No Man's Land - A Short Story by Judy Zarowny

NO MAN’S LAND                                                                            by Judy Zarowny

Beads of perspiration ooze from my hairline, trace their way under the arms of my glasses, roll over my flushed cheeks, and drip off my chin.  I’m next. The border guard is young, stern, and pumped with importance, ready to launch his inquisition, looking to ferret me out as an “undesirable alien”, and punt me the 5,800 feet back across the Peace Bridge to Canada.

I remove my sunglasses, roll down the window and smile, bland middle-aged woman that I am. Why is it, I muse, I always feel like a convicted felon, a mental incompetent, a drug dealer, or someone ill with Ebola virus every time I come to cross the border?

The guard scrutinizes my passport and knits his brow. “Where do you live?”

“Orangeville, Ontario—you know, just over the br . . .”

“Where were you born?”

“Edmonton, Alberta.” He fixes me with a penetrating stare. “one of our prairie provinces, ha, ha, . . . lots of oil there . . . way north in the tar s . . . ‘

“What are you bringing in to the country?”

“Oh, just my clothes and shoes, and you know, ha ha, undies, toiletries.”

“Toiletries?”

“Well, that would be shampoo and face cream, sun tan lotion, tooth . . .”

“Any cigarettes or alcohol?”

 

“Oh, no.” I clear my throat, trying to suppress the warble in my voice.

“Where are you going?”

“Lake Cassadaga.”

“Why?”

 “Holiday, just a little getaway . . . three days.”

“Which means you’ll be returning on . . .”

“The seventeenth.”

He enters something on the computer then, unfolds out of his booth like a preying mantis, his right hand resting on his holster. Crouching, he slowly scans with trained eyes, the interior of my car then turns his scrutinizing gaze on me.  “Why are you alone?”

“What?”

“Why are you alone?”

I stare up at him, confused. What kind of question is this? My feverish mind serves up the following: Well, I was married, you know, back in 1995, and it lasted for 16 years but the jerk cheated on me with the cute little fitness freak in his office he called his executive assistant, and after that, with the Skip on his curling team, a woman with lips full of Botox, and breasts full of silicone, and then with his massage therapist, a man, after which he decided he was gay. I wasn’t the one who broke up the marriage. Not me. He’s the reason I’m alone. I’ve tried, mind you, to find another man.  Nobody likes me.  I’m a sad broken down old discarded woman.  I’m depressed and seeing a therapist, but we haven’t succeeded in routing out my loser complex.  God, the agony of it all. But I can’t tell you how much better I feel after sharing this, with you.

“Well?” he demands.

“Do you mean, why am I travelling alone?”

“I haven’t got all day lady.” He stands up again, hands on hips.

“I—I don’t have a partner.” I blush and wheeze and stumble over my words.

“You don’t have friends either, I suppose?” he barks.

“I’m, I’m visiting friends.” I stutter, and grin stupidly.

“Where do they live?”

“They live on, ah, Lake Avenue. Can’t remember the number—wait a minute.” I dump my purse on to the conspicuously empty passenger seat, to find the note on which I’ve written the information. “Here it is, 765 Lake Avenue. Ha, ha. It’s right on the lake there—lovely spot.”

“Name?”

“Judy.”

“Their name!” His saliva strafes the side of my car.

“Oh, ha, ha, Hobson, Damien and Ethel Hobson.”

He goes back into the booth and enters something on his computer. More sweat courses down the sides of my face, and back.

“Where did you meet them?”

“In Chautauqua, last time I was here.”

“When was that?”

“August um, last year, I think…”

He’s busy on the computer again. My heart is pumping double time.

“Where do you work?” He steps out of the booth.

“Peel District School board.  I’m a teacher.”

“Huh!” he grunts, pulling himself up to his full height.

 

I shrink down into my seat. Oh God, he hates teachers.

“It’s Tuesday,” he proclaims, one hand on his hip, the other poking the air with the index finger.  “Why aren’t you in school?”

I pause. My mouth drops open. Is he serious? “It’s July,” I say struggling to keep a straight face.

He retracts the darting hand, and clamps his arms across his chest, clenching his teeth and squeezing his lips together into a thin white line. I hold my breath. He stands there, probing me with his accusatory eyes for what seems like an eternity, waiting, I think, for one glimmer of mirth to escape from me, which miraculously never comes. Finally, he simply nods, and waves me through.

As I drive up onto 90 South, my tightly corked laughter erupts in waves of hysterical giggles. I’ve survived the ordeal of guilty till proven innocent and even though I almost fumbled the ball, I’m free now, suspicious-lonely-single-alleged-hooky playing-teacher notwithstanding, to enjoy the company of my friends in the great United States of America.

This story won third prize in the adult short story division in the Caledon Public Library’s contest “Click, Create, Celebrate” in 2015

Posted on behalf of Judy Zarowny