited at the light as if pondering what to do. Cars started honking at him and soon he pulled off, turning the corner as if he meant to circle back around. As soon as he was out of sight I took off out of the CVS with Jackson following me closely. We ran across the street to the traffic moving in the opposite direction and then jumped in the first open cab we saw, breathing heavily. My hands were shaking and Jackson reached for them, holding my tiny hands in his huge palms. We had an African driver this time. We told him where we were going and he knew the place, happy to take us someplace familiar. I let out a big sigh of relief and tried to calm down.