James Adcox - Does Not Love

Now the men in riot gear have broken ranks and are falling upon them. When Robert chances to look he can see the great arcs of baton above the heads of the mob. Somehow even above the screams Robert can make out the dry crack of wood against a skull. They are being funneled in a certain direction — those who do not move correctly, or who get too close to the outside of the mass, are beaten, and thus the men in riot gear are training this new, corporate body, that they, with their helmets and floodlights, have called into being. Where to? Robert tries to push himself up on the shoulders of the bodies that press against him, and, just before being forced back down by other bodies likewise trying to push their way up, he catches sight of bodies being shoved into black, windowless vans. Going back is impossible; pushing to the side only presses Robert closer to the swinging batons; the mouths of the vans seem inevitable, and Robert can feel himself along with so many others pushing toward what he cannot avoid.

Men in orderly uniformsunload Robert and his fellow captives from the back of the van and lead them to a long hallway filled with other bodies sitting in folding chairs. Robert and the others are told to take chairs and wait. From time to time men in orderly uniforms come to lead one of the bodies to the doorway at the end of the hall.

Robert is takenby several orderlies to see a doctor, for processing. There are forms for Robert to fill out. “This is an observation period,” the doctor says. “You should understand that we have a legal right to detain you for a seventy-two hour observation period, to see if you represent a threat to yourself or others.” He sits on one side of a shabby desk, in a shabby office. He looks tired. Robert is one in a long line of bodies that the doctor is processing today. The doctor shuffles through some papers. Robert occupies a chair on the other side of the desk. To Robert’s left and his right stand large men in orderly uniforms.

There’s clearly some misunderstanding, Robert thinks. I have a JD, for Godssake. I am wearing a suit. But Robert’s white shirt is dirty, torn in places. He’s missing his suit jacket. He has been sweating, and pressed against other sweating bodies. “Why do I need to sign the forms if you already have the right to detain me?” Robert says, trying to grasp at whatever he can.

The doctor sighs and looks up at the ceiling. The orderly to Robert’s left holds Robert’s left arm behind his back and twists it, firmly but without undue violence, until it feels as though it might wrench free from its socket. Robert screams. The orderly to Robert’s right hands him a pen.

“Here,” the doctor says, indicating the appropriate line on the form. “Thank you. Here, as well, please,” the doctor says. “Initial here.”

“This isn’t legally binding,” Robert says. “I was under duress.”

The doctor flips through his forms until he comes to one that affirms the patient has signed all forms free of duress, and the orderly twists Robert’s arm behind his back until he signs it.

Robert calls Viola,from the depths of the hospital psych ward. “Viola,” he says to her voice mail, “Viola, pick up. For God’s sake please pick up. I’m at a hospital. I’m not hurt. They’ve taken us here. I was… there were all of these people, who participate in drug testing for money, and the police — or somebody — descended upon them. Upon us. They might have been working for Obadiah Birch. There is a man, he’s trying to organize the guinea-piggers… and there’s rumors of someone else, a man in fake fur and black goggles… but that doesn’t make sense. This sounds crazy. Of course this sounds crazy. There is no way, right now, for me not to sound crazy. Is that why you’re not picking up? Is that why you haven’t called back? But you haven’t even listened to this yet, of course. How could you? I just… I really would like to hear your voice right now. They, they have all of the people from the guinea-pig camp here, they picked us all up and are holding us for a ‘three-day observation period’… except that, I’ve just learned, they found out about my insurance, that my insurance will cover a longer stay, they say that I need someone who can accept ‘responsibility on my behalf’ to come sign, to get me out. This is all illegal, of course, it’s completely illegal. I’ve told them its illegal. They’ve told me… something about an obsession with the legality of things. Monomania. They can make anything fit. They’ve got a certain form, and they can make anything fit into it. Oh, God, I want to hear your voice right now. Please pick up. I don’t… I don’t know what number to tell you to call, if you get this message. There’s a number on the phone, here, but it’s been blacked out, and they’ve taken my cell phone from me. Someone else has taken my cell phone from me. Not the doctors. These kids, at the guinea-pig camp, a group of kids. Of course you’re not going to pick up. None of this makes any sense. Why would you pick up? You haven’t even listened to this yet… ”

Robert calls again, crestfallen. Crestfallen, Robert listens to Viola’s voicemail message. Robert calls again, and listens to the voicemail message again. If no one came to stop him, he could do this all day.

Does it mean somethingthat he’s here, Robert thinks. Is it a kind of penance?

His roommate at the psych ward steals his shoes whenever Robert takes them off and goes shuffling down the hallway with them in his hands. Robert stops taking off his shoes when he sleeps. One night he wakes up to find his roommate carefully working his left shoe free from its foot. “Fine,” Robert says. “You want the shoes?” He pulls off his loafers and throws one and then the other at his roommate. “Have them! By all means! Enjoy!” His roommate crouches in a corner of the room and cries. Robert lies down, waiting for the orderlies to come, thinking, Shut up, just shut up.

It is not a penance.There is only one event happening after another, until Robert arrived here.

Robert is ina small room. In front of him is a bright white light. A man is sitting somewhere in front of the bright white light, facing Robert. Between them is a table. “Why does my head hurt?” Robert asks.

“Because I hit you over the head with the butt of my pistol. You were being uncooperative.”

“I was asleep.”

“You were being uncooperative in your sleep.”

“Why do my ribs and arm and abdomen and chest hurt?”

“Because once I started hitting you it was difficult to stop.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“I am an agent of the secret law.”

“Could you turn off that light, for Christssakes?”

“No.”

“Could you turn it down, at least?”

“No. The bright white light has important symbolic connotations: Truth, Justice, Righteousness, Grace, Purity. All of these things are important in our work, the work of the FBI, which is the preservation of National Stability. Is there anything I could get you that would make you more comfortable? A coffee, perhaps? A drink of water? No?”

Robert shakes his head. Robert’s head feels like it’s stuffed overfull with steel wool.

“I understand that at first the white light can be disorienting, uncomfortable perhaps, perhaps painful — but in time subjects get used to it. Often, they come to love it. We’ve recorded cases of subjects weeping when we take the light away. May I read you a testimony?”