Damon Knight - Orbit 18

“All right, class. You may go see B.T.”

“And how are all my little sixth-graders doing today?” B.T. asks, amusing the six-year-olds who cluster around him giggling at his winsome two-step.

“Tell us a story, B.T.”

“Give us some candy, B.T.”

“Tell us about the hippie in the hill.”

Theresa is sitting ramrod-straight on her personal throne, straight and still. Quick as a wink, happy to be able to so quickly reward such good behavior, Murray pops her an M&M and tells her to go see B.T.

Lickety-split. Terrible Theresa is off her stool and racing to join the other moppets at B.T.’s feet. The smile on her face is an inspiring thing to see. Her hands are clasped safely out of harm’s way.

Murray massages the headache, which has spread to his temples.

It is good to see Theresa successfully internalizing her controls. Maybe he won’t have to increase her dosage of dexies, after all. Maybe she’ll take her fate in her own hands, minimize her time-outs, and become a good citizen. Time is short. Only this morning, Lobey the Needle came calling, asking about Theresa. Had she been a good girl?

The scar on Murray’s forehead is throbbing.

Sacramento Bee, February 4, 1977:

... knows we have to find some way to get these little hooligans off the street. I favor prisons, myself. But do you know what they’re doing in the schools these days? Listen to this. They’re giving the kids sweets when they’re good.

This is supposed to lower the crime rate? This is supposed to give these kids some sense of moral right and wrong? In my day, when we were bad we got a switching, and no fooling around with “behavior reinforcement.”

Wise up!

CONCERNED TAXPAYER

Time, September 5, 1979:

. . . your excellent and thought-provoking article on the trend to behaviorism in the public schools.

I thought my experience might shed some light on the disturbing elements of these techniques, and others, which seem to work so well in a practical sense. I work as a secretary in a Midwestern public school. Every day dozens of permanent records pass over my desk, and it has begun to frighten me. I see children marked down as potential homosexuals for the most insignificant acts. I see students classified as troublemakers for having the temerity to question the teacher’s statements on politics, history, or anything at all. Almost fifteen percent of the children here are taking daily doses of Ritalin or Dexedrine because they’ve been diagnosed as hyperactive.

This is something we, as parents and other concerned adults, should keep a wary eye on. We must have the courage to stand up and fight this sort of pettiness.

Please don’t print my name.

(Name withheld)

Atlanta Constitution, May 17, 1982:

. . . came home from school today and I found out she’s been classified as a pre-delinquent child. They want to take her and put her in one of these special institutions that have sprung up all over the country.

They say she was crying in class. Her grandmother died the day before, and that’s why she was upset. I tried to explain this, but they said it was all the more reason they needed to take her and help her before this unpleasant experience could permanently scar her personality.

I don’t know what to do.

H. B. Sweeney

Last Ditch, newsletter of the Rocky Mountain Resisters, no date:

.. . say that Friday’s the day. Could be, but that won’t keep me from keeping my eyes open on Thursday!

The yellowfaces have been massing in the canyon all week, that’s certain. They want your kids, fellow citizens, and they mean to have them one way or another. And for one time they’re right. If there was ever a kid who’s a genuine pre-delinquent, it was my Tommy two years ago. Since then he’s helped me kill three yellowfaces.

I’ve found that if you aim for that little set-screw in the middle that holds the mask onto the pivot, you get the best results. I don’t know what’s behind them masks, men or what. I do know that if you put a slug through that screw, they go down and I ain’t seen one get up yet.

Keep your powder dry, neighbors. And don’t fire till you hear ’em yell “smile!”

Nasty Nathan

Lobey the Needle whispers down the corridors. The excitement of B.T.’s visit has gone down a bit, though it still eddies and flutters in the comers like empty candy wrappers stirred by a breeze. Lobey’s tread is silent. Lobey is a friend of the children, but he brings no candy. He doesn’t visit once a week but is always around, standing in the back of the room, walking down the far end of the hall, suddenly in front of you and patting you on the head when you round a comer. His hands are gentle.

He is putting your soul in an analytical balance, weighing your progress. He is taking the measure of your frontal lobes. Feel his gentle hands caress your forehead. Isn’t Lobey a swell guy?

Murray leaves his clients bent over their lessons and meets Lobey in the hallway.

“Good to see you, Murray.” His hands touch Murray’s scar, testing gently. It is not an old scar.

“Good to see you, Lobey.” Murray is achingly happy to see Lobey, his old friend. His face aches. It was Lobey who made Murray into a good citizen. Before, Murray had been Terrible. He had been brought up in the hippiehills with his crazy mommy. There was nothing to do but operate, get a blank slate to draw on. Murray’s bad behavior had been reinforced all his life and he was apt to say the damdest things.

“I won’t bother you, Murray. I just want to look in on Theresa. How has she been?”

He peeks into the open doorway and is surprised to see Theresa sitting like a little angel in her chair, biting the end of her tongue as she struggles to make her pencil do what Murray wants it to do. Theresa is being a good girl. She is trying awfully hard.

“Theresa’s been good today,” Murray says, and immediately his face hurts. Those rebellious muscles are trying to pull the corners of his mouth down, trying to make him f---n. Oh, come on now, Murray, you’re a grownup now, you can face the word. Frown. You’re trying not to frown. Sweat pops on his brow at the closeness of his attempted evasion. What are you trying to do, dummy, with all those watchbirds all over the walls? Lie? No, it couldn’t have been that. Murray is long past that.

“She was in trouble this morning, but she got much better when B.T. showed up. She’s been a perfect angel ever since.”

“So happy to hear it. I’ll need your final report next week, Murray. She’s seven today, and we have to decide.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll be all right. In this day and age ... oh, no. She won’t need you. She’ll make it on her own, you’ll see.” Murray dares a grin. “You’re getting out of date, Lobey.”

Lobey chuckles, aware that Murray is right. Lobey is, after all, only a specially trained skinner.

“Maybe you’re right, Murray. I’ve already handled all the grownup holdouts. There’s only their children, now. Theresa’s mommy was one of those, wasn’t she?”

Throb in the temple, ache in the gut.

“Yes, she was.”

“Thought I heard that you knew her.” Lobey is watching. His needle is always ready. Sometimes two, three, four times aren’t enough. It’s no good to make vegetable goulash out of frontal lobes; you must be more subtle, and therein lies the danger.

“Me? I don’t think so. But you’d know better than I, wouldn’t you?” Murray laughs, the muscles around his mouth are doing a spastic dance.

“Guess I would, at that.” Lobey laughs. “Have a nice day, Murray.”