John Locke: The Love You Crave

“Hey!” Gwen says. “That was a dirty trick, telling me I was going through security.”

I shrug. “It gets worse. This morning a bomb went off on Trace Street.”

“That’s common knowledge,” George says.

“It’s all you see on the news,” William adds. “Apparently a suicide bomber was heading toward the convention center when her vest exploded.”

“ Her vest?” I say. “I don’t recall the police releasing that information.”

William looks down. Mary walks over to him and stands there until he looks up. When he does, she slaps his face.

“We’re through!” she says, and makes a move for the door. I wonder if anyone knew before today that William and Mary were having an affair.

I put my arm out to stop her, and say, “Stay put, Mary. We’re all family here. This room may not be soundproof…”

I wink at Gwen.

She gives me the finger.

“…But it’s safe for conversations.”

Mary reclaims her seat.

“You folks have been breaking the law,” I say. “You’re dealing with terrorists.”

“That’s ridiculous,” William says.

“You’re selling chips that can be detonated by remote control. The woman on Trace Street walked into a lamp post, fell on her ass, and her head blew up. Tell me that’s not an explosive chip manufactured by your company that was placed in her brain.”

I give George a hard look and start moving toward him.

He says, “The chip was sewn into her mouth.”

Everyone turns to look at George. He says, “These chips are like blasting caps. We manufactured hundreds of them for the government, but they canceled the contract. I sold them to an arms dealer for two million dollars.”

“What was the government planning to use them for?”

“I have no idea.”

“How do you know the device was in her mouth?”

“The arms dealer called me to complain about the size of the explosion.”

“What do you mean?”

“I may have given them the impression the chips could take down a building.”

“They would have demanded a test.”

“We blew up a car.”

“How’s that possible?”

“The test was rigged.”

“You’re joking.”

“I tossed a chip into a car and detonated it. But the seats were filled with plastic explosives.”

“You’re dumb enough to cheat an arms dealer?”

“We were desperate. Our company was about to go broke. We needed the cash infusion.”

“Why was the woman’s chest wired with explosives?”

“They were testing the chip, but wanted a backup to destroy the evidence in case it didn’t work. They picked an illegal alien, threatened to kill her children, sewed the chip in her mouth, and sent her for a walk. When she got to Trace Street, she was crying so hard she walked into a post and fell down. She refused to get up, so they detonated the chip, surveyed the damage, and blew up the evidence. If this information goes public, we’ll all wind up in prison.”

William says, “We didn’t intend the chips to be used by terrorists. But it happened, and now you know. So what is it you want?”

“I want Gwen on the board and her shares reinstated.”

“That’s preposterous!” William says, “It’s common knowledge Mrs. Peters is a former stripper. The stockholders would never approve such a move.”

“You think they’d rather be represented by terrorist sympathizers?”

He sighs. “What else do you want?”

I look at Gwen. “If you could run any kind of business in the world, what would it be?”

She thinks a moment. Then says, “I’d like to design and sell t-shirts.”

“There you have it,” I say. “Gwen’s going to introduce a line of t-shirts.”

“You’re insane!” William says.

“You think she could possibly piss away more money with a t-shirt venture than you’ve lost with your business plan?”

“That’s not the point. We’re not in clothing. We’re an electronics company.”

“How about electronic t-shirts?” Gwen says.

“How about that!” I say, beaming at her. “She’s already created a tie-in!”

Gwen beams back.

“I want something too,” I say.

“Of course you do,” William says. “What?”

“An introduction to your arms dealer.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to eliminate this terror cell.”

“I want something else,” Gwen says. “An assistant. And maybe a private secretary!”

“Then you shall have one,” I say. “Right, Mr. Wadsworth?”

“The inmates are running the asylum,” he says.

Ten Days Earlier… Maybe Taylor.

“Are you kidding me?”

“It’s the next logical step,” Dr. Scott says.

They’re in the bookcase-lined office Dr. Scott uses for their intimate discussions. Maybe has no idea how many rooms are in Dr. Scott’s building, but she’s seen three, which is probably half of them. What she’s never seen is a secretary or any other employee. That’s because Dr. Scott stopped accepting new patients shortly after scheduling Maybe. Truth is, she was lucky to get in. Between the lobby and this room, Dr. Scott has a workspace where he handled all their early-stage interviews.

Maybe and Dr. Scott are clearly past that stage today.

She studies the tray of dildos arranged vertically on the cabinet beside her recliner. There are six in all, ranging from tiny to enormous. Each is a different color. The smallest is the length and shape of a tampon, but half the diameter. That one’s yellow. Next size up is tampon-sized and light blue. Next is green, then pink, then red. The cucumber is purple. A small tube of sexual lubricant completes the display.

Maybe frowns.

Dr. Scott says, “What’s going through your mind right now?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I need to know. If we’re to make progress here.”

“What’s going through my mind is I’m wondering if you really think I’m going to let you shove these disgusting things into me.”

“I normally let the patient introduce the devices as it suits her.”

“And what if it doesn’t suit me at all?”

“That’s always a matter of your choice. But as we’ve discussed-”

“I know what we’ve discussed. We’ve discussed it endlessly! And now that we’ve spent an hour a day for six weeks talking about the physical and mental implications of vaginismus, you’ve somehow come to the conclusion today’s the day I’m supposed to spread my legs and give you a vertical smile?”

“It’s not a matter of exposing yourself. It’s a matter of taking the next logical step forward in your treatment.”

“So now we enter phase two,” Maybe says.

“If you wish to call it that, I won’t quibble.”

“I’d call it the rape phase.”

Dr. Scott sighs. “Let’s take a step back to consider the effect the mere presence of these devices is having on you.”

“Yeah, let’s do that,” Maybe says. “What if I brought out the same tray and told you to shove them up your ass while I watch?”

“There would be no purpose served by that exercise.”

Maybe stares at the purple dildo and comes to the conclusion it’s actually larger than it first appeared, if such could be possible.

“You must treat farm animals,” she says.

“What draws you to that conclusion?”

Maybe points to the tray. “Mr. Purple.”

Dr. Scott follows her gaze. “Perhaps I should remind you how babies enter the world.”

“Don’t waste your breath. I can’t get a tampon inside me, let alone a penis. So you can put Mr. Purple back in the sack with the rest of your baseball gear.”

“Mr. Purple, as you call the device, is simply here to give you a visual perspective of what’s possible. It also serves the purpose of showing you how small our goal is for today.”