1956

"Where are you from?" asked the heavy-set police officer who sat across from me. He had tired wrinkles around his eyes, reminding me of a racoon looking for a trash can. He lit a cigarette, filling the dimly lit room with a gray cloud. I coughed. He ignored my plea for fresher air, stood from the table, and walked over to another table to refill his coffee cup from the burnt pot. "I will ask you again, where are you from?" He turned to face me, taking a sip of the bitter grounds.

"1956," I replied. I studied his reaction to my answer. It was the only answer I could give him. It was the only answer I knew.

He threw his bulbous head back and laughed so loudly it shook the room. "1956? Really? And I'm from the revolutionary war. Now, I ask you again, where are you from?" He sat his coffee cup down with a bang, coffee sloshing like a ship in a tumultuous storm. He made no attempt to dry his mess.

"I already told you, 1956." I glared at him in defiance. I knew where I was from. I wasn't so sure he knew where he was from.

He lit a fresh cigarette with the stubble of what was left from the first one. I coughed again, rubbed my to-be-sure red eyes and looked back into his face. In another time, he could have been a grandfatherly type, or perhaps an English instructor. But here...on this night, he was an interrogation officer, set on tormenting me. Behind his sleep-deprived eyes, there was a sparkle of life beyond this hardened face, framed in thinly laid salt and pepper hair. I wondered if he was a family man. Did his family know what he did for a living? How he brought home the bacon?

He slammed his fist down on the table, stood so abrubtly, his chair fell backwards, and angrily yelled, "I am not here to play games with you, you insolete...." he retorted, nostrils flaring now from anger. He was so angry, he couldn't finish his thoughts.

"I am from 1956. I will not repeat it again," I flatly stated, as I stared him square in the face. I was not afraid of him. I was not even afraid of what he might do to me. What was to be would be and I could not change that.

"Being alone in this room may make you change your mind. Maybe the rats won't chew at your shackled feet." He looked at me hard, examining whether that would move me. I was determined to let nothing move me.

"I will be back and when I return," he leaned in closer, "you will tell me where you are from." He was so close, I could smell his breathe. Cigarettes, coffee, and unbrushed teeth hung in my nose like abundance of trash from a large city. I just met his gaze. I had told him as much as I was going to tell him. 1956 was all I knew to tell him.

I sat in silence for a while, staring at the gray metal walls. A single bulb hung situate above the table from a long chain in the center of the room. It's yellow glow did not give enough light to expound what lie in the corners of the room. It's as if the walls faded into nothingness. This room gave no clue to where I was and why I was here. Four metals walls, a large metal, single door with no window, the two metal tables, and the single light was all I had been given. Something was missing. Perhaps this was a time gap.

I laid my head down on my crossed arms which rested against the cold of the metal table, suddenly feeling acutely fatigued. How did I get here? Was it 1956? Why was I being questioned? I had so many of my own questions that needed answering. I tried to think, but all I knew was 1956. I didn't even know what that meant.

Some time must have passed, because the door opened with a loud bang. Sleep was sucked from my body. Saliva rested on my right cheek. My right hand tingled with numbness. I focused my eyes on the figure standing on the other side of the table. A tall, squared-shouldered man stood with feet slightly parted, his hands behind his back. He adorned a Lieutenant's uniform perfectly.

"Are you ready for interrogation? It is time," he spoke more into the room than he did to me.

"I am as ready as I will ever be," I stated flatly. "Bring him in," I instructed.

His badge introduced him as Lieutenant Matt Dawes. He saluted my order, turned and left the room, returning a few moments later with a large framed man with a bulbous head.

There was great fear in his eyes. Sweat beaded his wrinkled, bulbous head. He sat across from me and I stared at him for a moment or two, trying to decide how I would proceed with my questioning of this insolent prisoner.

I stood, walked slowly around the table, my gaze not leaving his face. I made a complete circle around the room, my gaze never leaving his eyes. I stood beside him, lowered my body so that my eyes were level with his left ear. I was so close to him, I could smell the stinch of coffee and cigarettes on him. "I will ask you just once, where are you from?"

He turned to face my own glare, a sparkle in his eyes I could not grasp, and responded, enunciating each syllable, "Nine...teen...fifty...six."

Startled, I stood immediately, a short gasp escaping my mouth. "See here, now. What kind of game are you playing at?"

He did not answer. He turned his gaze back to the wall opposite of him in quiet defiance.

I slammed my hand on the table in front of him, a poor attempt in evoking fear, as he didn't even blink.

"I asked you a question! Where are you from?" I repeated, raising my voice.

He turned slowly to face me, swallowed hard, thinking about what he would say. "Where am I from? Where are you from?" asked the heavy-set police officer who sat across from me.