up.”
It was mainly said to himself, just to hear a voice in the room,
but he felt that he should say something. It definitely
wasn’t directed at Professor Graber; although Graber was
amicable enough, irreverent throwaway lines didn’t seem
befitting of Graber’s reputation. If Roger had Graber’s
stature, he wouldn’t be spending it helping his students
get into law school, he’d be demanding that his monument
be elaborate enough to require some construction workers to die
during its construction.
But he knew Graber was great because he would have no interest
in hagiography. Bart Barber, a professor who eclipsed Graber in
international notoriety but definitely not in pedagogical importance,
was like a human who aspired to be a god: he needed the attention
and admiration of his peers and underlings to appreciate his achievement.
Graber was just beyond all of that; he was like Zeus on top of
the mountain.
Roger, of course, would never tell that to Graber, especially
because the analogy might not even be accurate. (Barber may have
mentioned that the Greek God’s still needed the affections
of the mortals in “Ancient and Modern Philosophy,”
but it was testament to Barber’s shittiness that such information
wasn’t retained).
Roger had followed Graber like he requested, and they had reached
their destination some time ago: the “experiment”
room. This room had the sterile scent of other rooms associated
with government and politics research: the fidgety but resigned
presence of students’ bottled energy, the scent of time
dying slowly.
There were no computers in the room. Good, no staring at a screen,
no disconnect between Graber and himself.
But with no computers, what would this experiment be about? A
focus sample? A census survey? What experiment could a government
and politics professor—a Constitutional Law Professor, mind
you—perform without a computer simulation?
And why did he need to sign that waiver?
Graber returned from the back of the room.
Then he turned his back on Roger and started writing on a clipboard.
Graber spoke:
“Did you hear the news? 365 people died yesterday in a
plane crash over Brazil. It’s horrible, isn’t it?
Things like this; just wiped out. Everyone on-board died.”
Roger didn’t respond. First, because his initial response
was to say “one for every day of the year.” Second,
because Professor Graber was still facing the wall.
Well, saying something is better than nothing.
“That’s horrible,” he offered.
Next to Graber was something Roger had overlooked; it looked
like an unopened package of printer paper, but it had a little
red gumball in the center.
Professors don’t bring up tragedies unless their segueing,
so Roger went along: “Do they know why? I mean, did the
fuel tank explode, or something? Or…” (he was hanging
on that last syllable for so long that is almost felt disrespectful)
“did they hit, hit, I don’t know, turbu—…turbulence.”
His voice trailed off like a beaten puppy.
Roger felt weird talking to the professor, who was still facing
the wall. Roger’s syllables limped out of his mouth until
he just decided to shut up.
He then thought—moron—this is a constitutional law
experiment, so the answer was invariably going to be terrorism.
But he had not heard of any plane crash (though he never did
read the news daily, despite Barber’s failed attempt in
Government 100: Introduction to the Principles of Government to
make a newspaper and a journal of opinion mandatory daily reading).
Then he thought, maybe—moron—this being an experiment,
there was no plane crash.
Then he thought that maybe Graber is moonlighting for the psychiatry
department, and the test is really about student uneasiness and
self-doubt in front of authority figures.
Whenever Roger was uneasy, he would intentionally shoot his
eyes back and forth like those wooden balls you see on a psychiatrist’s
desk. He thought it was funny, and for some reason it reminded
him of The Simpsons. It wasn’t 7 p.m., but The
Simpsons were playing across Rogers face.
Graber (finally) turned around.
“I’m sorry for keeping you, I just needed to get
these things in order. And not that it matters, but if I remember
correctly, 364, not 365, died; I guess December 31st is disappointed.”
“It’s fine.”
(He half-wanted to divulge that he too had been thinking of
an annual comparison).
Graber motioned Roger, and they sat parallel to the easternmost
wall.
“So what law schools are you looking at, Roger?”
Excellent. “I’m not entirely sure, I haven’t
taken my LSAT yet. Since everyone has told me the LSAT is such
a huge and integral part of admittance, I don’t really want
to, you know, hedge my bets or make predictions or really plan
until after my LSAT.”
“Yeah, it has become a real industry—law school—they
base their rankings really on the LSAT scores they admit each
year. But GPA and recommendations still matter. For some schools,
like Berkley, GPA matters more than LSAT.”
Graber was the best recommendation one could get. Natch. He
was Colombia by way of Harvard and Princeton. Roger remembered
it off Graber’s website; all the other professors tried
to look so well-regarded, and Graber’s picture was this
self-deprecating dorky picture taken at the neighborhood Chipotle.
Once your held in such high regard, humility only seems to bolster
everyone’s perception of you.
A couple minutes passed as they talked about some other trivialities.
Roger was sure to mention that he had gotten A’s in two
of Graber’s class. He joked that his recommendation should
therefore be twice as good. Har-de-har-har.
But before the conversation became too tangential, Graber said:
“Roger, I need you to do something for me. Think back,
think back to about five, seven minutes ago. How were you feeling
then. Was there anything different then?”
“Uhh…”
“Can you think of anything that was different? That maybe
made you feel different? Do you feel say, better now then you
did five or seven or ten minutes ago?”
“Well……” (this syllable was jammed like
an obstinate engine).
“Yes?”
“Well, to tell the truth……..”
“No. Make things up.”
“Well to tell the truth I feel more comfortable now. I
mean, I still don’t know what this census or experiment
or…procedure…I’m here for is, but I felt somewhat
anxious standing there waiting.”
“Is that all?”
“Ummm….I feel better now that I’m sitting
down. I feel more relaxed. I am more… at ease. I am…more,
I don’t know—better relaxed and a more pliable respondent.”
(Eyes: back and forth; back and forth).
“Roger—don’t rush the show. I don’t
need you to try and tell me what conditions will make you a better
subject. This isn’t an interview.”
“Oh that’s good, because I really don’t know
anything.” Roger smiled.
“That’s good. That’s good. So, can you think
of anything else?”
“Umm……..Anything?” (he was thinking
of mentioning that he is hungrier now, which makes him a little
less comfortable and more willing to rush this—but he didn’t
know how minute he was supposed to get). “No. I guess I
can’t. Except—well—I felt kind of bad about
those people who died.”
“Ohhhh….,” Professor Graber leaned back, “so
you felt bad then, but now your fine with it?”
“No…I mean, ten minutes or so ago. It was kind of…shocking…”
“Roger, Roger, Roger—are you seriously telling me
you were shocked?”
“Well maybe shocked is, too strong….Maybe its like,
like, an opposite euphemism.”
“A dysphemism.”
“Yeah,” (fucking dammit I should have used that
word), “I mean, but I was shocked nonetheless.”
“So the news, say, ‘jarred your mind or emotions
as if you were dealt an unexpected violent blow?’ Roger,
honestly….tell the truth, you weren’t shocked.”
“Well no….but…it’s definitely bad. I
mean, maybe I didn’t react—it didn’t exactly
register as something terrible, you know, because plane crashes
and terrorism, and war casualties and accidents, and disease,
they happen all the time. And it’s horrible, and in my brain
it registered as bad, but I mean—”
“I understand.”
“I mean I’m not going to lie. It feels real…”
“Remote?”
“Yeah.”
“Roger—”
“Yes.”
“Roger…what about when I told you that there was
one less person on the plane—364, instead of the original
365?”
“Umm…better I guess. But it’s still, you know,
364 people dead instead of 365. It’s still bad.”
“Can you think of any other recent disasters or anything
like that?”
“Well, New Orleans. Obviously. And those other hurricanes.
And another natural disaster I read about, I think in Indonesia.
And something in Africa. And of course there was a foiled terrorist
attack…”
“Roger”
“Yes?”
“Do you really feel any substantive difference—emotionally,
anything—between knowing one less person died?”
No point in being evasive.
“No. Not really. I mean its better that one less person
died…”
“What if I had told you, when it was 365 people who died,
that if you offered up $500.00, one person would be saved?”
Now it was Graber waiting to gauge a reaction.
“I don’t understand.”
“$500, and one person survives.”
Roger sat there, his eyes devolving into his Simpsons'
routine.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Just hypothetically, like a Gedanken experiment. If you
sacrificed, offered up, whatever, $500, and one person ‘survives.’
Say, they decide not to go on the plane for any millions of different
reasons and end up surviving. So now its 364 instead of 365. Would
you do it?”
“I don’t have $500, to be honest. Not like spare
cash.”
“You could charge it on a credit card.”
“No, I mean I really don’t, like, have that much
money.”
“You don’t have $500 to save someone’s life?”
Roger could see through Graber’s amicable mock-outrage,
and, smiling, Roger asked, “Well, could they pay me back
after?”
“Nope, sorry. It’s completely anonymous. And if
$500 is too rich for your blood, how bout $300. The price on human
salvation just went down. $300, and the stranger lives.”
“I mean, no—no—because I really don’t
have the money. I mean I really don’t…no, I can’t…I’m
on student loans.”
Roger felt ashamed. He had put too much emphasis on “no,”
and repeating it probably didn’t help his case. He knew
Graber saw right through it.
“Well,” Roger began, “actually, I think I
would. I would try, to do something.”
“Do something? Roger—”
“Yes?”
“Estimate…how many people die, would you say, of,
say, preventable diseases or starvation each year? Throughout
the world.”
“I—”
“How about we throw genocide in there too. Think of disease,
accidents, and malnutrition, think of that as a statistic, constituent
elements of reasons why people die. Think of all the “disappeared”
people’s in Latin America, just think of the existence of
Iran and North Korea and China. And now add genocide. How much
does that statistic increase now? Hundred percent? Two-hundred
percent? Fifty percent? Ignore deaths and disappearances. How
bout just Vitamin A deficiency? How many kids go blind from that.
How many South African children does Brat Pitt weep for? Do you
know what the effect of Vitamin A deficiency is?”
“I don’t know. I mean, aren’t they all related?
I mean, war and famine and disease.”
Graber smiled.
“Ahh yes, your classes teach you well. Yes, yes, I am not
claiming, say poverty and disease are mutually exclusive. Not
in the slightest. But, please, admit it if you cannot wrap your
head around that figure; or even begin to visualize the mass bulk
of bodies that figure covers; how many people on average per year—and
that you really have no idea.”
“I don’t. I’m sorry. I never hear that information,
but if there is like a statistic on it, I would like to hear it.”
Even though Roger said “sorry,” he didn’t feel
ashamed or anything other than surprisingly upbeat; this jousting
with Graber was fun, and he felt privileged, since he doubted
many students got to talk this intimately with the professor,
even if he was there for a paid test sample.
Graber nodded, understanding as he always seems to do.
“It’s no surprise then, Roger, that you would feel
reluctant to pay. I mean, when we see advertisements for those
Save the Children,the starving Christian children—well first
of all some of us may object to the exclusive focus on Christian
children—but anyways, for the most part, most of our participants,
the other students surveyed…”
(Roger didn’t like to think of the other special kids Graber
cherry-picked for this assignment).
“…believe that it’s a scam, or at the very
least, all of the money isn’t even going to the children.
People joke about how the organizers pick the cutest kids, smear
them with dirt, and put them in front of the camera. There is
so much tragedy in the world, that people become inured to it,
make jokes about it, deflect it anyway possible.”
Roger wondered if this inferred that those Christian charities
were, in fact, legitimate, which he secretly doubted.
Roger nodded, enraptured with a lovely feeling—that lovely
feeling of professor/pupil convergence: “It is horrible
that so many people die, but yes, one person, its natural to be
reluctant, with so much tragedy in the world.”
He didn’t like how sanctimonious and pretentious that
sounded.
Dammit.
Graber answered as if he did not notice:
“That tragedy, it reminds me—when I grew up, in Long
Island, it reminds me of the first time I was told that America
was mainly a Protestant country. ‘America?’ ‘Are
you sure?’ I knew about Protestants in America like I knew
about penguins in Antarctica—remotely.
“But Roger, if I told you how many people died of a preventable
disease, or malnutrition, it would effectively just numb you to
it. I am sure you’ve had some familiarity with things like
this; an introductory IR course has to cover the problems plaguing
the Third World. But those classes, they re-affirm what students
know. Sure students acknowledge it, they profess their horror,
their moral outrage, then they have a recitation period on it,
and then they just compartmentalize it. So that’s Topic
One, normally at the end of the class, after things like IR structure.
“Then at the end— you know how it is— you get
the lecture on institutional problems in the Third World, debt,
starvation, and then the individual, state, system paradigms,
then some easily dichotomized left-wing/right-wing approach with
maybe some Marxist perspectives thrown in there too. Students
then just go on, from disease in the Third Word to, you know,
controversy over the UN—it’s always groundwork, problem,
opinions.
“But to actually think that each number that makes up this
grand total of preventable fatalities is an individual; that autonomous,
multivariable, independent human beings make up this number, it’s
impossible to truly fathom. Its like if I told you that you just
lost the chance of winning $50,000; you’d be devastated;
but if I told you that you just lost your chance at winning a
billion dollars, the information…it isn’t really absorbed.”
Roger faintly nodded while responding, “I know. It’s—it’s
a real shame. Maybe, maybe instead of focusing on individuals—I
mean it would be nice to save as many individuals as possible,
but if we focused on systematic solutions, you know, I mean I
know you just, I guess sort of, sort of denigrated this approach,
but if we focused on either aid or trade or development, on liberalizing,
say foreign markets to help foster sustainable—sustainable
agricultural development…”
“I know, you’re taught to say things like that,
Roger. For some reason, I don’t know why, the word ‘foster’
always seems inextricably and inexorably linked with discussions
of international economics and political science; ‘foster’
economic growth. It is never ‘forward’ or ‘advance’
or ‘cultivate,’—well sometimes it’s cultivate
when your talking about maybe ‘cultivating a moral climate
or a climate suitable for business’ or something like that—but
the word ‘foster’ makes me think of neo-liberal policy
wonks writing in Commentary Magazine offering some hackneyed plan
to let corporations make more money.
“But, to be fair, the reflexive Left isn’t much better;
the Left’s insistence on aid instead of trade is…
I think its been a major grievous short-sighted crutch for a region
that desperately needs to learn how to walk on its own…”
It finally began to dawn on Roger that this really was extra-curricular;
the stultifying political-correctness of the classroom, the diminution
of received wisdom on helping the Third World, the fact that the
pedantic, condescending piety of most IR was finally being debunked.
The conventional wisdom, the dualist policy options—offer
aid or trade, liberalize or subsidize—was being treated
as so much accumulated detritus.
Graber continued, talking about the ABC approach developed in
Uganda to prevent the spread of H.I.V., to a litany of African
economists view on debt and this and that, and Roger’s eyes
glazed over a bit— he only really appreciated the bit on
Bono’s Messiah Complex, and exhibit A in the case against
allowing Bono to lobby on behalf of anything should be the self-effacing
failure of Pop.
Graber apologized for being tangential, but his pace never quickened,
and he never seemed overwhelmed; it was as if this information
existed independently and was using Graber as a natural conduit.
His tone was always convivial and conversational, but still, Roger
was beginning to feel worn down.
Roger had almost forgot about how they had arrived upon this
conversation thread when (it seemed like ages ago) he remembered
that little red clown’s nose sitting on top of that pack
of innocuous computer paper.
When Roger’s eyes went astray, Graber’s words redirected
them.
“Do you know what I always find amazing, Roger? I find
it amazing that Democrats and Republicans can get married, fall
in love. It’s just politics, right? But what the two disagree
over: initiating wars, social services, health care, these things
have real consequences. If you feel that Republicans are starting
a war in violation of the Constitution, or are wantonly killing
civilians in fighting a dishonest war, or vice-versa, you’re
a Republican who thinks Democratic timidity would allow people
to be ruled by a despot or liberal multiculturalism is providing
safe haven for Muslim anti-liberals, well, these things actually
mean something. Whether or not a war is immoral, or if not having
“moral clarity” against Islamic fundamentalism is
immoral, well, people’s lives really hinge on these issues;
these are issues of life and death. Social services—people
suffer because food stamps or welfare is cut. You say Republican
tax policy is depriving the middle-classes in favor of the rich,
well, that’s less food on the table for a poor family, that’s
health insurance a middle-class family can’t afford. You
say Democrats capitulate to terrorism? Well’s, that’s
our national security down the drain. But it’s only politics,
right? Even though it affects the fate of this nation and, by
extension, the fate of the world, it’s only politics, right?
It doesn’t matter that your lover holds beliefs antithetical
to your own, beliefs we are all so willing to label as cruel or
deranged or even criminal when targeting the official standard
bearers of these positions, be it Jesse Jackson or Al Gore or
Hilary Clinton for Republicans or George Bush or Ann Coulter or
Bill O’Reilly or Donald Rumsfeld for Democrats. It’s
cognitive dissonance.
“I think the point, Roger, is domestic politics, ideas,
have, ironically, become a little bit like the UN—a debate
squad for the chattering classes.”
Roger was just nodding.
Graber leaned in.
“Roger.”
“Yes?”
“Remember, when you thought first 365 people died on that
plane….and then you found out it was 364?”
Roger got that look on his face, that look where the eyes slant
slightly upward, as if he was trying to look into his brain and
visualize the numbers.
“There is no difficult math here, Roger. But would you
rather think there were 365 people who died instead of 364, and
have gotten an additional $500?”
Roger sat there, treating the statement as a non-sequitur, waiting
for the link.
“Would you rather believe that 365 people died instead
of 364, and have an additional $500? You said that finding out
one less person died made you feel good; would you sacrifice that
feeling—well, more accurately, preclude it—to gain
$500?”
There was no reason to pretend otherwise.
“Yes. Yes I would. Just because I don’t know about
the other person dying, doesn’t mean they died. I mean,
I don’t get…I don’t know if satisfaction, maybe,
satisfaction is the right word. But, I mean, that person is still
alive regardless. And I’m $500 richer.”
“Would you rather there have been 364 survivors instead
of 365, and walk away with an additional $500?”
Roger was beginning to tense up a bit. He just felt like there
was no point in answering; deep down, Graber must be able to look
through all the prevarications and equivocations of his subjects,
and know deep down inside they would rather have the money.
“Roger, answer honestly. And keep in mind, that this is,
of course, strictly confidential. And, if you must know, I already
wrote your law school application and sent it to the LSAC.”
“I—I mean I trust you. I mean, I know this is professional.”
Roger couldn’t restrain any longer. His idle curiosity
woke up like a dog snapping to attention after hearing a door
slam, nonchalantly wagging its way somewhere it wasn’t wanted,
and pissing all over the floor—“Professor Graber,
what is this button for?”
“What button?”
Roger pointed to the little red gumball, easily within the range
of his index finger. The button was perfect: it seemed to be twice
as wide as his index finger, perfect for allocating all of his
index finger’s strength to the very center.
“This button. This is a button, right?”
Roger quickly clarified.
“I didn’t mean to have that sound disrespectful,
or condescending or anything. Seriously, I just wondered if this
was a button.”
“Yes. It is a button.”
“Everyone can use an additional $500.”
Roger sat there, growing uneasy. Again, not uneasy about the
ever-avuncular Graber, who knew how to deal with his patients
like the best pediatrician: Roger grew uneasy because he was ping-ponging
the ramifications of Graber’s suggestion around in his head
while talking, and, logically, if one diverts some mental energy
to another activity that person cannot invest all of their mental
energy into the prior activity, and he didn’t want Graber
to see him as any less than completely focused. But five-hundred-bucks
is five-hundred-bucks, and people can talk all they want about
saving the world—and of course, the world does need saving—but
at the end of the day, what matters are objects, tangible things
of substance. Ideas are ephemeral, and all those kids who preach
about saving the Third World are gas- guzzling spoiled cunts who
contribute to conspicuous consumption, have Mommy and Daddy to
pay tuition, and still buy all the cheap immigrant-labor picked
fruits and vegetables and buy clothes made in sweatshops. And
at the end of the day, their wealth insulates them from every
really having to step outside of ideology. And they might approve
of sacrificing $500 to save some poor citizen land-locked in some
god forsaken shithole country, but at the end of the day, they
will be out at the bars or the clubs spending their money and
you’ll be alone and penniless. Their words and world are
circuitous, and god forbid they ever let any of those ideas float
out upon the real world—he has already seen the signs of
abandoned idealism in his liberal arts friends who, upon graduation,
go to law school or become insurance agents (the last refuge of
the worthless-major, perennially unemployed graduate). Idealism
curls up and dies in front of corporations and institutions and
everything of substance—and those people in the Third World
are still dying.
“This button,” Graber leaned in, “Roger, would
you push this button for $500?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“A direct one.”
“What happens if I push it?”
“You get $500.”
“How many students does the school use in these experiments?”
“Why does it matter?”
“I was just wondering how much of a maximum budget is
set aside for this experiment. Assuming that I actually would
get any money.”
Graber leaned in, “Roger, I assure you, this is not a
fluke.”
“I’ve just never heard of an experiment with such
a large….payoff. I remember hearing Professor Oppenheimer—he
was telling us how he was challenging some theory of Rawls…”
Roger quickly clarified, there is no some theory of John Rawls,
but the theory of Rawls.
“I mean, Oppenheimer dealt with one facet of Rawl’s
Justice as Fairness, and, in these experiments, they
involved, like allocating chump change between people, like $10
or $20 or at most $30, and seeing if people would leave any behind
for other people in their group.”
“I am aware of Professor Oppenheimer’s experiments.
And yes, we have a much larger budget, even amidst general budget
cuts. Well, not really ‘general’ budget cuts: business
and engineering seemed to have been spared a dalliance with the
budgetary ax.”
“I just meant that Professor Oppenheimer was attempting
to disprove such a landmark theory like Rawl’s with what
is, comparatively, like, chump change. And that was a big undertaking,
I remember him saying. So this is like, like ridiculous almost.
“So anyways, Professor Graber, what else happens if I
hit this button? What are the results for people other than myself?”
All this was getting to be surreal. He remembered the picture
of Professor Graber up on the B.S.O.S website. Professor Barber’s
picture was ostentatious and unintentionally self-parodic (a private
spot on the B.S.O.S website was too humble for Professor Barber:
Barber had a link to his personal website, which managed to have
every profile shot of himself staring majestically into some oft-seen
sunset, and had both a “brief” biography that managed
to still take up pages upon pages and an “extended”
biography that seemed to cover all the academic minutia Barber
had ever affiliated with….ever). Graber’s profile,
on the other hand, was just a dorky, poorly formatted picture
with him wearing an even dorkier yellow mock trial shirt that
managed to make him look like spread marmalade. Roger remembered
that the caption underneath the picture read—Professor
Graber’s wife insists this is the worst picture of him ever
taken.
‘Well Roger, what happens is…you get $500, and,
to put it in lay-mans terms...”
A look of consternation was temporarily visible upon Graber’s
face:
“I am sorry, I have been explaining this all poorly. I
do not like the way this seems to be ‘building up’;
it will construe the ‘revelation,’ as it were, or
the purpose of this experiment, in a negative light. It has been
psychologically proven that revealing something like this—‘building
something up,’ as it were— makes it seem much more
dramatic and important, and as a result, recipients tend to respond
unfavorably, even though many of your previous comments would
indicate something different.”
“I’m confused.”
“Look Roger. Forget the experiment for a second. Honestly.
Let me ask you something. Say someone in Libya, or Kenya, or Kuala
Lumpur, wherever, was going to die in a week—98 hours—of
some kind of infectious disease. If I were to offer you $500,
would you give consent to allow that person to perish in 97 hours
instead?”
“There is no way to prevent the person from dying?”
“There is no way for us to prevent this person from dying.”
“Would they enjoy that last hour?”
“Well, they wouldn’t know it was their last hour,
but we will assume they would enjoy that last hour as much as
they would enjoy any other hour.”
“My heart would tell me its wrong, but to be honest I’d
want to do it.”
“Understandable. Remember when I told you about the 364
people who died in the plane crash. It was 364, right?”
“I believe so?”
“Are you positive?”
“I believe so...”
“Would you bet $500 on it?”
“Ummm…”
Graber laughed.
“Well, lets assume instead 365 people died.”
Roger seared this number—365— into his brain.
“Well, would you allow the number to go back to 364? To
be blunt, you didn’t even remember how many survivors there
were; would it really matter much to you? 364 survivors instead
of 365? If you do it, you get $500. Some number goes down and
you leave with money.”
Roger was chafing. He just wanted to get out of there.
“Yes, I guess I would.”
“Well then hit that button and its all yours.”
Roger didn’t let deference enjoin propriety.
“Look sir, I know that isn’t possible.”
Graber leaned in.
“Roger, push that button, and I promise you get the money.”
“I don’t want to take your money, sir. And sir,
may I just ask, aren’t you a Constitutional Studies professor?
What does this have to do with anything”
“Yes,. I am Con Law. But it’s not my money. This
is grant money. Donate the money to cancer research. You can turn
an inevitable death somewhere in the world into a moral good.
Buy something for your girlfriend or boyfriend or future significant
other. Give it to a women’s shelter or an animal shelter
or wherever you want. I bet you can take this money, devote it
to some good cause, and turn this whole thing into a moral-plus.”
“If I hit this button, sir, are you telling me that someone
is going to die? Is that what you’re saying? Is that what
you are really saying to me? Sir, how much of this has been fake?
There was no plane crash, was there?”
Roger was a little nervous, but his eyes weren’t doing
his routine; even when people are stressed out, nervous, or irritated,
difficult circumstances always enliven people. And being enlivened
is what people need to live for. As much as people dislike pressure,
it is what everyone needs to break up the quotidian sedation of
everyday life. And Roger was thinking this would make a great
hush-hush story between him and his friends.
Until he reasoned that this wasn’t something to talk about.
“Roger. I am telling you, absolutely, that everything
I said today was true. I promise you. And like I said, this is
off the record; I have already written your LSAC recommendation.
You have nothing to worry about.”
“Look, I know this is preposterous. And I know that there
is probably some reason for this, some subject that—I mean
there is a reason for this experiment, there is a reason why some
organization or the school is funding this. I don’t know
why. Maybe this is the right reaction. But I noticed you haven’t
been writing anything down.”
“Because this is the only moment that matters.”
“Look, I know it’s stupid to complain about being
lied to and strung along, because I did sign up for this, this
experiment. But no one can ever believe that…this….one,
its obviously impossible; logistically impossible. Second, I mean
it doesn’t even make sense; what does this have to do with
Constitutional Studies? But, but more, but more… even a
better point is that, that the university would not sponsor something
illegal, and if this was true, it would definitely be illegal.”
“Roger, did you read that waiver you signed?”
Roger’s silence answered for him.
“Not surprising. It is really long. I can brief
you on it again later. On this experiment, I think we’re
getting tangential. I have already told you what I need to tell
you. Don’t believe it if you do not want to. I hold no stake
in it. I am a participant in this study, just like you.
“But Roger, do you know how many peopled died in Iraq today?
In the last month? How many people in Lebanon, El Salvador, Guatemala,
Saudi Arabia, Iran, disappeared without a trace? Over the last
twenty years? How many despotic Third world countries tortured
and killed their own citizens today? How many people died of preventable
diseases?”
“The answer to that isn’t to hurt more people.”
“I’m not saying the answer is to hurt more people.
But what I am saying is that you don’t feel any real moral
obligation to those people—but you do feel an obligation
to polite society, to moral suasion, to whatever moral prestidigitation
that allows you to think of yourself as upright and morally outraged
even while you know terrible things are going on right now and
you can do something about it but you continue to sit around in
college classes clucking-clucking. I mean, of course, you should
and must get a B.A., not only for being able to have the potential
to help others but also for yourself…what I am saying, I
guess, for all of us, we could donate a little bit of money, we
could think more about what we buy, we could think more about
what we do—not what we feel, but what we do.
But to be honest, I am not trying to push you in that direction.
I am saying that a gulf exists between how we feel and how we
act, and everybody’s sin is nobodies sin. We lack a hive
mind to enforce empathy. We feel it because we feel obligated
to, but we don’t feel it.”
“Look, I can’t help the poor without a college degree,
you know that. I don’t even know what I want to do. And
one thing sir, if this is real, sir, you’re acting, I don’t
know, unprofessional. Maybe. I don’t know. I can make my
own decision. If this is supposed to be an experiment, you shouldn’t
be haranguing me.”
“Roger, in all honesty, you were right about one thing
before—you don’t know the purpose of this experiment.
Do you think I believe any of that bullshit?”
“No, I don’t, and yes, I understand that I’m
some guinea pig. And I know you weren’t lying to me technically,
because I don’t even know what this experiment is about.
I am sure your instructed to play devil’s advocate. But
the idea of hitting a button and killing someone in Africa is
illogical. We don’t have self-destruct buttons inside us.”
“True. Yes, you are right; it seems logistically impossible.
But what do I know? This is fascinating data.”
“Can I go now?”
“Roger, if you really believed what you said, if you thought
this was so ridiculous, you’d be pragmatic, hit the button,
collect the money, and go home with a clean conscience.”
“I hit this button, and I get $500?”
“Yes, you can leave this little self-contained universe
$500 richer.”
Roger was hungry. Roger was tired. He was a little dehydrated
(he worried the day before about taking in too much sodium).
“You guys are gonna run of out money real soon.”
He clicked the button. It stayed down.
“You can push it in again if you like. Double-tap it.
Double the cash.”
So Roger did it. He sensed that he would get paid, but couldn’t
imagine such a situation really happening. But, surreally, from
some yet unseen slit, a crisp hundred dollar bill came out, followed
by another, followed by another, another….
Ten in total.
Two pages of computer paper came out, one after another, both
facing Professor Graber. Roger could see some lines of thick black
ink, could see two words separated by a comma, both words on Roger’s
right larger then the ones on the left. The other words on the
page were very faint, the ink less dense. Graber took the papers.
Roger couldn’t believe this. These bills were real, so
crisp and fresh; they were rigid like paper tomahawks.
Graber stood up.
Roger held the money in his lap like a cornucopia of overflowing
fruit.
[END]
© 2006 J.R.- Contributor's Bio
