I’m not a terrorist. That’s what I’d tell them if there was anyone to tell. The guy who puts my food—if you can call it food—through the slot each morning ignores me. Or maybe he can’t hear me, I’m not sure. Actually, I’m not sure that it’s actually morning when the food comes.
Fortunately, I’m small because the cell is, too. It’s maybe 4 1/2 feet wide and 8 or 9 feet long. The walls and floor are concrete. There’s a solid metal door with a slot, the feeding slot.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here because I didn’t start keeping track right away. I thought they’d recognize their mistake and I’d be out soon. But, since I’ve started counting, I’ve been here 412 days.
I’m trying to hold on but it’s hard.
I was just walking to the work. I work at the front desk in the office, so I guess you could call me a glorified greeter. Or maybe not glorified. So, I was walking past the Liberty Bell, past Independence Hall, listening to the Beach Boys when they grabbed me.
I’m an immigrant from Malaysia. Maybe they have me confused with someone else. It was just a few days after the towers fell. I was walking to work, listening to music on my MP3 player. It’s a cool one—polished shiny metal, and an extra large bright screen. It looks awesome, different from others I’ve seen. Maybe that was the problem. They saw the device, wires, headset and maybe they thought it was a detonator. They panicked, grabbed me and brought me here. By now, they probably know I’m not a terrorist, but maybe they’re worried about consequences if their mistake becomes known.
I’m done panicking. I just can’t do it anymore. I’m going back to work dammit.
Hey, my handler is putting food through the slot.
“Good morning! What can we do for you today!” That’s telling him.