Demian is blinking away tears.

A sensitive artistic type, he has just been refused entry into Canada from
the US.  Eight years ago, after his father died, he fell into a depression,
which led to excessive drinking, which led to a Driving Under the Influence
conviction in California, ...
..., which led to his Denial of Entry into Canada, now, eight years later.

Since that conviction he has been a firm non-drinker.

I've tried to fill in for his father in some small way, which was why I was
bringing him to Canada for a working vacation in which we would create
virtual, computer-generated characters for my company.   OK, it's not all
altruism, Demian is an amazingly gifted computer artist who endows characters
with strikingly realistic and evocative emotions, not unlike the ones he is
struggling to stifle now.

He also has shoulder-length hair and a beard, which isn't helping his
situation at the Canadian border.

We're on the US side now trying to regain entry into our home country after
our denial of access to Canadian soil, which involved a long period of waiting
on a hard wooden bench, followed by a series of stern lectures by a pompous
petty functionary who explained in detail why Canada doesn't want Demian's
type of person and how entry into Canada is a privilege, not a right.

Lectures interspaced by other periods of waiting on the hard bench for our
passports to be returned, which couldn't happen until all of this was
carefully entered into the computer forever.

The Canada-side rejection process took over an hour and a half, but things got
much better when the US counterpart of the Canadian border guard turned out to
be a handsome, young, clean-cut guy who exuded unusual humor, compassion, and
intelligence.  We hit it off immediately as fellow Americans, and Demian let
his guard down, then walked away from the counter as his emotions started to
show. I followed him to do my fill-in dad thing.

And that's how we got to this moment right now: Demian struggling with tears.

The handsome guard beckons me back to the high counter, which is topped with a
computer screen that's pointed away from me.

I assume our troubles are over.

I approach the guard, I smile.

He doesn't

He: Your friend's not the only convicted criminal, is he?

Me: I beg your pardon?

[He looks down at the computer screen]

He: You've been convicted of crimes too, haven't you.

Me: No.  I…  [he scrutinizes me dubiously, then glances back at the
screen]  …not that I know of?

He: Are you telling me that you don't know which crimes you've been
convicted of?

Me: No, I'm saying I wasn't ever convicted of any crimes that I can
remember.  What are you looking at?

[He slowly lifts his eyes from the screen and stares at me]

He: I would think you would remember it if you were convicted of a crime.

Me: I don't remember any convictions because I was never convicted
of any crimes that I know of.  What does it say I was convicted of?

[pause]

He: You were convicted in Maui.

Me: Maui?!  That's crazy.  I've never even been to Maui.

He: You've never been to Maui?

Me: No!  Never!

[pause]

He: Where were you born?

Me: I was born in Boston, Massachusetts.

[ He looks back down at the screen.  Clicks some keys]

He: Were you arrested in Boston in 1968?

Me: This is crazy.

He: Why?

Me: Where were you in 1968?

He: I wasn't born yet.

Me: That is exactly my point.  This is getting Kafka-esque.

He: What's that?

Me: When I came in here I looked at you and I knew you were an
intelligent and educated person.  I am sure you know who Kafka is.

[ He looks down at the counter and smiles.
     I assume our troubles are over. ]

He: Do you have any sharp objects in your car that I might cut
myself on?

[ He is putting on gloves ]

Me: No.

He: Any weapons?

Me: No! [laugh]  No knives. No guns. No drugs. Please, feel
free.  Check it as much as you want.

[ He puts on a big coat and wool cap.  It's cold out there.
He holds out his gloved hand for the keys.]

Demian and I wait.  Half an hour later the guard returns and tells us
we're free to go.  I am heading out into the cold with Demian, but stop
at the door and look back at the guard.  He is still typing away at
the counter.

I approach him much more cautiously this time.

Me: Excuse me.

He: Yes.

Me: All that stuff you found in my file -- all those weird arrests
and convictions -- should I be worried about that?  Should I be going
through some process to try to get that out of there?

[He looks down at the counter and smiles]

He: No.

   [ I assume nothing ]