Illegal

The guard had a menacing grip on the lean muscles of his upper arm. As they marched down an industrial hallway lined with holding cells, Michael’s gaze was inevitably drawn into small windows set at eye level in the doors. Each cell contained an L-shaped bench lining two adjacent walls and a toilet/sink combination in the far right-hand corner, built from the same solid stainless steel that reinforced the door hinges. It was a quiet, still hall, constructed of cinder blocks and layered in thick paint, with a muffled echo resounding from the heavy soles of the guard’s boots. Michael wanted to run his fingers along one of the depressed lines in the perfectly spaced grout hollow between the cinder blocks.

The first cell contained a stunningly beautiful woman holding the ugliest baby Michael had ever seen. It was a stark contrast, long dark hair and high cheekbones and bottomless black eyes on the woman, the rumpled blue clothing around the wailing baby. The baby seemed to have something wrong with it and this powerfully drew the observer in, for the face immediately gave the impression that something was indeed wrong, that his was a mutated, grotesque arrangement of features. The woman was holding this hideous child against her breast, smiling and whispering something to him that the closed cell swallowed. Her beautiful eyes were empty and yet so very full, full of a dark sorrow and pain that seemed to overflow into the room.

The next cell was empty but one further down the hall held a young Peruvian or Bolivian man. Michael could not tell the difference between the South American Indigenous peoples, but there was no mistaking he was from one of the tribal countries. He was wearing a filthy, oversized pink tracksuit with orange shoes and caught Michael’s eye as the guard shoved him past the cell. When he smiled meekly he revealed that the top row of his teeth were missing.

The guard finally paused and fumbled with an oversized keyring to find the key needed for Michael’s cell. After Michael entered, the door was slammed shut and the guard demanded Michael extend his handcuffed wrists through a small opening under the window. One of the cuffs was removed and locked in a loop. That was OK, this indignity of having only one hand free, being Michael would not be here long. For him this was the last stop on the train, the ultimate holding facility before finally being deported from the United States. A turning point of sorts, a limbo for lost souls. Michael was being sent to Mexico City and in the file the guard had been given it indicated that he was a dangerous gang member.

A painfully bony man with loose skin around his jaw and neck was sharing Michael’s cell, but he kept his head in his hands, face leaned into his palms, obviously not interested in talking. Michael smiled to himself. He was OK with some silence. It would give him time to think. After months in holding, he still could not believe this was happening. He could not believe he was being sent to Mexico City. Michael Jackson had never been to Mexico City, or anywhere in Mexico. Michael Jackson was Brazilian.