I'm an idiot. How the hell do I get myself into these situations? These handcuffs are too tight, for one. When will I get the hell out of here? If only they'd give me a chance to explain myself. I've already missed my flight as it is. Could it get any worse?
I should have seen it coming. But you know how small mistakes have a way of adding up, into one big blunder? A friend (more a casual acquaintance) had asked me to carry a suitcase with clothing samples back from Paris. I didn't think anything of it. I'd met Thomas before, at a party in New York. At the time, I just thought it was a coincidence to see him in Paris. He was on a work trip, he said. When I saw him he happened to be taking a coffee right down the street from my hotel. A happy accident, or so I thought at the time. He was one of those people who knew everyone, always looked good, always had something witty to say. And so it was just a small favor he said he needed. And when I checked my bag at the airport counter and they asked me if anyone had handed me anything to carry for them, the question only registered for a split second. This was different. I knew Thomas. Harmless. I checked the bag with his clothing samples and didn't think twice about it.
The security line at Charles de Gaulle airport was long. Cigarette smoke hung in the terminal. That was a part I couldn't stand about French airports, all the smoke. I wasn't too keen on flying either, but at least I had a business class upgrade from all my frequent flyer miles. Up until that point, everything had been routine. I showed my American passport to the security screener (Marissa James; blonde; 115 pounds; 5'7”; green eyes; age 28; an address in Manhattan). And of course, behind the passport there were the stories that went unsaid. Marissa James – fashion writer; single (had a boyfriend, but he ran off with his slutty 19 year-old Russian tennis instructor in Greenwich); in Paris to go shopping for a long weekend and forget him.
The security screener looked at the passport too long. That should have been my first tip-off that things weren't going to go well.
And now here I am. Handcuffed to this damn chair in a small room with white walls and no windows. It smells like sweat in here. There's a cheap white table in front of me and an empty chair in front of it. I've told my story to at least five people this morning. And they all wanted to hear me say the same thing over and over again. As though, if they asked me the same questions enough, I might change my story and confess to everything on the spot. But I don't have anything to confess. I'm innocent damn it!
A man walked in, dressed differently than the other security people with whom I'd spoken that morning. He was wearing a pair of plain blue jeans and a white collared shirt that he'd casually rolled up at the sleeves. He took the empty chair and sat across the table from me.
“I want you to tell me your story.” He smiled. His eyes were soft, his smile friendly. I guess he was the good cop. But my patience was wearing thin. I was tired. My wrists were sore from the cuffs. I almost felt like I could confess just so they'd let me out of that godforsaken room in the bowels of the airport. Almost.
“You know it already, I'm sure. I've said the same thing to everyone else,” I snapped. I immediately regretted the tone I had taken. Maybe he actually could help me. I didn't know anymore. I just wanted to get out of that chair, out of that room.
“I want to hear it from you,” he said. “Just one more time, I promise. We'll get this all sorted out.” He smiled again. His eyes seemed kind. As though he meant his smiles and wasn't hiding some malicious ulterior motive behind a mask.
I told him. About the suitcase. The clothing samples. I had even peeked into the bag after I got it to my hotel room, after having picked it up from Thomas. Neatly folded skirts and women's shirts, that was all I'd seen.
I should have seen it coming. But you know how small mistakes have a way of adding up, into one big blunder? A friend (more a casual acquaintance) had asked me to carry a suitcase with clothing samples back from Paris. I didn't think anything of it. I'd met Thomas before, at a party in New York. At the time, I just thought it was a coincidence to see him in Paris. He was on a work trip, he said. When I saw him he happened to be taking a coffee right down the street from my hotel. A happy accident, or so I thought at the time. He was one of those people who knew everyone, always looked good, always had something witty to say. And so it was just a small favor he said he needed. And when I checked my bag at the airport counter and they asked me if anyone had handed me anything to carry for them, the question only registered for a split second. This was different. I knew Thomas. Harmless. I checked the bag with his clothing samples and didn't think twice about it.
The security line at Charles de Gaulle airport was long. Cigarette smoke hung in the terminal. That was a part I couldn't stand about French airports, all the smoke. I wasn't too keen on flying either, but at least I had a business class upgrade from all my frequent flyer miles. Up until that point, everything had been routine. I showed my American passport to the security screener (Marissa James; blonde; 115 pounds; 5'7”; green eyes; age 28; an address in Manhattan). And of course, behind the passport there were the stories that went unsaid. Marissa James – fashion writer; single (had a boyfriend, but he ran off with his slutty 19 year-old Russian tennis instructor in Greenwich); in Paris to go shopping for a long weekend and forget him.
The security screener looked at the passport too long. That should have been my first tip-off that things weren't going to go well.
And now here I am. Handcuffed to this damn chair in a small room with white walls and no windows. It smells like sweat in here. There's a cheap white table in front of me and an empty chair in front of it. I've told my story to at least five people this morning. And they all wanted to hear me say the same thing over and over again. As though, if they asked me the same questions enough, I might change my story and confess to everything on the spot. But I don't have anything to confess. I'm innocent damn it!
A man walked in, dressed differently than the other security people with whom I'd spoken that morning. He was wearing a pair of plain blue jeans and a white collared shirt that he'd casually rolled up at the sleeves. He took the empty chair and sat across the table from me.
“I want you to tell me your story.” He smiled. His eyes were soft, his smile friendly. I guess he was the good cop. But my patience was wearing thin. I was tired. My wrists were sore from the cuffs. I almost felt like I could confess just so they'd let me out of that godforsaken room in the bowels of the airport. Almost.
“You know it already, I'm sure. I've said the same thing to everyone else,” I snapped. I immediately regretted the tone I had taken. Maybe he actually could help me. I didn't know anymore. I just wanted to get out of that chair, out of that room.
“I want to hear it from you,” he said. “Just one more time, I promise. We'll get this all sorted out.” He smiled again. His eyes seemed kind. As though he meant his smiles and wasn't hiding some malicious ulterior motive behind a mask.
I told him. About the suitcase. The clothing samples. I had even peeked into the bag after I got it to my hotel room, after having picked it up from Thomas. Neatly folded skirts and women's shirts, that was all I'd seen.
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