Aliens
by Andrew McCallum Crawford
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A Scottish man applies for a Greek residency permit and finds out that some people are more equal than others.
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The Aliens Police Office was in the red light district. The building looked derelict. The paint was peeling off the facade, and there was a huge chunk of brickwork missing at the entrance, as if it had been rammed by a truck. According to the sign, the lift was big enough for six adults, but it was usually stuck somewhere. This was why the stairs were so crammed with people coming and going. All of them, like me, were foreigners.
Residency Permits were applied for on the fifth floor. There was a definite protocol in operation, based on your ability to shove your way to the front of the melee round the counter. It took a bit of getting used to. Speaking Greek helped a lot. It took me a while to get the hang of it.
I remember one time. An ancient Volvo, the back tyres flat and the driver's window half open, had been abandoned on the pavement. The building was just as I remembered it, although more paint had peeled off the wall, and the gash near the door had got bigger. It wasn’t as busy as usual. I took the lift. The office smelled of old ashtrays. There was only one person in front of me. He was accompanied by a priest, presumably to act as interpreter, and was smiling at the woman behind the counter. I knew this would get him nowhere. I’d just seen the cover of his passport. ‘REPUBLIKA SHQIPERISE’ it said.
‘Address?!’ the woman barked at him.
He turned to the priest, but the priest was looking at the floor. Maybe they weren’t together after all. Then he turned to me, but I was raking around for something in my jacket.
‘Address!’ she repeated.
He said something in his own language. It sounded apologetic.
‘Add-ress!’
He was mumbling, trying to explain something. The priest tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. The man smiled – now he understood – and turned back to the woman. He tried to get his mouth round the words, but was having difficulty. I made out what he was saying, though. He gave an address at the other end of the city.
The woman was having none of it.
‘Where. Do. You. Live?!’ she said.
This threw him. It threw me as well, but not for long. I’d been in the country a few years by now. I looked at my watch. She was playing with him. He looked at the priest, who shrugged his shoulders.
'Where do you live, for God's sake?!' the woman shouted.
‘He told you,’ I said. She glared at me. ‘Didn’t you hear? Delfon 212. Give him a break.’
The guy started twitching. He didn’t have a clue.
‘You go and stand over there,’ the woman said. She was talking to me, pointing at the other end of the counter.
‘Eh?’ I said.
A uniformed officer came through the door behind her.
‘Andy!’ he smiled. ‘Long time. Come here and I’ll get you sorted out.’
He was an old student of mine. I was done in a matter of minutes. I tucked the Permit in my top pocket. The Albanian was still getting shouted at. Something about telephone numbers. Out in the corridor I pressed the button on the wall, but the wee light didn’t come on. The lift was stuck somewhere. The place was beginning to fill up. I took the stairs, keeping well into the side.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A Scottish man applies for a Greek residency permit and finds out that some people are more equal than others.
_____________________________________________________________________
The Aliens Police Office was in the red light district. The building looked derelict. The paint was peeling off the facade, and there was a huge chunk of brickwork missing at the entrance, as if it had been rammed by a truck. According to the sign, the lift was big enough for six adults, but it was usually stuck somewhere. This was why the stairs were so crammed with people coming and going. All of them, like me, were foreigners.
Residency Permits were applied for on the fifth floor. There was a definite protocol in operation, based on your ability to shove your way to the front of the melee round the counter. It took a bit of getting used to. Speaking Greek helped a lot. It took me a while to get the hang of it.
I remember one time. An ancient Volvo, the back tyres flat and the driver's window half open, had been abandoned on the pavement. The building was just as I remembered it, although more paint had peeled off the wall, and the gash near the door had got bigger. It wasn’t as busy as usual. I took the lift. The office smelled of old ashtrays. There was only one person in front of me. He was accompanied by a priest, presumably to act as interpreter, and was smiling at the woman behind the counter. I knew this would get him nowhere. I’d just seen the cover of his passport. ‘REPUBLIKA SHQIPERISE’ it said.
‘Address?!’ the woman barked at him.
He turned to the priest, but the priest was looking at the floor. Maybe they weren’t together after all. Then he turned to me, but I was raking around for something in my jacket.
‘Address!’ she repeated.
He said something in his own language. It sounded apologetic.
‘Add-ress!’
He was mumbling, trying to explain something. The priest tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. The man smiled – now he understood – and turned back to the woman. He tried to get his mouth round the words, but was having difficulty. I made out what he was saying, though. He gave an address at the other end of the city.
The woman was having none of it.
‘Where. Do. You. Live?!’ she said.
This threw him. It threw me as well, but not for long. I’d been in the country a few years by now. I looked at my watch. She was playing with him. He looked at the priest, who shrugged his shoulders.
'Where do you live, for God's sake?!' the woman shouted.
‘He told you,’ I said. She glared at me. ‘Didn’t you hear? Delfon 212. Give him a break.’
The guy started twitching. He didn’t have a clue.
‘You go and stand over there,’ the woman said. She was talking to me, pointing at the other end of the counter.
‘Eh?’ I said.
A uniformed officer came through the door behind her.
‘Andy!’ he smiled. ‘Long time. Come here and I’ll get you sorted out.’
He was an old student of mine. I was done in a matter of minutes. I tucked the Permit in my top pocket. The Albanian was still getting shouted at. Something about telephone numbers. Out in the corridor I pressed the button on the wall, but the wee light didn’t come on. The lift was stuck somewhere. The place was beginning to fill up. I took the stairs, keeping well into the side.
About the Author
Andrew McCallum Crawford was born in Grangemouth and now lives in Greece. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in Lines Review, Junk Junction, The Athens News and Ink Sweat and Tears. His first novel, Drive! – a story of 1980’s Edinburgh pub rock, attempted patricide and arson – was published last year.
His blog can be found at http://www.andrewmccallumcrawford.blogspot.com/ and his novel can be purchased at this link on Amazon.co.uk.
His blog can be found at http://www.andrewmccallumcrawford.blogspot.com/ and his novel can be purchased at this link on Amazon.co.uk.