by D. A. Maddox
The numbers—they still made no sense to him.
222 … 223 … 230 …
“But you,” she said, her voice going silky, “your early numbers are good. Quite good, for only an interview.”
Did—did that mean…
“Oh, look. There are now two hundred and fifty people enjoying your interview, Robbie. How delightful. Step out of the jumpsuit. You look silly. And smile. Officer Kersey gave you an order.”
The right wall started counting down again. Robbie stepped out of the jumpsuit puddled at his feet and turned his head back up. He forced a smile, feeling the crimson in his cheeks deepen. Anyone could be watching this. The old lady at his church, Mrs. Merriweather, who played the organ and had fussed over him since childhood, could be watching. His teachers could be watching. Miss Wright…
Maddy can’t, he reassured himself. Neither can Jasmine or Heather. They can’t see me like this. They’re students, like me.
“Stand at the table, on the side facing the opposite wall.”
Robbie obeyed, and his Matron met him from the other side.
“You may stop smiling now, unless you are happy.”
Robbie gratefully desisted.
She produced a clear, plastic wristband from her vest pocket. Using the remote again, she opened it.
Robbie was tempted to ask questions, but he knew better.
“Hold out your left hand, Robbie.”
Reluctantly, he held it out, still using his right to cover the front of his underwear. She snapped the wristband in place, running her hand along the length of his naked arm afterward. Now that he was wearing it, the wristband seemed to disappear. But he could feel it there, rather like a wristband one might get at the hospital.
“Now, sit, please.”
Robbie sat. As Nurse Reyes-Garcia sat after him, Officer Kersey locked the video cam in place on the tripod and came over. From the jumble of wires on the table, she picked out a pair of leads, sliding one inside his shirt just over the heart—he gasped, totally unprepared for that—and leading the other behind one ear, over the soft pocket of flesh between his jawbone and skull. There were still two unmounted leads on the table.
Probably spares, Robbie thought.
Then she resumed her place at the camera, leaving the explanations to her boss.
“What you are wearing on your hand is an identification tag,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said. “It will also let us know of any palpitations or increase in heart rate that may prove dangerous. You see? We are taking good care of you. No harm will come to you.”
Robbie nodded.
“You may answer.”
“Thank you, Matron.”
“The wires attached to your body also monitor heart rate,” she went on. “But for other purposes. They are far more exacting, and also only useful during the interview. What we are about to do is a polygraph—a lie detector test—to make sure we have an honest boy with us, one who can help us make sure we meet his corrective needs. It is important that you get precisely what you deserve, that we provide the full measure of justice—and also not overstep our bounds. Your input is the most important part of this process. If you lie to us, you cannot stay with us. You will revert to standard sentencing.”
But lie detectors aren’t reliable, Robbie wanted to protest. I saw it on TV.
“The questions I have for you are simple—only two choices for each. And so, our results are far more trustworthy than might be otherwise expected. We will know if you are a truth-teller very soon. We start with baseline questions, things that are obviously one answer or the other, to calibrate the reader. Are you ready?”
It was a direct question. “Yes, Matron. I hope so.”
“Are you male or female?”
“Male.”
“Is your hair color brown or blond?”
“Blond.”
Okay, this isn’t so bad.
“Are you the son of Senator Dusty McNeal and Mrs. Lorena McNeal?”
“Yes.”
She studied the reader. Paper ran from its far end like a grocery store receipt, only wider, the spiking and dipping lines a total mystery to him. But Nurse Reyes-Garcia nodded at the results, studying them with both interest and, apparently, total comprehension.
“Are you circumcised?”
Robbie sat back, stupefied. “I’m sorry, Matron. What?”
“Are you circumcised?” she repeated. “Is the foreskin of your penis cut, or is it not? This is not a complex question.”
Again with the remote. Robbie heard rather than saw the 30-second timer come on again at the righthand wall. “Y-yes,” he managed, flabbergasted. And when Officer Kersey giggled in the background—whether at the revelatory detail or his discomfiture, he didn’t know or care—he wanted to do nothing but stare into the floor, at his feet.
“That was the last of the baseline questions,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said, her tone again comforting and consoling. “Has any female unrelated by blood ever seen you naked in your adult life?”
Really? Robbie thought.
The view count, he noted, was now at 423.
“No,” he said, suddenly earnest. “No, of course not. I’m not married.”
I don’t even have a girlfriend, he didn’t add.
“Stand up again, please,” she said. “Face away from the camera.”
Robbie did so gratefully—away from the camera and the mirrored walls, away from Officer Kersey. It was a bit awkward, with the wires twisting half around him, but there was plenty of slack. Nurse Reyes-Garcia came around to stand in front of him.
Is the interview over? he wondered. Intellectually, he understood that it couldn’t be, it had hardly even started, yet his hope reflex was impossible to fight down.
“I need to verify the answer to the final baseline question,” she said, friendly as can be. “Show me your genitals, please.”
“What?” Robbie gasped again. “No! I mean, I’m sorry, Matron. I can’t—”
“That is what you would call ‘Strike Two,’ Robbie,” she gently scolded him. “Third strike brings in Officer Thompson. And you have been doing so well. You need to comply right away, no questions, no complaints. Lower the front of your briefs so that I may examine your penis. The camera will not see. Officer Kersey will not see. Not yet.”
She took a knee as Robbie hooked his trembling fingers into the waistband of his jail-issued briefs. From a back pocket, she withdrew a small tape measure, looking up at him expectantly.
Then, apparently having lost patience, reached forward and brought the front of his underwear down, nestling the elastic band under his suddenly swollen scrotum. He stood there at half mast, staring straight ahead, aghast. His turgid member, hanging under a mantle of unshaven blond curls, distended nearly six inches. And at this point, anything—even a breath of wind—would have made it snap straight up in its complete grandeur.
“You do not seem so unhappy in your exposure,” she observed. “Such a cute babymaker you have. Hefty, too.”
She flicked it. Hard. Robbie gasped in surprise, both literally and figuratively stung. His penis went instantly limp, retracting to its normal state, turtling home toward his belly.
“And you are circumcised, just as you indicated,” she went on approvingly. “This is very good. Yes, a very good sign. But I do not measure happy penises during interviews such as this. Only calm penises. Stand still. Arms straight at your sides, legs slightly spread. Do not fidget.”
A camera flash from behind him. Robbie wanted to protest, even with the back of his underwear mostly up. His bare legs were right out there, and probably the top of his butt crack as well. But he remained still, enduring the shame with a quiet stoicism that he hoped would have made his father proud.
Nurse Reyes-Garcia took him by the tip with thumb and forefinger, the same two digits on the end of the tape measure, and pronounced him “three inches while flaccid.” Then she petted him, right on his member, and gave him a single stroke with a gently closed, recently moi
sturized fist. Again, Robbie caught his breath—and his penis stirred, threatening to come to life all over again—but then the tape measure was away. She fixed his underpants back up over his manhood, turned him around, and patted his mercifully covered ass.
“Back to the table, Robbie,” she said. “Now we can get on with things.”
The view count was now at 2,221.
****
“Now that we have a baseline,” she began anew.
But Robbie, unable to help himself, let his face drop to the table and covered it in his arms. He body shuddered with fresh sobs. People didn’t do this kind of thing on camera. People kept themselves covered in front of the opposite sex until they were married. Shorts you could legally wear in public went down to the knees, or farther. Even short sleeves were elbow length. And yet here he was, after having been freshly exposed to a stranger, stripped to his underwear and crying in front of thousands of anonymous people watching on restricted TV channels all across the country.
The senator’s son, proving no one was above the law. Getting what was coming to him.
Officer Kersey, huffing impatience, took a few more still shots. Behind his closed eyes, Robbie felt the flashes. “Such drama,” she said.
“We will give him a moment,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said with practiced calm. Directly to him, she continued, “But it was you who wished to see others unclothed, yes? Perhaps we now begin to see the need to respect the privacy of others?” Then, softening her tone, “Go ahead. Get it out of your system, poor wretch. When you are ready, we will continue. I think this program is perfect for you. Indeed, you are—what is the phrase?—made for this. The punishment will resonate, and you will return home both unharmed and considerably improved.”
Robbie steadied his breathing, slowed it, made an effort to gather himself.
“And that is why it is critical you be honest,” she said. “Now that we have a baseline, the veracity of all you say will be easily read on the machine. Real jail is not for you, Robbie. You are too precious, too innocent. You must be prepared to answer everything, to help us prepare a program appropriate for your discipline. There is much we already know and have ready for this purpose, but we need you to fill in the blanks for us. Please tell me you understand this.”
Robbie sat back up straight. A box of tissues had been set next to him. He took a fistful of them and dried his face, wiped his nose. He ignored the flash of the camera, best he could, but he could not help but be relieved when, peripherally, he saw Officer Kersey return to hide behind the larger video cam. “Yes, Matron,” he said. “I understand.”
“We begin now, then, yes?” she said. “The sooner we do, the sooner you may go to lunch, and then to your room.”
Robbie allowed himself half a smile, pitching the used tissues. She was implacable, this Nurse Reyes-Garcia, but she was also kind. Matron, indeed. He nodded.
“How often do you masturbate, Robbie?”
At that, his mouth formed an O of surprise. Abashed, his voice still croaky with spent tears, he said, “I don’t … masturbate, Matron.”
God, but that word felt filthy coming from his own lips. At least it’s clinical, he thought. Not slang. Not “jerking off”, or “beating my meat”, or “shucking the corn”, or “shifting the happy gear”—all of which were phrases he had overheard from other kids in high school. He’d wondered where they had learned them, at the time.
She arched an eyebrow at him, incredulous. “Really? Boy of eighteen, no girlfriend or boyfriend, and no masturbation? At all?”
“No,” Robbie insisted. It was the truth. He’d wanted to, sure, time to time, but masturbation was a sin.
Wait—had she just said girlfriend or boyfriend?
“And I’m not gay,” he added. Then, before forgetting himself entirely, “Matron.”
She was watching the printout. “No,” she said. “Of course, you are not. Silly me.”
She studied the machine, reading the incomprehensible lines with a look of sheer stupefaction on her face.
Good, Robbie thought. She sees I’m not lying to her.
“Okay, then,” she said. “On we go. How about wet dreams?”
“I … I don’t know,” he fumbled. The truth was, he thought that maybe he had. “I, uh … woke up one morning and—and I think so. I don’t remember the dream, though.”
Fresh burning in his cheeks.
“Did you clean your anus, as you were instructed to do?”
Robbie looked down, studied the table top, arms at his sides, hands gripping the chair at the seat. “Yes, Matron,” he said, unable to stop himself from glancing sidelong at the video cam. Behind it, Officer Kersey was unreadable. “He said I had to. The officer at Intake, I mean.”
And, inwardly, Please don’t ask me to prove it.
“How did that feel?”
“Uncomfortable,” Robbie said. “Unnatural. It felt wrong, Matron.”
“Nothing wrong with being clean,” she replied warmly. “Never had an enema before?”
“No, Matron. I don’t think so. Maybe when I was a baby and sick, or something.”
“Was it embarrassing, fingering yourself, even by yourself?”
“Yes, Matron,” he said.
Again, checking the printout. “You are doing well, Robbie. I am very proud of you. Now for the difficult questions. Remember—be honest.”
The difficult part? Robbie already wanted to hop a plane to Tibet and anonymously herd goats for the rest of his life. How could it possibly get more difficult than having him talk about his own asshole?
There you go, he chided himself. Thought swearing again. Stop it, Robbie.
“These questions will each present you with a pair of situations. For each pair, you are to identify the one that would be the most humiliating to you. Do you understand?”
But Robbie was stunned to silence. How could she possibly ask him to do that?
“Robbie?” she said, firmness returning to her voice. “You will answer me.”
“I understand,” he managed, “But—”
“It is enough that you understand. There is no ‘but’. Which would be more embarrassing to you: being made to wear a dress in front of others, or being naked in front of others?”
At that, the laptop screen came to life. A split screen resolved into view, and an animated figure that looked much like himself appeared on both sides, blushing furiously. One of the images showed him in a pink, frilly dress. The other showed him wearing nothing at all. In both scenarios, cartoon shadows pointed at him, giggling with their hands over their mouths, some registering shock, others laughing openly.
Robbie looked away from the screen.
“You watch, now,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia ordered. “Answer.”
Robbie didn’t much like the idea of either situation. But, returning his gaze to the screen, he said, “Being naked.” Protest rose in both words even as he said them. Being made to wear a dress would make him feel silly, but to be completely unclothed? In front of others? Who was she talking about?
In front of the camera?
And his view count was up to 3,800.
“Mind your attitude,” she admonished him. “Do not forget to whom you are speaking, Robbie. You are already on thin ice here. And you need not concern yourself so much. Most of the discipline prescribed for you is already in place, predestined if you will. These questions help us confirm, and also determine sequence and scheduling. Your toleration threshold needs to increase over time in order to complete the program.”
Robbie took that in. Was all of this really going to happen to him?
“I do not think you will be made to wear a dress. It would cost us some audience, and so we rarely go that way. And no one outside of prison staff and a select set of volunteers that I appoint will touch your person without your permission.”
Thank God for that, he thought. Then, making it a real prayer, Seriously, God. Thank you.
“Nevertheless, you are to answer the questions. Shall we
proceed?”
“Yes, Matron,” he said, following a profound exhalation of relief.
“Which would be more embarrassing to you: being displayed naked in front of people your own age or in front of people older than you?”
The cartoon shadows resolved into brighter focus, took on color. In one, he was surrounded by college-age kids, both male and female, their expressions bug-eyed with surprise and delight. In the other, he saw people in their thirties and older—some were genuine old ladies and men—gazing upon him with practiced nonchalance, quiet amusement, mutely satisfied with his predicament.
He was tempted to lie. Thousands of people were listening to him. They’ve got no right to know these things, a small voice whispered in his head. Just lie.
And go to real prison for five years, he reminded himself.
“In front of my people my own age,” he said. It was an honest answer, the first of many. He told the truth every time.
****
Which would be more embarrassing to you: being naked in front of strangers, or people you know?
In front of people I know.
Being made to touch yourself intimately, or being touched by others?
Being touched by others.
Being bound, or being told to hold still no matter what?
I, uh … I don’t know. Matron, I’m sorry. I really don’t. But I’m not sure I could do that second thing. It would depend on what was happening.
Being stripped and displayed in front of women or in front of homosexual men?
What?
You heard me correctly.
…
This is a third strike, Robbie. You must answer the question right away, please.
Homosexual men, then. I couldn’t take that.
You might be surprised. Your blood pressure and heart rate are holding up quite well.
I’m not gay.
Yes, you have already divulged that. Do you connect such forms of humiliation and judicial punishment with pleasure?
No! … I’m sorry. I just … never even thought about it like that.
Does the prospect of being publicly humiliated over the next few days arouse you sexually?