Free Life Will Have Its Way by Angie Myers Lewtschuk Page B

power, felt like I was the one in control. But as the door opened behind me, I reverted to my well-trained, obedient self and the folder released from my hand as I flung it across the table. It was still in motion when Friedrich entered the room. We watched as the olive paper outer casing went off the edge of the table. The shutter stop in my mind slowed almost to a halt, capturing every frame, storing each image so I could replay it again later, over and over, reliving the moment the way I relived every potentially life altering moment. It drifted to the floor, slowly, gently, back and forth like a feather in a breeze, a breeze so insignificant it would go unnoticed by everything except for the feather. When time caught up to itself the folder hit the floor. Papers, what now looked like hundreds and hundreds of papers, were ejected across the room and thrown back into the air where they repeated the same slow motion process of drifting back to the ground. We watched in silence.
    The composite of my life, carefully, meticulously compiled by diligent bureaucrats, year after year, had been spilled out of its protective shell. We rushed toward the papers, snatching them up, joining together to return things to their proper order. I didn’t know why I was so willing to help Friedrich rebuild my file, but I did know that as long as my life story was splayed across the floor, I felt vulnerable, unpleasantly vulnerable. I reached over to hand him another stack of papers, our hands grazed each other and I felt briefly repulsed, like a six-year-old girl who’d just accidently touched a six-year-old boy she was certain had cooties. I immediately felt bad for being so immature, for feeling so disgusted by him. Then stopped to wonder why I kept feeling sorry for him. Sure, he was mean, and he was certainly cruel, but he was also quite pathetic and for some reason, I’d always felt bad for people that had so much trouble getting along in life. “I’m really sorry about the dance,” I said quietly, trying my best to sound sincere.
    He wouldn’t allow me to make eye contact.
    “You know how silly and immature high school girls can be.”
    “Yeah, yeah, sure,” he said meekly.
    I sat back in my chair and looked over the table at Friedrich who was anxiously trying to reassemble the file. He reminded me of a helpless little boy trying to rebuild a sandcastle that had just been destroyed by a rogue wave.
    “You are restricted from seeing what’s in your folder, you know.”
    “But it’s mine,” I protested. 
    He didn’t say anything for a while, he just sat there, struggling to organize the papers, with a sort of false urgency. “We don’t have anymore questions for you right now,” he said finally, then added in a tone so low I could barely hear him, “you are free to go.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You are free to go,” he repeated. He looked to the ground, still refusing to look directly at me. I picked up my things and left the room without looking back. My chest swelled with feelings of both relief and annoyance. I spun through the lobby doors and emerged on the other side. The wind blew sheets of rain across the entryway, giant drops hit at angles and splattered on the sidewalk. The streets were nearly deserted with the exception of a few people dashing from overhang to overhang, pausing under each awning, waiting for the right moment to dash across to the next, crouched and scurrying as if trying to avoid sniper fire. One poor woman, dressed unusually formal for a weeknight evening struggled to stay steady, the wind pulling at her umbrella like the sail of a boat, she fought against it, teetering on red leather heels, too tall, and never meant to be worn in the rain.
    A cab pulled against the curb, the driver leaned into the passenger seat, rolling the window only low enough to yell out, “Get in. No fare, no fare,” he shouted.
    I shook my head then waved to thank him. The rain felt good, completely drenching me as