Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

There were workshops and exercises and lectures and games and, through it all, a mind-numbing torrent of principles driven into his thinking by the Pros – drill sergeants made even more oppressive by their benevolent smiles. Taking advantage of the air of feigned openness, Tim cultivated an apprentice-like curiosity; he managed to survey more of the ranch's layout than was sanctioned. During a bout of atavistic roaring, he hyperventilated and started to keel over. He told someone that he was going faint with hunger and was informed it wasn't mealtime yet. His back was pounded affectionately, his hair ruffled, his cheeks kissed.

Eager to showcase Utopia, the Pros invited him to see the various departments beavering away. Tom Altman, doer and entrepreneur, embarked on the excursion as piously as a hard-hat-bedecked senator out to meet the ironworkers, his provocative queries a histrionic subterfuge for Tim Rackley's covert inquiry. Good question, Tom – we escalate phase-one operational profit through the use of hidden – but lawful – costs. The more masterful the legal contortion, the greater Tom Altman's admiration. Aside from Leah, who threw him furtive glares, the others were more than glad to flaunt their mastery of The Program's workings.

Tim was sure he'd be called upon soon enough to join the slave-labor force. There were trails to be cleared. Dishes to be washed. Septic tanks to be cleaned. Each task was ritualized beyond recognition, mechanical motions piled on top of mechanical motions until there was no space left for consideration. Tim wanted to ensure that Tom secured a useful position within The Program, one providing access to financial records; his eagerness seemed to play well for both his and Tom's agendas.

Regularly reapplied chalk lines delineated the ranch's borders, and the Pros abided the boundaries with religious attentiveness. Not a single sneaker tread scuffed the dirt beyond the white stripe. Tim observed one Pro shearing brush, bracing one hand with another so not even a stray knuckle would breach the invisible wall.

Slobbering Dobermans at his heels, Skate drifted by occasionally, always beyond the pale of interaction. Tim noted how even the dutiful tensed in his presence and cleaved all the more vigorously to guidelines. Randall appeared from time to time, issuing summonses for

As far as Tim could glean, TD had built an impressive intel system – sixty-eight informants, sixty-eight willing confessors. Even negative thoughts had to be reported to Gro-Pars. And thoughts about having negative thoughts.

Throughout the day Tim played scout, mentally filing data on the maintenance sheds, the network of trails, the layout of the ranch and the land beyond its chalked perimeters. He searched for infractions of any kind – fire hazards, wetlands destruction, disposal of hazardous waste – but to no avail.

When mealtime did arrive – he guessed six o'clock by the sun's weary adherence to the western horizon – Leah informed him that retreatees were beneficiaries of a "purging diet." His questions as to what that entailed were met with customary vagueness.

A cafeteria abutted the Growth Hall. Under Leah's tyrannical direction, he helped wash the dishes left over from breakfast. The kitchen functioned with the monotony – but not the efficiency – of an assembly line. Tom's duty was to shake each wet plate exactly twice over the sink, then dry it with a clockwise rotation of the towel, starting in the center and spiraling outward. After drying the bottom in similar fashion, he was to wipe the rim all the way around in a single motion. After every five plates, he was to wash his hands and change towels. TD's monastic set of utensils was stored and washed separately by male Pros; the Teacher couldn't eat from anything touched by another's saliva. Or by a woman's hands.

Tim did a series of tests to see whether Leah and his fellow workers actually paid attention. Did they ever. He was admonished for drying counterclockwise, for interrupting his stroke around the plate rim, for neglecting to wash his hands. His errors were reported without fail, mealymouthed flunkies scurrying to Leah and deprecating him in Programspeak. It dawned on him that petty acts of defiance weren't going to win him Leah's – or the other Programmites' -trust. If he wanted to in-filtrate, he'd better Get with The Program. He had a little chat with his alter personality, and Tom returned to plate drying with newfound vigor.

After places had been set, Tim sat with the others, hands in his lap, boiled cauliflower wadded on his plate. Fifteen minutes passed, sixty-eight Pros and five initiates waiting immobile and mute, eyes fixed on the food before them. Finally the clank of the door's push handle announced TD's arrival. He took his seat before a bowl of soup, bent his head to his first mouthful, and issued an almost satisfied tilt of the head.

TD's disciples began their meal.

Tim and Leah sat Indian style about two feet apart on his bed, facing each other. His bag rested bedside, zippered not as he'd left it, but snugly shut; he'd been right to remove the contraband.

The other Pros had scampered off to their jobs loading boxes, stuffing direct-mail envelopes – Houston's Personality System Upgrade! – keeping TD's empire running at full steam. Tim and Leah were alone in the cottage; Tom Altman and his $90 million in assets evidently required around-the-clock companionship. Tim had taken the opportunity to demand question-and-answer time. The broom he'd leaned against the inside of the front door would sound a crude alarm in case of interruption.

Leah was vehemently defending her experience on Victim Row. "I learned to accept my body. My rash went away, didn't it?"

"How about the others who got yelled at? Did they all deserve it?"

"The Program is about rejecting pity. Everyone dreams their own weaknesses into being. They need to be knocked out of their complacency. The Teacher only yells at people who let him yell at them."

"And Joanne? Remember everyone screaming at her? Calling her an ugly pig? How did she dream her facial features into being?"

Leah bit her lip and glanced away – the first crack in her assurance. "There's a reason the Teacher chose to confront her on that. Maybe for her to learn something else."

"But you don't know what?"

"I don't need to know – Joanne does. It's her face, not mine."

"You don't know the reason, but you're willing to dedicate your entire life to the doctrine?"

She regarded him as a veterinarian might a stubborn mare requiring worming. "Are you for real? How's that make me different from any Catholic? I know the reasons TD gets me to criticize myself. That's good enough for me." She started to mumble some kind of dictum.

"What's that? What are you saying?"

"Your doubts are the last vestiges of your Old Programming. Your doubts -"

"TD must be pretty defensive about The Program if he won't even let you think about it yourself."

She glared at him. "The Teacher's not scared of anything. And I hold my own opinions."

"You say you hate being lied to. How about if I show you that TD lied to you? Would that make you change your opinion?"

Leah's eyes darted hatefully around Tim's face.

"TD told you he's a doctor, right? That he has a Ph. D.?" Tim produced a document from its hiding place in a pamphlet and unfolded it.

"You agreed not to bring any outside stuff up here."

"Because TD doesn't want free information here. And you'll see why." He held up a copy of TD's mail-order certificate. She looked away, eyes on the dark window, her face sullen.

"Look at it. Answer me. That's our deal. We shook on it."

She studied the sheet for a moment. "So he has a certificate. They're just labels anyway."

"I don't give a shit if he took a first from the Canyon View Training Ranch for Dogs. I'm just asking why he lied to you."