Bentley Little - The Collection

All this is rationalization. For I got used to the power rather quickly, though I kept my vow and abstained from its usage. The power became an accepted part of me. It became comfortable.

And it happened.

One day, having failed miserably on a final in one of my more important classes, sitting in my room, feeling depressed and sorry for myself, I thought, Why not? Why not use the power? Why not use it to get something I want out of life?

I planned my speech carefully. I did not want to screw this up. Finally, I had worked out what seemed a perfect statement for my purposes and was ready to say it. Once again, I stood before the mirror. "I graduated from Harvard with a Ph.D. in political science, and I am now a presiden­tial consultant," I said.

And it was all true. The knowledge of my previous life as a financially and academically struggling history major at the University of Southern California during Eisenhower's administration was still there, but it was a memory of the past. I was a different person now-establishing myself as one of the more brilliant minds in the popular Stevenson White House.

There was no transition period. I knew my job and was good at it. Everyone knew and accepted me. The transfor­mation had gone perfectly.

The power was an annoyance in my everyday life, how­ever. I would greet people with the customary, "I'm glad to see you," and would suddenly find myself overjoyed that they had stopped by. Or I would say to people, "I'm sorry you have to go," and, by the time they had finally departed, I would be near tears. On particularly frustrating days, I would mutter to myself, "I'm sick of this job," then, feeling the effects immediately, I would have to blurt out, "I love this job, it makes me feel good!"

But I could function. The power caused me no major problems.

Until June 5.

A particularly nasty and involved crisis had come up in­volving both Germany and the Soviet Union, and we were at an emergency cabinet meeting in the president's office, arguing over our course of action. The secretary of defense had suggested that we "bluff" our way out of the possible confrontation with a first-strike threat. "Hell, they're already afraid of us," he said. "They knew we've dropped the bomb once, and they know we're not afraid to do it again."

A surprising number of cabinet members agreed with him.

"No," I argued. "A diplomatic solution is needed in this instance. Military threats would only aggravate the situa­tion."

The secretary smiled condescendingly. "Look," he said, "your theories may be fine in college classes, they may work in textbooks, but they don't work in real life. I've been around these matters for the past twenty-six years, most of my life, and I think I know something about them. You've been here a little over a year. I hardly think you're in a po­sition to decide these things."

I was furious. "I may not have been here as long as you have, but I do possess something which you seem to lack- common sense. Do you honestly think threats of a nuclear war are going to put an end to this crisis? Of course they won't. I know that and you know that. Furthermore, I be­lieve that such actions would lead to a full-scale military confrontation. And none of us want that. We have to talk this out peacefully."

The arguments soon wound down and the president, looking tired and a little strained, thanked us for our contri­butions and went off to make his decision.

I was in my office when word came that the Soviets had launched an all-out nuclear attack. "Please file into the fall­out shelter," a voice said through the speaker above my door. "Do not panic. Please file into the fallout shelter. This is not a test."

The realization hit me immediately. "I believe," I had said. "I know." The fate of the secretary's plan, the country, and, possibly, the entire world had been in my hands, and I had not known it. I had botched it horribly. The attack was a direct result of my statements.

I panicked. I was not sure that I could think fast enough to stop the impending death and destruction, and prevent the holocaust. But I knew that I had to save myself. That much was instinctive. "I'm a history major at USC trying to get fi­nancial aid from the Eisenhower administration," I screamed.

And I was on a couch in the financial aid office. A woman was staring at me, as if waiting for the answer to a question. I was sweating like a pig and shaking as if palsied. I am not even sure I was coherent as I ran out the door and to my room.

But it was not my room. The same Expressionistic prints were on the walls and the same furniture was arranged in the same way, but the room was different. I was in room 212 in­stead of room 215.

This was not quite the same reality I'd started from.

Thus I learned that my statements could have delayed ac­tions and unforeseen consequences. If I did not study in de­tail all the possible meanings of all my words and/or did not phrase my sentences carefully, things could change beyond | all reason. And once again, I grew afraid. Only this time the fear was deeper. This time it did not go away.

I made the decision. I would speak no more. I could not afford to gamble with the lives of other people, nor could I j bear the responsibility of changing reality or even particular circumstances. Even the most innocent comments, devoid of f all malevolent intent or meaning, could, I realized, wreak havoc I could not envision. I could not take the chance of speaking ever again.

I had to leave school. That was my first move. It was im­possible to live in a college environment without uttering a word, and I knew that the temptation would be too great for me. My friends would talk to me, teachers would ask me questions, acquaintances would stop and engage me in casual conversation. I had to leave.

I quickly gathered all my belongings together and packed what I needed. I took all my money. I left.

Once on the street, however, I realized that I had no idea of what to do next. I did not even know where to start. Time, I thought. I need time to think, time to sort things out, time to formulate at least some semblance of apian. I felt in my pockets and counted out all the money. One hundred dollars. That would buy me some time.

I did it all without saying a word. It's amazing, really, how well one can function without even the slightest form of verbal communication. I rented a small shack on the beach for a week and bought enough groceries to last me for that time without saying so much as a "yes" or a "no" to anyone. I got by with noncommittal grunts, quizzical looks, nods, and various gestures.

And then I was ready.

I had already decided never to utter another word again. Now, I knew, I must enforce that vow. I had to wean myself from the world of people. I had to cut off all ties with hu­manity. I had to isolate myself from everything-go cold turkey, as it were. And I had to do it in a week. In seven days, I had to reject and unlearn a lifetime of thought pat­terns, habits, and behavior. I had to de-acculturate myself.

It was hard at first. With the absence of human contact, I found myself wanting to think out loud. I felt, like the he­roes in radio dramas, compelled to talk to myself.

But I overcame that compulsion. Soon, the urge disap­peared altogether. I spent my days walking along the empty beach, occasionally swimming and reading good books. I grew used to my solitude.

Nights, however, were a different matter.

The first night, I decided to turn in early. I drank a cup of espresso, marked my place in the book I was reading, and settled down in the double bed.

I awoke in what had once been a shopping mall, now abandoned and inhabited by poor people, most of whom were wandering down the once-carpeted aisles of stores try­ing to hawk pieces of scrap metal they'd scavenged. A woman walked up to me and held out a rusted gear. "Want to buy it?" she whined pitifully. "Only a dollar."