trahern

This is the result of... I forget whose blog. Maybe I'll remember later.

I'm in a pale, boring room. The people I'm sharing it with are decidedly less than both. They are uniformed natives of this country. Two carry automatic weapons. The third has a pistol on his belt. This last man is the one that's been yelling at me for about half an hour now.

I am sitting at a table upon which my passport lies alone. Another table to the side of the room holds up my backpack and most of its contents; some items of clothing have found their way to the floor during the search. I idly wonder how clean the carpet is as I sigh. My interrogator doesn't take kindly to my lack of interest in what he's yelling and cuffs me upside the head... not hard enough to leave a mark of course, just to get my attention.

Intimidation is the goal here, and I admit, I'm nervous.

Worst case scenario, I'm shot dead before leaving the airport and Luis is unable to do enough to bring the truth of the matter to light. Official authorities sieze all my assets, discover the questionable pornography on my computer, and my story becomes an amusing footnote in the local newspaper.

Thanks to previous experience with my family and other conmen, I'm not so easily affected by intimidation. I haven't said a word, I have controlled my fear. This seems to annoy the yeller to no end, and it pleases me to believe this is why he's been able to keep up his antics for this long...

Oh, he's stopped. He tells one of the guards to bring a translator. The guard leaves the room, and I observe the security officer as he glares at me... but he's no longer yelling. Perhaps it's finally time to say something.

"Tired?" I ask. In Portuguese, to his surprise. "Thirsty, perhaps. Go drink some water. I won't move, I promise."

"You speak Portuguese?" he yelled.

"Obviously," I sighed.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"You don't want to know anything. You want to yell." This response is clearly pissing him off. His face is turning red under the tan, he's actually having difficulty thinking of what to yell next. It's only a matter of seconds before he resorts to calling me names, so I clarify. "When someone wants to know something, they ask questions. With this situation in particular, someone actually looks inside the passport, runs a check on the number. Someone who did this would learn I haven't been to America in..."

I exaggerate the amount of time I try to figure out exactly how long I've been away. I need a moment to think, because I don't actually know where this monologue is going, and I need ot be relatively sure it won't get me shot. I keep my tone of voice light. "...Over twenty years. That I live in England. That the only place I have been to when I leave England is Portugal. That I am half Portuguese.

"I came to New York to visit friends and one or two beautiful women I've seen naked on the internet. Rio is one of the cities I have always wanted to see. I thought, 'I may as well come down here while I am on this side of the world.' I have to say, right now your tourist policy seems to be shit."

At this he draws a breath to start yelling again, but I cut him off. "You did none of this. You saw someone with an American passport, travelling alone. You like to make people like me afraid. It isn't the first time you've done this. It won't be the last. You lock them in a room with men with guns, and you yell and yell until the person is so afraid they cry."

I lean forward towards him. My voice drops an octave and carries the subtlest hint of threat in it. "I'm not crying."

I lean back. My voice returns to it's normal, pleasant timber. "And I am finished talking. I won't say another word of Portuguese in this airport."

He musters up the bluster to yell at me some more until the interpreter, a woman, arrives. She is surprised at the exasperated state the officer is in. "What did you say to him?" she asks me in English, as soon as it becomes apparent he's unwilling to go into detail himself.

"While he was yelling, I said nothing. When he stopped, I told him a few truths. Then he started yelling again."

"What truths?"

"He doesn't want to say, does he? Why should I? I see no reason to cooperate."

She starts yelling at me too. They take turns for a while. I clam up again. I have nothing to say to people who do nothing but yell.

Edited to add: Danielle's blog, that's who it was. Guess it's kind of an imaginary justice thing.

"You know what, you're kinda cute. You doing anything tonight?"

"Not with you."

"You're probably right. It'd have to be one hell of a blowjob to make up for this shit, and your lips don't look up to the challenge. But at least you wouldn't be yelling at me for five minutes."