Bentley Little - The Store

She blinked. "What?"

"The polygraph measures galvanic skin response. The breast is the most sensitive and therefore the most telling area. It prevents us from having to reperform the test."

Samantha licked her lips nervously. "I think I'd rather do it twice if I

have to."

"I'm sorry. It's policy. Multiple tests are too cost-prohibitive. We only do it once. Please take off your blouse and bra."

There was nothing keeping her here, no one forcing her to submit to this.

She could stand up and walk out and not look back. She wouldn't get the job, but she wouldn't have to expose herself to this creepy, slimy man. And she could always get a job somewhere else. Georges, maybe. Or Buy-and-Save. Or KFC.

She started unbuttoning her blouse.

Even as she did it, she didn't know why. But she methodically went down the row of buttons, unhooking them, pretending this was not unusual, not a problem, that she was calm, adult, professional, and willing to do what it took to secure this position.

She leaned forward, took off the blouse, laid it in her lap. She reached around and unhooked her bra.

"Thank you." Mr. Lamb instantly began applying sensors to her skin: thin pieces of metal sheathed in plastic and coated with some sort of clear gel that felt ice-cold on her skin. He placed one in the middle of her chest, just below her neck, one above her left breast, one above her right.

"Raise your arms please."

She raised her arms, looked down as he applied a sensor below each armpit.

She had never felt so naked and exposed in her life, not even when Todd Atkins had burst into the girl's locker room on a dare in junior high and had seen her and Jenny Newman naked and toweling off. That had been embarrassing but essentially innocent, probably just as scary for Todd as it had been for them, probably just as exciting for them as for Todd.

But this was different. Sitting here in this bare and empty room, stripped to the waist and being viewed so coldly, so clinically, so matter-of-factly, seemed at once more intimate and more degrading. All her flaws were accentuated, her inadequacies exaggerated. Her breasts looked too white compared to the rest of her body, the nipples too small. She looked down as he applied the thin sensors and could see the white powder of her deodorant under her arms, could see the beginnings of stubble beneath the deodorant. Her belly button looked dirty. She should've shaved last night instead of the night before. She should've washed better.

He placed a sensor directly on her right breast. His fingers remained a beat too long there, touched the nipple, then he was doing the same thing to her left breast.

This time two fingers touched her nipple.

She felt violated, humiliated, shamed. But something kept her from slapping his face and walking out. She didn't need the job. Not this badly. Not enough to degrade herself. But she refused to let him see any weakness, refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had gotten to her, affected her.

She pretended she hadn't noticed and remained staring straight ahead, expressionless, letting him think that she thought this was merely a routine formality, something she had acquiesced to many times before.

Mr. Lamb placed one final sensor on the slight bulge of her stomach, then moved around to the side of the cart and began turning dials and flipping switches. There was a slight jerk and a hum as the machine was turned on, then a series of small clicks.

Samantha continued to stare straight ahead, her focus on the opposite wall. He moved the cart in front of her, faced her, smiled slightly.

"All right," he said. "We're ready to begin. Answer only the questions I ask, and answer them as accurately and succinctly as possible. For your protection, as well as the protection of The Store, this test will be audio recorded." He cleared his throat. "Application number two-eleven-A," he said.

"Please state your name and age."

"My name is Samantha Davis. I'm eighteen years old."

"Do you attend school?"

"Yes."

"What is the name of your school?"

"Juniper High . . . uh, Juniper Union High School."

"Have you ever been convicted of shoplifting or stealing?"

"No."

"Are you a chronic drug user?"

"No."

"Have you ever used any illegal or nonprescription drugs?"

"No."

"Have you ever sold or been in the possession of any illegal or nonprescription drugs?"

"No." She took a deep breath. Despite the fact that she had never been involved in anything even remotely illegal, she felt nervous. Her heart rate had accelerated, and she could hear its pulse in her head. Would this affect the outcome of her test?

Mr. Lamb adjusted a knob on the polygraph, then looked up, meeting her eyes. "Have you ever performed fellatio?"

"Fellatio?"

"Oral sex with a male."

She stared at him, shocked.

"Have you?"

She shook her head.

"Please speak your answers aloud."

"No," she said, in a soft small, voice.

"Have you ever performed cunnilingus?"

"Cunnilingus?"

"Have you ever licked another female's vagina?"

"No," she said.

"Have you ever performed analingus?"

"No." She wasn't exactly sure what that was, but after the last question, she had a pretty good idea.

"Have you ever inflicted any fatal injury or intentionally caused harm to another human being?"

"No." Samantha looked away from Mr. Lamb, down at her chest, at the electrodes attached to her skin. What kinds of questions were these? Not only were they bizarre, but they seemed to have nothing to do with the job of being a sales clerk. She found herself wondering if these really were questions that The Store asked of its prospective employees or if Mr. Lamb was doing this on his own. Maybe he was some sort of pervert. Maybe he was taping this session -- but for his own private use rather than as documentation for The Store.

That couldn't be the case, though. A secretary and several other people were in the personnel office right outside the door. And The Store had obviously provided Mr. Lamb with the lie detector and the recording equipment. He couldn't very well edit and doctor the results of this interview before turning them in.

No, The Store knew about all this.

"One last question," Mr. Lamb said. "Have you ever had a recurring dream in which you disemboweled a member of your family?"

"No!"

"Very good." Mr. Lamb flipped a switch, initiating a new series of clicks.

"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

He started to walk around the cart to remove the polygraph sensors, but she wasn't about to let him touch her again, and she was already pulling them off her skin. By the time he reached her, she had removed all of them, and she handed the jumble of wires to him, quickly reaching for her bra and blouse.

"We're almost done here," Mr. Lamb said. He placed the tangled wires on the cart and pushed the cart to the bare wall on the opposite side of the room.

From somewhere on the cart, he withdrew a glass bottle shaped like a wine carafe and carried it back. "We need you to give us a urine sample for the drug test."

He held forth the bottle. "Fill this up."

She could feel the heat of embarrassment in her cheeks, and she knew that her face had to be bright red. "Where should I . . . ?"

"Here." He looked at her flatly.

She shook her head, not sure she had heard him right. "What?"

"If you take it into the bathroom, there's no way I could authenticate it.

You'll have to do it right here."

"In front of you?"

He nodded. "In front of me."

Had the corners of his mouth crept up? Was he trying to hide a smile? She felt cold, not only deeply shamed but frightened.

Yet, again, no one was forcing her to do this. There was no one holding a gun to her head.