'Writer? Yeah, right!', and he laughed an empty kind of laugh.

Getting off the plane, after eleven hours stuck in that crammed seat, felt like a gift. He enjoyed the way walking felt and the release of tension from his joints.

The passengers were all walking slowly, like a huge worm pushing its way forward, through interminable airport hallways. He looked up at the cameras placed everywhere, wondering if this endless journey was not really an accident, but set up on purpose, so some invisible people can watch them and determine if they were good or bad, in or out.

He was starting to lose his patience when, finally, he saw the sign for Customs. Another queue. He was relaxed, he was a citizen. He allowed himself to daydream about getting home, taking a shower and going to bed in his own bed to sleep until he was no longer tired. He rejoiced the prospect of another two days off before going back to the office.

His work was good, a normal office job, but being off was so much better. He gently patted the fat notebook in his coat pocket. He had a good idea for his story, it had come to him on the plane while he was struggling between sleep and being awake.

He was sure this time it was good, it was really good.

He passed customs with the usual suspicious stares and checks. He just need to get his bag and away he goes.

It felt like the luggage belt took forever to get started, and then, when it did, the bags started coming tauntingly, one by one, his, nowhere to be seen.

His legs now started to hurt from standing, and he wished there were some benches or anything around, but there was nothing. Plus, the people kept pushing, trying to get closer to the belt to see their bags.

The journey felt like a never ending tunnel, in which, sometimes he felt like he was almost out into the sunshine, but then, through an inexplicable trick, the tunnel lengthened itself, and again he was forced to trod through it, chasing the light that slipped from reach.

When desperation was about to grab hold of him, his bag dropped with a plop from the height of the belt that was carrying it. Perfect timing! He grabbed it and rushed towards the exit sign.

The Exit took place through another large hall which ended with two small automatic doors, that allowed only one person at a time. He threw his bag over his shoulder and walked determinedly towards the automatic doors. That is when he heard a voice behind him. Certain in his knowledge that there was nobody that could be talking to him, he went on.

The voice spoke again this time with a sharp tone in it.

‘Excuse me! Sir! Stop!’

He turned around and like in those corny sit-coms he went:

‘Who? Me?’

The man facing him was a big, burly sort with white hair sticking out all sides of his head.

‘Yes sir, you. Please walk to the side!’

The customs officer said ‘please’ but his tone was that of an order.

‘Why? What did I do?’, he was getting so annoyed now that he could barely contain himself.

‘I just want to have a chat. Come.’, and the officer took a step back as if making more space for him to come closer.

Defeated he stepped to the side and dropped his bag on a metal table placed in front of a scanning machine.

‘I don’t have anything, my clothes and some snacks that I can only get there.’

The officer looked at him in an impassible manner.

‘No worries sir. Where are you coming from?’

‘San Francisco.’

‘I see sir. Could I have your passport?’

‘Why? I already passed through customs and they checked it. What in the world are you looking for?’, his voice was high pitched and irritable.

He saw a cloud pass over the blue eyes staring at him, and a tiny voice inside told him to cool it, not the time to be smart.

He took out the passport and at the same time with it, the fat notebook he had been writing in on the plane.

‘Thank you sir.’, the officer took the passport but did not open it his eyes lingering on the notebook stuffed with clippings and all the bits he had kept in it as ideas or details for his book. ‘What is that?’

He was so surprised by the interest that he just answered without filtering his words.

‘None of your business, this is private!’, after he spoke the words and heard his own tone he knew he had made a mistake.

The officer stiffened and put his passport in his pocket.

‘May I see it sir?’, he was perfectly well aware that it was not a question, it was an ask.

Nobody had ever read anything he had written, he hadn’t shown it to anyone and it was something so personal and so precious that he could not just let that brute touch it, not to mention see it.

‘I am sorry but I do not understand what you need with my private stuff! I want to speak with your superior. I have done nothing wrong! I have rights!’, he was firm but calm, and inside he congratulated himself for the way he approached the situation.

The officer seemed to respond to his determination and changed his stance.

‘Oh, of course sir! Please come this way.’, and he gently pointed him in a direction out of the hallway. ‘I will get this!’, and he grabbed the bag without waiting for any reply.

‘Come, come!’

Puzzled by the abrupt gentleness he followed the officer behind what looked like a fake wall, finding himself in a very small hallway with doors on each side. The officer stopped and opened one of them. As he entered he saw written on it ‘Interview room 4’.

‘Please have a seat. My supervisor will be with you shortly.’, and he left closing the door with an unusual click.

He was starting to feel sick. The room was a little bigger than a cubicle with a strange sticker on the wall advising against reclining against it. When his eyes passed the door he saw that there was no inside handle, just something looking like an electronic keypad.

If he was not sure he is awake he could have sworn he was living a nightmare. His breath was shallow and he felt sweat chilling his spine.

After a long time the door opened and a small woman came in, accompanied by the burly officer from earlier.

She sat down and introduced herself in a soft voice then she asked for the notebook.

‘We need to see it, we need to ensure you are not a terrorist with plans to harm.’

If he had had the energy he would have laughed, that was ridiculous. He gave up the notebook. Something inside him physically hurt when she opened it and started leafing through the pages.

She did not say anything for a while and then she looked up at him with a kind smile.

‘You are a writer.’

He had never thought at himself as a writer, he was so many things but not a writer, he wanted to be a writer, he aspired and dreamed of it, but he never had actually wrote anything.

The burly officer spoke before he did.

'Writer? Yeah, right!', and he laughed an empty kind of laugh.

The officer sounded just like his father, and that is when he knew, he no longer was a child and he could be whatever he wanted to be.

‘Yes, I guess I am.’

‘I am a writer.’

She gave him back the notebook and signaled for him to get up.

‘Write it, I would read it. And please make sure next time you comply to the officer’s request.’

He took his notebook, his passport and in no time he was outside on the sidewalk, unsure if he had dreamt it all or it really happened.

That must have been the strangest thing to ever happen to him. An unexpected and unwanted experience that had given him a most precious realization.

He was a writer and, with this knowledge, he found his calling rising inside him with renewed strength and determination.

‘I am a writer and I will write!’

And a vindictive thought rose in his mind:

… and that officer will for sure get it in one of my stories. The least I can do!