Hindsight

"You must be out of your minds, both of you. This is not a misunderstanding. This is not just going to go away. Our daughter goes to this school, do you understand that?"

Officer O'Brien was standing outside the door to the conference room. We nodded to each other as I opened it and went in.

At one end of a long table sat Alvin Barlow, the university provost, and Jim Hardesty, chief of police for the town of Ferngrove. They looked grim. Across from them were the Crawfords: Mr., scowling in his seat, and Mrs., vivid in powder blue and mascara, looking as if she was about to leap down Alvin's throat and tear him a set of gills.

"Hi, everyone," I said as I shut the door behind me. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I was just finishing up with a client."

"And who are you?" asked Mrs. Crawford.

"Kevin Carlson," I said. "I'm the school counselor."

"Lilian Crawford," she said, not taking my hand. "My husband, David. I don't mean to be rude, Mr. Carlson -- "

"Please, call me Dean."

"Dean. All right, fine. Dean, I don't quite understand what you're doing here. You're a counselor? Like a psychiatrist or something?"

"Not exactly, but I think you have the right idea," I said. "I came because I heard there had been a problem."

"Yes, you could say that," Mrs. Crawford said. "There has definitely been a problem."

"I'm still having a problem," Mr. Crawford muttered.

"Well, that's why I'm here," I said, hanging up my overcoat and taking the seat at the head of the table. Jim slid the report over to me. "Problem resolution is my job."

"Oh really?" Mrs. Crawford said. "That's nice. Maybe you can give a few pointers to these gentlemen, who as far as I can tell don't seem the least bit interested in dealing with the situation."

"Now that's not fair, Mrs. Crawford," Jim said. "I told you, I've got two officers out there right now looking for witnesses, trying to find out what happened. It's going to take some time to sort this thing out."

"We're witnesses," Mrs. Crawford said. "We told you what happened. I want to know what you're going to do about it!"

"Perhaps I can help," I said. "I came straight from my office, so I haven't heard the details yet. Would you mind going over it one more time for me?"

"Unbelievable," she said, shaking her head. "Unbelievable."

"Thirty-eight thousand dollars a year," Mr. Crawford grunted.

"I can see that you're both very upset," I said. "I want you to know that I don't intend to leave this room until we've resolved the matter to your satisfaction. Please, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to hear exactly what happened. In your own words."

Mrs. Crawford turned to face me squarely and took a deep breath, as if to summon the last reserves of her patience. "My husband and I flew in from Rhode Island this morning," she began in cadenced tones. "We came here to surprise our daughter and wish her a happy birthday. We had just parked the rental car and we were walking over to her building, and -- we saw -- "
She closed her mouth and looked away.

"I can't even stand to say it. We saw this. . . . young lady," she continued carefully. "Well, first we saw the young man. He was coming down the path toward us, and he was holding onto a leash, and about five steps behind him, on the other end of the leash, was the young lady. She was wearing -- "

Mr. Crawford snorted and shook his head. His wife paused, searching for the right words.

"Well, very high heels, for one thing, and then this -- I don't even know what to call it, a bodysuit? Made out of very shiny black material, very tight-fitting. The top part of it was like a corset, laced up in the back, and it stopped just under her, her breasts, and she wasn't wearing anything above that. Except for the collar." Mrs. Crawford glared at me; she was embarrassed and trying not to show it. "I mean, not even a brassiere. Nothing."

"Thirty degrees out there," Mr. Crawford muttered.

"Just strolling along like everything was perfectly normal," Mrs. Crawford went on. "Though I don't know how anyone could stroll in heels like those. Well, naturally, my husband and I were somewhat taken aback by this."

"Somewhat," Mr. Crawford said.

"So I said to them, I said, 'Excuse me. Excuse me. What do you think you're doing?' And the young man -- they stopped, and he said, 'We're on our way to class," like he was surprised by the question. And I said, 'Well, do you realize this young lady doesn't have her shirt on?' "

I suppressed a smile.

"And he said to me, 'Oh, she doesn't mind.' Just like that. 'She doesn't mind.' And the girl just looked at me, and I said, 'Well! Maybe you don't mind, missy, but other people do! Now get yourself into some decent clothes before I call the police!' "

Mrs. Crawford's face was red. She drew another deep breath.

"I said, 'You ought to be ashamed of yourself,' and all of a sudden -- it was like I flipped a switch or something -- she started crying. She said, 'I am, I'm so ashamed.' And then the young man, he -- " Mrs. Crawford shut her eyes for a second, wincing at the memory. "He yanked on the leash, pulled her toward him, and slapped her right across the face. I couldn't believe my eyes. Then he looked at my husband and said, 'Your turn.' "

She stopped and looked away, embarrassed into silence. I had a feeling the story was coming to a conclusion. "How did you respond?" I asked Mr. Crawford.

He scowled at me. "I told that little punk we were going to call the cops, and he said, 'That's a good idea.' "

"That's right," Mrs. Crawford cut in, "and then he pulled on the leash, and the two of them just walked away."

"And then you called the police?"

"That's right," Mrs. Crawford said again, nodding. "We couldn't find a pay phone, so we went to the student center and had the young man at the desk dial the number for us. Then the police came, and Chief Hardesty brought us up here, and we met Mr. Barlow, and we filled out a form and explained the whole thing five or six times, and apparently this incident isn't the least bit upsetting to anyone but us. Frankly, we are outraged at this point. And we would like to see our daughter now."

I glanced at Jim. "Already on it," he said. To Mrs. Crawford: "The minute we find her, we'll bring her in."

I decided it was time to establish a better rapport. I glanced down at the top of the report, where Jim had written their full names. "Lilian Marie Crawford," I said. "David Allen Crawford."

They looked back at me, and this time, for the first time, they really noticed my eyes. How interesting they were; how very blue.

"I can understand why you might be upset by what you saw," I said. "That's a natural response. I have to admit, some of the things young people wear these days. . . . well, girls didn't dress that way when I was in college." I smiled ruefully. "Madison Avenue has come a long way, hasn't it?"

"You got that right," Mr. Crawford said, smirking.

"Sure," I said. "I mean, let's face it, these kids who pierce their eyebrows and dye their hair green and purple and whatnot, they're doing it to shock their parents. That's the main reason. They're trying to push our buttons. It's what young people do."

"Natalie," Mrs. Crawford said, "told us she wanted to pierce her tongue, of all things. I said, what, you're not satisfied with ears now? It's got to be the tongue? No one can see it if it's in your mouth, and you're rude if you stick it out, so what's the point?"

We all smiled, Jim, Alvin, the Crawfords and I.

"Rude is the point," I said. "I'm sure your daughter loves you, but she's also trying to offend you. She's in transition, you know. She's testing the boundaries of her new freedom, trying to figure out where she fits in."

I could see Mrs. Crawford softening; still upset, still concerned, but mollified by my words. And my blue, blue eyes.

There was a knock at the door and O'Brien poked his head into the room. "Chief? We've picked her up. They're on the way over."

Jim nodded. "Thanks, Mike. You see now," he said as the door closed. "Your daughter will be here in just a few minutes."

"As I was saying," I continued, "most young people, when they come to college, are getting their first real taste of independence. It's perfectly normal for them to experiment with new appearances and lifestyles. By the time they graduate, they've outgrown most of their, ah, youthful exuberance, and they're ready to get serious about a career. But you've got to allow them some time to be foolish and impulsive first. I mean, better here than out in the real world, right?"

"Can't expect them to get it right on the first try," Mr. Crawford said. He didn't sound angry; disapproving, maybe, but not unsympathetic. I wondered how upset he had actually been, to begin with.

"No, I suppose not," Mrs. Crawford said. "Still -- there are limits -- "

"Of course," I said. "That's exactly the point. What you saw out there were two young people exploring the limits." I leaned forward. "What was it, exactly, that bothered you?"

"Well, her -- her breasts were -- out," Mrs. Crawford blurted, frowning, as if uncertain of what she was saying.

"And why was that a problem?"

Mrs. Crawford wasn't sure how to answer. She looked to her husband, but he had nothing to say.

"Don't all women have breasts?" I asked. Gently. As if speaking to a child.

"Well -- "

"You have breasts, don't you?"

Mrs. Crawford blushed. "Yes -- of course I do, but -- "

"Of course you do. And when Natalie was a baby, you nursed her, didn't you?"

"Yes. Yes I did."

"Well then. There's nothing inherently shameful about breasts, is there?"

"Oh, certainly not," Mrs. Crawford said. "I didn't mean -- no."

"Men have been going shirtless in public for years," I said calmly. "Why should it be a problem for women to do the same thing?"

Mrs. Crawford looked confused. "But it's so cold," she said. "It was snowing when we left the airport."

I had to think about how to reply. I was a bit worried about that, myself. "Kids," I said, shrugging. "They can live on pizza and four hours of sleep, and they can walk around in the freezing cold with nothing on. I don't know what to tell you. They're young and plastic."

Mrs. Crawford smiled uneasily.

"Personally, I wouldn't recommend going topless in weather like this," I said, "but that's just me. The young woman you saw, did she seem uncomfortable?"

"N-no," Mrs. Crawford said, shaking her head, her forehead furrowed. "But -- she said she was ashamed. . . ."

"Ah, yes. That was your suggestion, wasn't it?"

Mrs. Crawford didn't answer. She was trying to regain her sense of outrage, but she had run out of ammunition. She couldn't remember the slap.

"From what you told us," I said, "it sounds like she was doing just fine until you spoke to her the way you did."

Now there was silence. Everyone was looking at Mrs. Crawford, who was looking baffled. I had a feeling that she wasn't often at a loss for words.

The silence was broken by a knock on the door. It swung open, and there was Natalie Crawford.

"Mom! Dad! What's going on?"

Natalie and I hadn't see much of each other since her individual session earlier in the year. Her major was electrical engineering; she was an attentive student, but not especially interesting in person. Not to me, anyway. She had her share of friends.

"Oh, Natalie," her mother said, rising to hug her and then hold her at arms' length. "Let me look at you. What have you done to your hair?"

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," Mr. Crawford said.

"How does it feel to be eighteen?" Mrs. Crawford asked.

"It's -- fine," Natalie said. "You flew out here? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"We wanted to surprise you," Mrs. Crawford said.

"We brought you something," Mr. Crawford said. "It's down in the car."

"I don't understand," Natalie said, pulling away from her mother. "Why are the police here?"

"Natalie Barbara Crawford," I said, and she noticed me for the first time. "There was a misunderstanding, that's all."

"Hey, Dean. What was it, what happened?"

"Have a seat, Natalie," I said. "Apparently your mother was upset about something. Perhaps she can explain it best."

Once again, all eyes were on Mrs. Crawford.

"I -- well, I -- I saw a young lady who was dressed, uh, provocatively," she stammered. "I felt it was in bad taste, so I insulted her and -- and called the police." Her voice trailed away as she finished the sentence. She hadn't planned to say that.

"Mom!" Natalie said. "My God, what did you do that for?"

Mrs. Crawford's face grew redder. "David," she said. "David, say something, please."

"Your mother overreacted," Mr. Crawford said to Natalie. "She was upset. She spoke without thinking clearly." He was looking with disapproval at his wife.

"Has this sort of thing happened before?" I asked him.

"Oh yes," he said. "Lilian can be very judgmental of people who are different from her."

"David," Mrs. Crawford whispered.

"It's true," Natalie burst out. "She's always talking about how tacky other people are. It's like her hobby. It's so embarrassing. Mom, I can't believe you would do this to me! Is this your idea of a birthday present?"

Mrs. Crawford looked crushed. Bewildered. "I just don't understand," she mumbled to the table. "I -- I thought. . . ."

I waited, but she didn't finish her sentence. "Lilian," I said. She raised her head. "May I call you Lilian, Mrs. Crawford?"

"Oh -- yes, certainly," she said. Looking into my eyes.

"As I said before, I can understand why you were upset by what you saw. I don't imagine you get much of that back in Rhode Island. It can be difficult to keep pace with the cutting edge of fashion, especially when you're -- forgive me -- no longer young. I think we all understand that."

Mrs. Crawford made a shaky little smile, her eyes still fixed on me.

"But, Lilian," I said in a deeper voice, "it is a serious thing to involve the police. A very serious thing."

She flinched. The smile vanished.

"Chief Hardesty is a busy man, and so is Mr. Barlow. For that matter, so am I. We've all taken the time to meet with you and your husband, at your insistence, and we've listened patiently to what you have to say. The chief here has pulled four officers off the beat -- "

"Five," Jim said.

"Five officers. To deal with a situation that involves no crime, only your personal discomfort."

Again we waited. Again, Mrs. Crawford seemed bereft of words.

"I'd like to apologize on behalf of my wife," said Mr. Crawford, after a moment of silence. "Like I said, she can be a real hard case about things like this."

"And you indulge her?" I asked, turning my gaze to him.

He withered slightly. "Well, I -- I don't -- "

"You don't say much when Lilian's on the warpath, do you?"

Now it was his turn to stammer. "Well -- you have to understand, my wife -- my wife has very strong opinions, uh, Dean, and there's no sense -- it, it doesn't work very well to, uh, to argue with her when she's, when she's in the midst of -- of a -- "

"Mr. Crawford," I interrupted. "David. I understand what you're trying to say. It is difficult to challenge someone who has a dominant personality -- believe me, I know. Still, it seems to me that you bear some responsibility for this situation. For allowing it to progress this far."

"I do, yes," Mr. Crawford said. "I apologize."

"And you, Lilian?" I said, turning back to her. She'd been looking down at the table again, and she jerked her head up guiltily when I said her name.

"I'm sorry," she said in a whisper.

"What was that?"

"I'm sorry," she repeated, her chin trembling. She looked around the room. "I'm terribly sorry. To all of you gentlemen. I don't know what came over me, I'm -- I'm so sorry. I talk too much." A tear ran down her face, suddenly. "I feel so ashamed." Another tear broke loose, trailing a black line of mascara.

"Do you think it's fair, Lilian, for you to belittle people because they're different?" I asked.

She shook her head mutely.

"Did you know that your daughter is a lesbian?"

The faces of the Crawford family froze in surprise. It was a moment to savor.

"Natalie?" I said, glancing at her.

"It's true," she said, looking worried now. "I am." Her parents stared at her, astonished. "I didn't know if I should tell you," she said to them.

Mr. Crawford found his tongue. "You mean you. . . . you. . . ." Or maybe he hadn't found it yet.

"I like girls, dad," Natalie said.

"But. . . . how do you know?"

Natalie snorted. It was such a stupid question that she forgot to be worried. She wasn't going to remember, either.

"H-how long?" Mr. Crawford asked. "How long have you been -- ?"

"A lesbian, dad." Natalie leaned forward, gripping the arms of the chair. "Say it. Lesbian. I've known since I was eleven, and I never said anything because I knew you and mom would throw a fucking fit."

"Easy, Natalie," I said. "Nobody here is going to throw a fit. Certainly not your parents. I think there have been enough hysterics for one day -- don't you, Lilian?"

"Yes, Dean," Mrs. Crawford said meekly.

"There's nothing wrong with homosexuality," I said. "It's not to everyone's taste, but neither is chopped liver. Or a vinyl bodysuit."

"I like that bodysuit," Alvin said dryly. It was the first time he'd spoken since I came into the room. Alvin and I had known each other for years, and he was familiar with my modus operandi by now; he knew how to keep quiet and wait.

"So does Trevor," I said. "Apparently."

"I wonder how she'd look," Alvin said, indicating Mrs. Crawford.

"Ridiculous," said Jim. He smirked. "If you could get it onto her in the first place."

"Oh, I could get it on," Alvin said.

"Well, it's a moot point, gentlemen," I said. "It's not going to happen. I mentioned it only as an example of how preferences can differ." I turned to the Crawfords. "I'm sure I don't need to belabor the point. From now on, I think you would do well to keep an open mind. No matter how unusual a stranger may seem, they deserve no less respect than your own daughter. Is that understood?"

I wasn't usually so emphatic, but the Crawfords were bigots of the first order, and I didn't want any loose ends. They nodded together.

"Then if there's nothing else -- " I put my hands on the table and stood up.

"Actually, Dean," Alvin interrupted. "If it's not too much trouble, I'd like Mrs. Crawford to suck me off."

Jim snorted. I raised my eyebrows.

"You should have heard the things this woman called me. Her self-righteousness."

"Her apology wasn't enough for you?'

"Not the kind of lip service I prefer," Alvin said with a quick smile. "I have been very patient."

"So you have," I said. "Well, then. Mrs. Crawford -- Lilian -- are you familiar with the concept of fellatio?"

She blushed. Didn't say anything. Nodded.

"Have you performed fellatio on a man before?"

She couldn't meet my eyes, but by now she didn't need to. She nodded again.

"Your husband?"

Nod.

"Lilian, I know you're sorry for what you've done. If I might make a suggestion, I think that fellating Mr. Barlow would be an excellent way to make amends for wasting his time. Not to mention harassing our students. You won't press charges, will you, Mr. Barlow?"

"No, not this time," Alvin said gravely. "As long as it doesn't happen again."

"Oh, thank you," Mrs. Crawford said, looking up at him. Fans of moistened mascara ringed her eyes. She looked like a raccoon.

"Think of it as a tangible expression of your gratitude," I said to her. "Naturally, the more Mr. Barlow enjoys it, the more convinced he will be of your sincerity."

Mrs. Crawford's face was a battlefield of emotions: shame, relief, penitence, fear. She looked at her husband. "David?"

"I think he's right," Mr. Crawford said, putting a hand on her knee. "It's for the best, darling. You go ahead, and I'll take Natalie down to the car. When you're finished, you can meet us there and we'll give her the present. Then maybe we can all go out for dinner."

"Right on, I'm hungry," Natalie said.

"You'll probably want to head back home after that," I suggested.

"Of course," Mr. Crawford said, nodding. "We've got work tomorrow. But we couldn't miss our baby's eighteenth birthday."

"Dad," Natalie said, pretending to be exasperated.

"Go on, you two," I said good-naturedly. "Get out of here. Happy birthday, Natalie."

"Thanks, Dean," she said as they got up to leave. "Bye, you guys."

"Dean," Mr. Crawford said, shaking my hand. "Pleasure meeting you. Mr. Hardesty. Mr. Barlow, take as long as you need with her. My apologies, again. Thank you for your time."

The door closed behind them with a soft click.

I was still standing. "Well, Lilian," I said. "Perhaps now would be a good time to begin. What do you think?"

"O-okay," she said.

"Alvin, would you like her as she is, or -- ?"

"Unbutton your blouse," he said to her, "and take off your bra, but leave the jacket on. I want to see your tits."

"Yes, Mr. Barlow," she said.

"Jim? You want some?"

"Oh, hell, why not," Jim said affably. "Long as I'm here. You staying, Dean?"

"No, I've got some other business to attend to," I said. "You boys go ahead and have fun. Just don't keep her too long, okay?"

"You got it," Jim said.

Mrs. Crawford was undoing the buttons of her white blouse. I reached out and touched her face, stroking her tearstained cheek with my thumb. "Lilian," I said, "you just do as you're told and everything will be fine. After you leave here, you won't need to mention what happened, not to your husband, not to anyone. It'll be just for you to think about. Does that sound like a good idea?"

"Oh, yes, yes it does," Mrs. Crawford said.

"All right, then. Jim, Alvin, I'll see you around." I nodded at them, they nodded at me, and I left the conference room.

O'Brien was still out in the hallway, standing watch. I gave him a loose salute, and he returned it. "Won't be long now, Mike," I said over my shoulder. "You'll be home for dinner by six-thirty at the latest."

"Sounds good," he said. "Take care, sir."

"I'll do that," I said.

The elevator doors opened. I stepped inside, pressed the button for the ground floor, and descended.

I believe in fiction. The truth, as far as I am concerned, is whatever fiction one finds most convincing at a particular moment. People have a need to believe in stories, because stories create order out of chaos, and there is nothing so frightening as chaos. People seek out truth because they want the world to make sense.

The chasm of disbelief is endless. A good story will suspend you over that bottomless pit, hold you charmed, balanced on a tightrope that exists only because you believe it does. If you're lucky, if the story is good enough, you can stay balanced for the rest of your life.

Then you die, and who the fuck knows?

In 1969 I was an undergraduate at a well-known university in California. What it was mostly known for, at the time, was the political tenor of its student body in re the Vietnam War. Oddly enough, the fact that thousands upon thousands of young men were being drafted by the United States government and sent to the other side of the globe to kill and be killed by the people of another country, in pursuit of a political goal that, however noble it might have been, showed no signs of drawing nearer as the weekly body count continued -- oddly enough, this did not sit well with the students at the university, whose interests, academic and otherwise, were for the most part at odds with those of the men in Washington. All of which is to say that as a young man between the ages of 18 and 25, I was caught up in the anti-Establishment fervor of the time and engaged in a number of demonstrations against what I and my compatriots believed to be the human embodiment of evil.

It was that simple, really. We were soldiers. We were fighting the good fight of freedom versus oppression. It was especially exhilarating because it was civil war, an internal struggle against the authorities of our own society. There is no conflict so righteous as the battle against your own father.

The American Dream was a story that had ceased to lull us to sleep. We had awoken to a new paradigm, one in which the status quo was revealed to be another monarchy of old, with the Titans on their thrones moving human lives this way and that according to the caprice of their whims. We didn't like this story much, but it was exciting to believe that, like the Olympians before us, we had the power to overthrow the order of the day and raise in its stead a new flag of. . . . well, there was some disagreement about what exactly it was we intended to create, but the important thing was that we knew what we didn't want. We knew what didn't work. Le roi c'est mort. Vive le whoever.

I was a recovering nerd at the time. I had arrived at school two years before with my hair too short and my clothes too square, a straight-arrow mama's boy from the flatlands. I didn't drink or do drugs, and I had never skipped a class in my life. All I was missing was a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

My major was journalism, and as a reporter for the school paper, I had plenty of opportunities to observe social interaction up close. I kept a private notebook in which I took notes on the people around me, and bit by bit, I began to learn how to blend in. I picked up the local slang. I grew my hair out. I started learning the guitar. I smoked a little grass. And I became an activist.

The principal source of inspiration for my metamorphosis had a name, and it was Gloria. G-L-O-R-I-A. Gloria in excelsis Daymore. Ms. Daymore was a sumptuous blond co-ed (as female students were known back then) possessed of a rapier wit and body so sublimely creamy and curvaceous that I could hardly bear to consider it. But consider it I did, just like everyone else, male and female. You couldn't fail to notice Gloria. Wherever she went, there were men, all of them entranced like I was, drawn irresistibly to her beauty. We swung in orbit around her star.

Gloria was polite to all of us, more polite than she had to be given her position, but it was obvious that some men were more favored than others. The men to whom Gloria displayed the deepest affection were, like her, deeply committed to social change. They rallied for women's rights and worker's rights, they protested racism and elitism and poverty and hunger, and most of all they marched for an end to the war. And though there was plenty of competition -- though I was skinny and shy and knew I probably didn't stand a chance -- I joined the rallies, I chanted slogans and waved signs, and little by little I circled closer to her.

Now, I wasn't pretending to hate the war, but my deeper motives were definitely what you'd call ulterior. I probably would not have made such a point of displaying my contempt for authority had it not been for the possibility, however remote, of impressing Ms. Daymore. And so it was that I found myself on the landscaping committee for the new park.

Activists in the area, mostly students, looked upon this state of affairs as a pungent local example of establishmentarian arrogance, and decided it was time for "the people" to claim the area for their own. A local alternative newspaper announced "a park will be built this Sunday", and two days later a volunteer corps of students descended on the triangle with shovels, wheelbarrows and a borrowed backhoe. They cleared out the rubble and put in playground equipment. Some of them began distributing free food to the homeless. Tents and tarps went up everywhere, and people began living and sleeping on the land.

Me? I was down on my knees in the dirt, planting bushes and seedling trees near the perimeter. Gloria was on the landscaping committee, you see.

It was the closest we ever came. We were working as a team; I dug the holes, she lifted in the bushes and patted the dirt down around them. We had a conversation, though I can't for the life of me recall what we said. All I can remember is her laughter and her radiant smile, the sun in her hair and the golden shadows on her flawless skin. For a couple of hours that beautiful spring afternoon, I was the man in her life. There was hope.

Shortly thereafter, the University announced that further work on the park was "futile", and that development of the land would begin immediately. Leaflets appeared all over South Campus in response, pledging "war, if the University begins to move against the park". I wrote and printed up those leaflets, and my friends Chaz and Walter distributed them.

I think the University believed us. They had seen how angry we were; they had to know there would be a struggle. But no one, including ourselves, had any idea how ugly it was going to get.

In the pre-dawn hours of Bloody Thursday, May 15, 1969, two hundred CHP officers cleared an eight-block area around the park and ordered the people sleeping there to leave. Most of them did; those who didn't were arrested. A cyclone fence was erected in the early morning, and the police stood guard around it.

At noon, a rally was held in the plaza on campus. About five thousand people were there, give or take a thousand. A guy walked up to the mike and shouted "Go and take back the park!" With a roar we surged away over the grass, hopping the benches and low walls and moving out into the streets. Showtime.

I was in the thick of it, armed with a milk bottle and pockets full of rocks. I had arrived with Gloria and her crowd of friends, but I had lost track of her. Across the street I could see a white kid with an Afro climbing the pole of a traffic light, raising his fist in the air. Ahead, a line of cops snaked toward us like a spine.

Then came whiplash: clouds of tear gas, screaming, shouting, the sound of double-ought buckshot, loudspeakers, a crescendo of rage and fear. I ducked low, covering my mouth with my shirt, and smashed my bottle on the street. I came up, jostled around to the right by the movement of the crowd. A voice in my ear was shouting "Move back! Move BACK!" Then a club cracked against the side of my head. I reached up to cover myself, and the club come down again on my fingers. I howled in pain and struck out blindly with the broken bottle in my other hand. I felt it connect, heard screaming, and suddenly, for a moment, was free from the crush of the crowd; I whirled in a circle, my eyes stinging from the tear gas, and then --

then, in a brief, blurred moment I have never been able to forget, I saw Gloria standing there with her eyes wide, her hand held to her throat, blood heaving in pulses from between her fingers --

and then, as I stood in shock, the jagged, bloodstained bottle was pulled from my hand; my arm was wrenched behind me; I staggered and fell to my knees, choking; and with a dull thunk on the back of my skull, I lost consciousness.

The lump on the back of my head was large and so tender I couldn't lie down, and I couldn't move the fingers of my left hand. I felt sick at heart, and my thoughts whirled through me in an incoherent babble of guilt and fear. I suffered then, but it was nothing compared to what was to come.

The riot made national headlines, of course. Hundreds of injuries, more than 50 people treated for shotgun pellets; a policeman was knifed in the chest, and a student was blinded. There was only one casualty that mattered to me, though. As soon as I learned that Gloria was dead, I stopped listening.

I barely remember the arraignment. A few of my friends were there, and my mother, weeping; I know I spoke to them, but what I said was automatic and lifeless. A shell of silence had hardened around me, and my sense of hearing had faded until almost every sound was a dull buzz in the middle distance. When it was over, I was charged with involuntary manslaughter and sent to Vacaville State Prison for three to five years.

Days went by. Weeks. I opened my mouth only to eat. Twice, a gang of men held me down while I was raped, and I took it in silence, feeling the pain as a sensation both vivid and faraway. There were other inmates, kinder ones, who tried to talk to me at first, but they gave up when I made no response. There was nothing worth saying. There were no stories I believed in anymore, nothing to check my freefall into the abyss.

And then the spooks came.

What I can remember is so painful that I must consider it a blessing to have forgotten the rest.

I watch his face for cues, and nod at all the right moments. I see him laugh. It's meant to be a kind laugh, but without the sound it's scary. His eyes don't move at all.

Go to jail. Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not graduate with honors. Do drop acid. Dew drop inn.

There are no windows. The light bulb is way up high in the ceiling where I can't reach it. So I can't smash it. So I can't slash my wrists. Like I slashed her throat. They don't want any blood. They'll be so angry when they see the blood. Blood under my fingernails. Parallel lines of blood across my chest like the tines of a rake. I try to wipe it away so they won't see, but I'm only spreading it around. A big mess.

A big sound. Comic-book sound. It hurts to hear it.

Who's making that noise?

Oh. It's me.

Jerk awake into bright light. I can't move very well; I'm wide awake, but my body feels like iron. When I crane my neck to look down at myself, I see little blue and red wires all across my arms and chest, attached through suction cups. Through a window, I can see a corner of the yard, a basketball hoop. Armed guards in the tower. I realize there is something in my mouth.

Leather.

It is useless to try to prepare yourself for an electric shock. You don't need to. Your body responds automatically. Teeth clench. Breath vanishes. Everything stops and holds on. Time cannot be measured. Not until the current clicks off.

Then the fluids flow. I'm weeping, vomiting, and pissing myself, all at once.

"Why?" I scream. "Why are you doing this?"

There is no answer.

The spoon is metal. I've been drugged, but I'm not so wiggy that I fail to notice the camera in the corner of the ceiling. I know better than to try anything like making a weapon.

My testicles are swollen, injected the day before with pale green fluid from a syringe. The hurt goes directly to my brain and lives there, camped out near the front swinging a stick. I try not to move much. When I move, the stick swings in a wide arc and the glowing end hisses against the walls of my skull.

I'm being tested. I can remember someone telling me that; just a series of tests, he said. Didn't say what for. His smile was kind, but he wouldn't answer any questions. Couldn't. Part of the test.

But he said I was doing fine.

Goodboy. Feelsgood. Believgood. Goflow. Flowgood.

Allsafe. Faithgood. Fearless. Flowing.

It comes and goes without warning, but I always hear it when I'm doing my exercises. I work out all the time now: sit-ups, chin-ups, push-ups, free weights.

Sillypain. Whocares. Ignorit. Paincum paingo.

Stronger. Strongestyet. Allstrong.

Didn't used to be such a jock. Now I like it. The juice they give me at the start of each workout has a pineapple flavor, but smooth, not so tart. Ice cream juice. I knock that back and I'm ready to go.

Ignorpain goodfeel. Strongfeelbetter.

Workdobest. Feelbest. Bestovall.

Killit. Fuckit. Stabit. Shootit. Bestfeel.

Goodbeast. Goodboy.

I know it's been a long time because what I can remember of myself is far in the distance like a child away down the years when everything was more real. I don't know what real is.

I know what they want me to believe.

I know it will be easier if I believe it.

This is a special theater. One chair just for me. No popcorn.

Lights go down slow. (Big pink pill. I swallowed with cocoa.)

I can tell I'm going to like this one. This one has a naked girl in it. She's looking at me. Happy to see me.

I like a big strong man.

Long blond hair. Like her. Like the one I

Someone not afraid

murdered.

to kill. I like a big strong. Man. I feel weak. I like to feel weak.

Womanslaughtered. I made her bleed.

That's okay. I like blood. If a man will kill I'll do anything.

I'll fuck.

I'll spread. Open. Like this.

If only. If only you do it first. If only you kill.

If a goodboy kills. I like a goodboy. I like to fuck.

Fuck me, goodboy.

Fuck me hard.

When he sees me, his eyes bug out and he backs against a wall.

"No, Jesus Christ, no," he babbles. "Listen, you gotta listen, I didn't do anything. I wanna cooperate. God, fuck, please don't fucking hurt me. Fuck. Fuck." Tears are running down his face.

Easykill.

He's shaking. Breathing hard. I can see his teeth. Abruptly he changes tack.

"All right, you fucker," he screams. "All right, come on! You want me? Let's do this! Fucking DO IT!" His voice breaks into sobs. He's still backing away, moving unsteadily, but his fists are up and he'll do what he can. Even if it isn't much. I've never seen anyone so afraid.

I don't want to do this. I don't even know the man. I want to tell him it's nothing personal, nothing I'd choose to do if I had a choice, but I know I'm not supposed to talk.

I want to tell him this is just a test. But he wouldn't understand.

Easykill goodboy.

So I do it quickly.

I was well-programmed. Pain was something I had learned to ignore, for the most part. What I couldn't ignore I could usually avoid through correct behavior. When I did especially well, I was rewarded: I got good drugs, and sometimes the naked girl on the movie screen. She wasn't real, but she was close enough.

I was no glutton for punishment, nor any kind of hero. I was already a prisoner; my life was fucked anyway. So I gave in, and I did my best to follow orders.

But I wasn't perfect. I wasn't really what they wanted. However square I might have been at first, I'd had two years of college to pervert my sense of respect for authority. I wasn't a warrior at heart. Instead I was a lab rat, an expendable test subject. Once they determined what worked and what didn't, they could repeat the successful tests on real soldiers. In the meantime. . . . well, I wasn't going anywhere, and they had enough experiments to keep me occupied for quite a while.

Then something went wrong.

I hadn't realized it, but I was fidgeting in the chair. I couldn't help it; when I'd been shown into the room -- square, fluorescent-lit, with a one-way window of black glass set into one wall -- I had seen the cart with the tray of gleaming metal instruments, and now I couldn't stop thinking about them. Now that I was in the chair and my head was locked into place with my face up against the apparatus, my eyes looking out through the square frame, I was nervous. This was a new test. I didn't know what kind of pain I would have to ignore, but I had a bad feeling.

""I haven't had anything today," I said. "Any drugs, I mean."

"Hold on," the man said. He lowered his head out of the frame and I could hear the clink of metal on metal. "Just hang tight and try to keep still."

"Will you give me some drugs?" I asked, ashamed of the need in my voice. "Before you get started?"

"It'll be over before you know it," the man said. "It's nothing to worry about. Just try to relax."

I tried to relax and I tried not to imagine what was coming. I tried hard to think about the naked girl, but I kept seeing the tray of instruments, shining metal instruments like in a dentist's office.

"Open your mouth, please," the man said. "A little wider. Good. Now bite down on this."

Leather again. On a strap. Cinched tight around the back of my head.

"Good. Now just relax, and I want you to look directly forward, right at that black circle on the far wall. A little more toward the center. That's good. Now try to focus on that mark, and don't let your eyes wander. Try not to blink so much."

But I couldn't stop blinking, and the more I tried, the harder it was to stop. He was going to do something to my eyes. I had 20/20 vision, and I would have said so, only I couldn't talk now. And it wouldn't have mattered, anyway.

"He won't stop blinking," the man said, out of my field of vision. I thought about the one-way glass and wondered how many people were watching the two of us. "Right," he said.

A moment later I saw his hand coming at my eyes. "Easy now," he said to me. "I'm not going to hurt you." His thumb pressed gently into the skin of my right eyelid and lifted it, while with his other hand he applied a piece of tape. He repeated the procedure with the other eye. Now I couldn't blink. My eyes burned and watered, but I couldn't close them.

I tried again to think about the naked girl, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't let my mind retreat into the gauze of drugs because there weren't any. There were no distractions. I couldn't look away.

"Once more, look at that black circle. Try to keep your eyes on it no matter what happens. We'll make this quick, okay?"

I couldn't say Quick would be good, only think it. I focused on the black circle ferociously.

"Here we go," I heard him say, and my body tensed as something approached my right eye. I couldn't help it. I saw what it was.

A needle.

I clenched, bit down hard on the leather, and screamed from the pit of my soul as the needle slipped into my eye. I felt a tiny prick and then a cool rush of liquid inside, a gray whirlpool swirling up to cover the right half of my vision. It didn't really hurt, not in hindsight, not considering all the other things they did to me. But at the time, there was no hindsight to make things clearer. All I knew was that a needle was inside my eye, and the terror I felt was unparalleled.

I was still screaming when the needle slipped out, still screaming when it entered my left eye and I felt the liquid squirting into me again. My whole being was in that scream. There was nothing else.

Gradually the gray field started to dissipate. My eyes were still in agony, mostly (in retrospect) from being held open, but I began to see again. The black circle on the bare white wall. The square frame just in front of me. Goggles peering in.

Get me out of this, I screamed inside my mind. Get me out get me out god get me out please please.

"Absolutely," the man said. "I'll have you out in a jiffy. Just give me a second here -- "

He reached forward and whipped off the two pieces of tape. I squeezed my eyes shut like hands clasping in fervent prayer: oh sweet blindness, I thought, a line from a song I'd heard once. The darkness was cool and soothing, like water at the bottom of a well. Damned if I was ever going to come up again.

But eventually, of course, I did. I felt the strap loosen around my head. The leather wad fell out of my mouth, gluey with saliva, and my head came away from the apparatus and I fell back against the chair, and my eyes opened again. Bleary. Stinging. I saw the goggles looking down at me.

"Are you okay?" Concern in the voice.

Static crackling in the background. "What the hell, Frank."

"He's in pain," the goggles said. "Jesus Christ. It's not like he's going to go anywhere."

"Ah ga," I said. I meant it.

"Steady there, champ," Frank said. "Let's get those restraints." The buckles around my wrists and ankles loosened and I slumped in my seat, but he was right: I wasn't going anywhere.

Through the intercom, the voice again, mildly exasperated. "All right, that's enough. Proceed as planned."

Frank wheeled the cart over and parked it in front of me, the tray of instruments at elbow level. "Go ahead and put your left hand on there for me, buddy," he said. "Palm facing up."

I did as I was told.

"Now look at me for a sec. Good. I'm going to ask you to do me a favor now. You see that little thing on the tray there, looks kind of like a steak knife?"

I did. It was a short, narrow blade, about four inches long, serrated, bright silver.

"Pick that up with your right hand."

I picked it up.

"Okay, look at me again. That's it." He peered at me intently, watching for a reaction. "I want you to cut off your little finger."

I became very still. After all this time, all this torture, I still wasn't beyond surprise. I stayed deadpan, but inside, my mind was scrambling to find an alternate meaning for what he had said. I couldn't. It was too clear to be mistaken.

Why? I thought desperately, looking at Frank from behind my poker face. Why? The old question. The inevitable question that every suffering person asks -- to God, to the torturer, to the pain itself. Why? The question is a reflex, like tears. There is never an answer.

Only this time, there was.

"Because we need to determine the effectiveness of the compound we introduced into your aqueous humor," Frank said.

It's amazing how quickly the brain can process information. No doubt it helped that I was already trying frantically to think of a way out of my predicament. I had not spoken, and yet Frank had responded to my question. Instantly I understood this.

What is the compound supposed to do? I asked without speaking.

"It's supposed to make you obey any direct order given to you, without hesitation," Frank said. "Of course, it's still in the experimental stages, so we're not sure if -- "

The intercom crackled, and I heard angry voices overlapping. "Hold it," said the man nearest to the mike. "You're violating procedure, you dumb shit. Restrain him and get in here, now."

Do it, I thought to Frank.

"Be right there," he said, and leaned over to reattach the restraints.

Keep them loose, I thought. My mind was clear for the first time in -- in I didn't know how long. I wasn't high on anything except adrenaline. Get everyone who's watching us to come into this room, I told him. Tell them. . . . tell them there's something happening in here that they have to see to believe.

Somehow, the scientists had made a mistake. Somehow the compound did the inverse of what they expected. Instead of making me a puppet, it made me a puppeteer. When I made eye contact with another person, they became completely susceptible to any command I might give.

I learned as much of the truth as I wanted to know, but it arrived haphazardly at first. I was strung out on a variety of drugs, exhausted, confused and terrified. I didn't know what I was doing; I didn't know what I was capable of. Only gradually, randomly, piece by piece, did I assemble the mosaic of a story that made sense to me -- that I could allow myself to believe, given what I had experienced.

I was one of a group of fifty Vacaville inmates selected for testing by a clandestine program of the CIA, code-named MK-ULTRA. The purpose of the testing was to create torture-proof couriers and programmed assassins. To this end, the doctors and scientists of MK-ULTRA concocted a rainbow of mind-altering substances ranging from mutations of LSD-25, steroids and amphetamines to other, more exotic pharmacopoeiae that have never seen the light of day. In addition to the drugs, they used radiation, electrode implants, ultrasound and microwaves on their human guinea pigs. Quite a few of them died -- some as a direct result of the tests, and others who went so crazy that they became useless and had to be terminated. No one missed them. People die all the time in prison.

I learned that I was the first test subject to receive the new compound, which was, as Frank had said, still in the experimental stages. Nobody really knew yet what they'd created, and there wasn't much documentation on the stuff. That was a stroke of luck for me; it made it easier to destroy the evidence of its existence.

Erasing the evidence: that was the first priority. The truth had to be contained, or any escape I might make would be all too temporary. So I was methodical and thorough, just as I knew the CIA would be.

In the beginning, when I still didn't know much, my methods were crude; effective, but crude. I thought I had to give commands like a drill sergeant. Over the years, I've learned that suggestion usually works better, particularly on people who are naturally inclined to question authority. Of course, my initial receptors were CIA spooks, so they took orders like dogs take hamburger.

One thing I was fortunate to learn almost from the start was the importance of names. Full names are best, including the middle name, but any part of a person's name has power in it. In all honesty, I don't have any idea why. I've done research, and there's plenty of mythological precedent -- look at Rumpelstiltskin for just one example -- but as for reasons, your story is as good as mine.

When I don't use a person's name, my influence is effective only with direct eye contact. After about half an hour, the conditioning begins to break down. The person might not notice the difference -- if I've been subtle in my application, they'll continue to believe that my suggestions were their own ideas -- but without renewed eye contact, their natural capacity for independent thought will reassert itself. If I use their name, however, they'll retain conditioning for as long as necessary.

My initial impulse was to destroy MK-ULTRA: burn all the documents and free all the lab rats and make the evil mindfuckers forget they'd ever started this program. But I quickly realized that I had no idea how far the subterranean tendrils of MK-ULTRA extended. I had this amazing power, true, but I was still only one person, and I'd be going up against a vast, well-established terrorist organization. Revenge would be nice, but I preferred escape. So I discarded that notion.

I wanted to disappear without a trace, but I had to figure my name was in a lot of file cabinets by this time. Tracking everything down would take years, and how could I ever be certain I'd finished the task? So I kept it simple. I established my death.

"You have no idea who I am," I told the men in charge of the prison testing. "You will not speak of me to anyone. The test subject known as" -- here I gave them my original birth name, which is not Dean, nor Kevin Carlson -- "died by his own hand during testing." I gave them a date and a time of day. I told them the circumstances surrounding the subject's suicide were sensitive in nature, and that anyone who might ask after him should be told as little as possible.

The wardens of Vacaville also heard this spiel, and swallowed it whole. To them I gave a canister of ashes that once had been another test subject, a man who really did kill himself shortly before I received the compound. This man, who was up for a string of armed robberies, had no family; no one would ever question or investigate his death, I felt certain. His ashes became mine, and they were sent to my mother in the Midwest.

After I'd handled that, I erased all evidence of the compound: records, memories, and the stuff itself. There was about a pint of it, all told; clear, harmless-looking, like water. I flushed it down the toilet. (I also took a small sample with me, thinking I might someday need to use it again, but I never did; my power remained constant, and the risk that the compound might somehow fall into other hands was frightening enough that I destroyed the sample, about a year later, by sprinkling it one drop at a time over a three-mile stretch of Nevada desert.)

I left Vacaville State Prison one night, a few hours after sunset, in the back of a metallic blue sedan with tinted windows. My driver was an MK-ULTRA operative named Stan. It was all much more cloak-and-dagger than it needed to be, really, but I was still getting the feel of my power and I didn't want to take any chances. We passed through the gates without a hitch, and soon we were headed southwest down I-80, following a sparse line of red taillights, anonymous in the dark.

It was still hard to believe that I was free. Stan turned the radio to a rock and roll station, and we listened to the Stones while I smoked cigarettes and tried to figure out what I was feeling, what I was going to do next.

Part Two