If I were a Cat

"Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed"

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

To say it was surprising would be a lie. I am shocked they did a courtesy knock rather than the bursting through my door. However, placing a hood over my head, and being confined into what I can only assume is a van, filled with an overpowering smell of body odor, is unexpected.

Although it gives me time to slip into character.

I find myself standing in line with a group of equally perplexed individuals. The building is a maze of bland corridors and locked doors guarded by armed ‘Protectors’ hooded and dressed in black The otherwise bare walls are adorned with giant pictures of our fearless New Order leader.

”Move to your left and follow the red arrows."

"Excuse me, what is this about?" I inquire.

"Move to your left and follow the red arrows...Please."

"Look, I am unsure as to why I am here, if you could..."

Before another word leaves my lips a large hand, belonging to an even larger man, grips my neck and firmly ushers me along the red arrows. With a little push, like the one you give to a child learning to ride a bike for the first time, my feet stumble forward with forced momentum.

Like cattle we plod on unknowingly headed to the slaughterhouse. The tiny lady in front of me wanders like a mouse caught in a maze.

Up ahead are two more desks. We are assigned a row, then shuffle forward one at a time. Finally, it is my turn, without looking up the man asks.

”Do you have a secondary education, served in the military, or been involved in any branch of the former government?”

”See hear, I demand to know what’s going on. I have been here for over an hour, standing in line, shuffled from one desk to another, asked questions without receiving an answer.”

“Have you worked in the public sector, civic, as an educator or medical branch?” He continues.

I do not know which upsets me most, that I receive no proper answer, or that no one else is protesting about our treatment. It is then I take a closer look at my fellow companions. Worn clothing, not necessarily dirty. It is their haggard vacant look, lost, like hope has abandoned them. Their defiant flames have burnt out long ago.

It has become an all to common practice for the New Order to apprehend and detain people upon a whim. However, world pressure has them conducting ‘legal’ interviews. Needing proof, before incarceration.

False Id’s have become the biggest demand in the black market.

“I believe there is a mistake. Perhaps you are looking for someone else and grabbed me, rather forcibly I might add, by mistake.”

His head shoots up and dark eyes stare into my soul. “There is no mistake, you are in the right place.”

I suddenly look enthusiastic. “Is this in regard to my job application?”

His blank eyes grow wide. “What?”

I mumble. “This isn’t like any interview I’ve had. What is the job for?”

“Answer the questions and then I can have you move on.”

“That is all very good, yet I wonder when I shall receive my items back?” I inquire.

Suddenly he leans back. “Items?”

“Yes, my wallet, my Id, cash and all my cards. When will they be returned?”

Tilting his head like a bird searching for bugs in the ground he asks. “Who did you supposedly give it too?”

I begin to answer then my face goes blank. “Look here, I have been passed from one person to the next, I don’t remember exactly who I gave it too.”

Placing his elbows upon the table, crossing his fingers as if in prayer, he rests his chin on them. “Do you recall when you first noticed it missing?”

“The exact time? No. But since they are no longer in my possession it must have happened recently.”

“Did you really have them?”

Again, I act like the answer escapes me. “See here, give me my wallet and I shall be on my way. This certainly isn’t a company I wish to work for.”

“I doubt you have a wallet, and you're here because your lack of identification.”

“I would very much like to speak to your supervisor.”

“Supervisor?”

Suddenly I sense a large man looming over me, the gentlemen sitting at the desk does a slight wave of his hand.

“Your manager…I demand to speak to your manager.” My heart beats at a pulse that is far too dangerous for a man my age.

Opening my suit jacket, I thrust my hand into the inside pocket. “I always place it here and now it’s empty….”

My fingers slip through the fabric as it pokes out the bottom. “Oh, it appears I may have a hole…sorry.”

The man smirks, hands me a yellow slip of paper and speaks. “Continue following the red arrows until you come to the first exit on your right. Follow the yellow line, not the blue, and give this to the lady at the end.”

The lady ahead of me pauses at the exit and turns to me. I see her grasping a yellow slip like it is a life jacket in rapids and we are about to head over the falls. I show my yellow slip, letting her know she is not alone.

Our eyes both grow wide with a sudden recognition and just as quickly turn away.

The only sound is the echo of feet sliding across polished tile, not a word is spoken. Suddenly, I am standing in front of a women wearing a blue New Order uniform, holding her hand out. I shake it. Her face becomes confused, then points to the slip of paper in my hand. Realizing my faux pas I quickly pass her the slip.

The lady in blue says. “Go down the corridor to unit one eighteen. Wait outside until the light turns green, then enter.”

“What’s in unit one eighteen?”

She points to my left and speaks. “Please help yourself to some fresh coffee and pastries compliments of the New Order.”

Geez, stale dainties and weak coffee, it almost makes up for the kidnapping. I mumble a thank you and move on.

My eyes behold a long table where people are already hovering over. The Scents are enticing, and I soon find myself with a hot beverage and jelly donut in my hand.

I stand next to my travelling companion, who is munching on a croissant. She leans in to say something, but I shake my head. Pretending to take a sip, I whisper. “Stay strong.”

The green light over door one eighteen lights up, stalling any further attempt at conversation.

I enter a windowless powder blue room, decorated with inspirational posters, including the ridiculous one of the kitty hanging on for dear life. Fake hanging plants conceal hidden cameras in an otherwise sparse room. The only other decoration, a portrait of our glorious leader, hangs above a comfortable looking armchair. The only other seat is a folding metal one. Since someone is in the armchair, I assumed the metal one is for me.

Especially when she points to it and speaks. “Have a seat.”

After introducing herself as Doctor something or other. In all honesty I wasn’t paying attention, being too busy trying to figure where to set my coffee while she hands me a red file. I cram the pastry in my mouth instead, smudging jelly on the paper.

Clicking her pen, doctor something begins with out any pleasantries. ”Tell me about yourself.”

“Well, I am a diligent worker. Not necessarily a collaborator but I am a team player and a quick learner. It’s been a while since I had a job interview.”

“A job interview?”

Crossing my legs I try looking relaxed. “Why yes, unless this is some form of interrogation.” I laugh.

Setting her pen upon her writing pad she crosses her legs and says. “No. What I am asking is who are you?

Cocking my head like an owl searching for food, I reply. “My apologies, Marty King. As for who am I? I was a painter.”

“An artist?”

Forcing air out to make it sound like laughter. “God no. A residential painter, houses, building, sheds. That kind of painter.”

I see her stare at my hands. “And now, what do you do?”

Taking a sip of my coffee, I cross my legs. “Like most people, with years of revolution and our country's economic collapse, not much. People are unable to spend money they no longer have.”

“Our economy has never been stronger,” She snaps.

“You sure about that?” I retort. “I have no job.”

“Have you been looking for work?”

“Are you offering me a position?”

Frowning she replies. “I don’t hire. I conduct...”

Without thinking I reply. “I know what you do here. I am unemployed not stupid.”

Her eyes do a slight squint. “No, I don’t believe you are stupid. It’s also hard to believe you were a common painter.”

I realize I may have made my first mistake. She has that look of a fisherman who has something on the line.

Doctor something, begins scribbling notes. Then smiles. “Ok, Lets try something else. Open your folder.”

My eyes stare at a page with ambiguous shapes of ink. “You want me to do a Rorschach test?”

“Humor me, what do you see?”

“Me receiving a job offer.” I chuckle.

“Look again.”

Gazing intently at the black and grey swirls I see dozens of mutilated bodies, rotting in unharvested fields of wheat.

“A field of flowers, maybe daisies.” I lie.

“Next one.”

I try to steady my hand while picking the next sheet. The inkblots show me lifeless bodies swaying from hastily built gallows.

“Children proudly waving flags of the New Order.” I reply.

“Continue.”

My throat goes dry. The next one isn’t an illusionary ink blot. The picture is as clear as day. I don’t answer. What I am looking at is a blurry picture of what once was me at the University protest. My breathing becomes shallow, my back damp. I tell myself it is a test, nothing more.

Leaning forward she asks. “What do you see?”

“Me leaving here unharmed.” I mumble.

“Pardon?”

I stumble making up an answer. “People with open arms.”

“Hmmm. Does anyone look familiar?”

She is watching my every move, whether I avert my eyes, twitch, how hard I swallow. I pretend to look closer.

“I am afraid not.”

“Very well, let’s try the next.”

My fingers tremble as I gaze upon the next sheet, almost throwing it across the room. She notices me hesitate. Keeping the paper from rattling while I gaze upon the picture of the lifeless body of my wife and little girl, lying in the street. Skirts hiked high, blood on their thighs. She is waiting for me to react, waiting for me to lunge forward and choke the life out of her.

I look at my trembling hand. “Not used to caffeine anymore.”

She says. “Please tell me what you see. There is no wrong answer.”

Yes there is. The truth is the wrong answer.

My eyes fall upon the poster of that damn cat hanging on for dear life. ’Hang in there.’

Inside I am a stirring volcano, outside I smile and stay calm. Shrugging my shoulders I say. “A cat.”

Frustration paints her face. “A cat?”

“Yes, a harmless cat and her innocent kitten.”

She stares at me.

I stare back. “I wonder what that would be like?”

“What’s that?”

“If I were a cat. Never giving a shit about those that try to dominate or domesticate you.”

She closes her book and asks me for the folder. “We're done for today.”

I reply while standing. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Don’t worry we will see each other again.”

Suddenly there is a loud commotion on the other side of the door, opening it I see my female friend being dragged out by two masked Protectors. She is crying and screaming as they lead her away.

The doctors voice calls. “Professor?”

I continue exiting when she calls once more. “Professor?”

Pausing I turn with a confused look upon my face. “Are you talking to me?”

“You remind me of a professor I once had.”

“I’m no professor, just a common painter.”

Her eyes become hard. “You cannot hide forever, eventually you will slip up. You all do. There is no place for your kind in the New Order surely you see this.”

Ignoring her, I knock on the door, running my fingers across the chipped paint. “Doors ... You can keep them closed like a prison and stop things from entering. I prefer them open. Your door appears worn and in need of restoration. Shall I fix it?"

There is only a crackling sound as her fingers tighten around the folder.

I bow before exiting. “So, you’re saying I don’t have the job?”