The Questioning: Part 2. "Sam I Am"

“So how did it go?”

Sam is more engaged today. I can tell by the fact that he has bothered to leave his tie on for our meeting. Last time, it had been removed from his neck and stuffed haphazardly into his pocket.

“I think it went pretty well,” I say. We are seated across from each other again, the metal tabletop between us reflecting the glow of the room’s single light bulb. “Several people dropped me a note to say they enjoyed ‘The Questioning’ blog post.”

Sam claps his hands together gaily, which strikes me as an oddly childish action for such an imposing man. “Fantastic!” he booms, his deep voice reverberating around the small sparse room. “That is such great news.”

Then he pauses for a moment as his ruddy face flushes even redder. “And did they like…” he begins, then pauses shyly.

“Did they like you?” I offer.

Sam looks at me expectantly, even pleadingly.

“Yes,” I say, matter-of-factly. “They did.”

He grins and claps his hands again. “What did you tell them about me?”

I wince slightly and lean back in my chair. I hadn't planned on telling him this bit. “Very little,” I admit, “and I’m not sure I got it right. I told them you’d been raised by wolves and became a cop. I said you’d become a sort of gang czar on the force.” I blurt it all out, hoping to soften the blow.

Sam looks surprised for a moment, then his expression shifts to puzzlement. A minute passes as he stares thoughtfully at the wall behind me; I shift uncomfortably in my hard steel chair.

Finally, he looks at me beneath a furrowed brow. “Are those things true?” he asks softly, seemingly steeling himself against my answer.

Now it is my turn to be pensive. To be honest, I had filled in Sam’s background more for comedic effect than anything. Staring at him across the table, I'm not really sure he belongs here in this sparse room. Despite his size, he doesn't seem like a cop to me, or really any sort of authoritative professional. While I don't think he had much by way of a childhood, I wouldn’t call his family members “animals” per se.

“No, Sam,” I say kindly, reaching across the table to take his enormous hand. “I don’t think they are.”

He exhales loudly and a big smile breaks out across his face. “Oh, great. That is so great, Alice. Thanks so much. I just knew that wasn’t me.”

We smile at each other for a minute, my hand resting on his thick upturned palm. I wait for his inevitable question. Then suddenly it comes, more infused with expectation and longing than I’d thought it would be: “So do you think you might write me again?”

I tilt my head to one side and feign innocence. “Write you?”

“Write Sam,” he explains. “Make me a character.”

I draw my hand back slowly and look down at my lap. “How do I do that?” I ask softly.

Sam laughs. “You’re the writer,” he says. “You’re the reason I’m here. But right now, I only exist here with you in this room.” He motions wildly around the concrete walls, his eyes finally coming to a rest on the big steel door. “I don’t even know what’s on the other side of this room. All I know is that I’m big and beefy; I have piercing blue eyes; and sometimes I can’t be bothered to leave my tie on.”

“You also clap your hands like a little girl,” I add, hoping to remind him that I also have the power to make him quirky, even slightly effeminate, if I so desire.

His face only lights up more. He is obviously so enchanted by the idea of being written that he’ll take it warts and all. He reaches across the table to take my hand again. “That’s the sort of stuff I want to know,” he says earnestly.

I consider his proposition. It sounds like a lot of work, and frankly, I'm not sure if I am any good at this whole character development thing anyway. I waver for a moment, but his eyes are begging now. “Please, Alice,” he says. “Please write me.”

I sigh. I like Sam, and even I have to admit that I am curious about him. I take a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll write you, Sam, but I have a lot going on so you’ll have to be patient with me…”

Before I can even finish, Sam is on his feet and running around the room cheering and clapping in excitement. The table shakes with his every step. I can't help but smile. As it turns out, Sam is the sort of person whose enthusiasm is contagious.

Eventually, he stops in front of the large door to the room and considers it cautiously. Then he turns to me, his arm stretched toward the knob. “May I?” he asks.

I sigh, and leave my chair to stand behind him, his giant body dwarfing mine. “You may,” I say, and Sam flings open the door.