Story 8

Fault Lines

A boy is punished for his misadventure.

There were two boys, one big, one small. The big boy was big, a lot of meat on his bones as they would say, a solid eight year old. Everyone called him Butch. The small boy was a little six year old, skinny frame, a slightly protruding tummy. Everyone called him Tich. They were both in Grade 4. Butch had been kept back two years in a row.

On December 14, not long before school would break up for the holidays, an incident occurred in the playground that Tich would remember for the rest of his long life. It was the day after his sixth birthday and his Mom had made a birthday cake of sponge filled with jam and cream, followed by strawberries and homemade ice-cream, his favorite.

The school playground was a large one, with tall eucalypts dotted throughout the grounds, and peppercorn trees lining the perimeter. Tich and his friends played marbles among the exposed roots of the gum trees, playing games that they made up as they went along. There was a large shelter shed with the boys and girls lavatories next to it, about one hundred meters from the red brick, two story school building.

On this day, at lunch time, Tich and his friends were playing “follows” (their made up game that required each to fire his marble to a series of spots hidden within the exposed roots of the trees, the first to get to the end the winner). Butch, as he usually did, stood apart, calling them babies for playing such a silly game. Tich was close to winning, he thought, when the bell rang and at the same time he realized that he had to run to the toilet, having held it back for quite some time, absorbed in the game as he was. He wasn’t the only one. Many of his mates also ran to the toilet at the last minute. The trouble was that Tich had to do number two. All that cream the day before at his birthday party had caught up with him. And when he got inside the toilet, to his dismay, the one cubicle was taken up. He banged on the door, crying, “hurry up! Hurry up!” And to his horror, Butch’s voice rang out full of glee, “you gotta wait, I got here first anyway!” The bell rang and rang, and Tich danced around, trying to hold it back. He cried out again, clutching his stomach, bent almost double, crossing his legs, anything that would stop the inevitable evacuation. “Please! Please! I gotta go!” he cried.

Then the bell stopped and Butch emerged from the cubicle, a big grin on his face, enjoying every minute of it. Tich darted forward, but Butch’s thick body stood in the way.. “Don’t you piss on me ya little shit!” he growled.

Tich, one hand on his tummy, the other pushing at the door pleaded again, “please! Please!” But Butch held the door closed, just enough to make him wait a little longer. Then Butch suddenly let go, and Tich lurched forward as the door gave way.

Then everything was quiet. Butch was gone. And Tich to his horror felt a warm ooze push into his school pants, and a little trickle run down his legs. He stood there, unable to do anything, tears running down his face.

Miss Penny looked over her class, and glanced at her watch. The Nature Study broadcast from the ABC was about to start.

“Where’s little Freddy?” she asked, looking at the vacant seat two rows from the front.

Butch raised his hand, a serious look on his face. “I saw him go into the toilet, Miss,” he said innocently.

“What did you do to him?” demanded Miss Penny, always ready to jump on this nasty piece of work, as she always described him to her fellow teachers.

“I didn’t do nothing, Miss,” whined Butch.

“I bet you did,” muttered Miss Penny. She turned to Freddy’s desk mate. “Stewart, go down to the toilets and see if you can find him. And come straight back, do you hear?”

“Yes Miss.”

“And the rest of you. Sit up straight, all hands on the tops of your desks. Now go on! Do it now! The broadcast is about to begin.”

Gentle music of a Mozart sonata wafted into the classroom, announcing the beginning of the broadcast.

“Now sit straight and listen!” Commanded Miss Penny as she walked to the door of the classroom and peered down the passage looking for Freddy and Stewart. But only Stewart appeared, puffing a little having run as fast as he could down to the toilet and back again.

“He won’t come out!” cried Stewart. He’s howling something awful,” he panted.

“What do you mean he won’t come out? What’s wrong with him.?”

Stewart looked away. “Miss, I think he’s pooped his pants!” It was awful, Stewart couldn’t believe it. But he had to try very hard not to grin.

Miss penny looked down at him, horrified. “Are you sure of this?” she asked in a measured tone.

“Yes, Miss. I’m pretty sure. He was crying that much I couldn’t tell what he was saying, but I went in there and it smelled like….” Stewart put his hand to his mouth, trying to hold back his grin.

But Butch could not hold it back. “…shit!” He cried.

The entire class gasped and the noise of their feet scraping against the old wooden floor filled the room.

“My goodness!” exclaimed Miss Penny. “Butch you horrible dirty boy! Class, settle down, or you’ll all be kept in and there’ll be no playtime for two days!”

She turned to Stewart. “Go down and fetch the Principal this minute,” ordered Miss Penny, “and be quick about it!” She grabbed Butch by the ear and pulled him to the front of the class. “Now children,” she said, speaking sternly, her eyes narrowed under a deep frown, her lips pushed forward that, if it were not for the current circumstances, might have looked like the beginning of a kiss. She let go of Butch’s ear, went to her table and opened the drawer. The children looked with wide eyes; they knew what was coming. Or at least they thought they did. But Miss Penny did not retrieve the familiar leather strap, but instead a small block of Palmolive soap and held it out to Butch who stood motionless, a silly look on his face, clearly enjoying the attention he was getting.

“Butch Smith, you have a filthy mouth,” snarled Miss Penny “which is why you must now wash it out with soap and water. “

The class gasped as one.

“But Miss…! cried Butch.

“No buts! Go on, take a bite then go down and wash out your mouth at the tap.”

Butch stood fast, still a smirk, but nevertheless he took the soap. There was no bathroom in the building, except the one for the staff that was forbidden to children. He would have to go down the stairs and outside to the gully trap.

“Bite it! Now!” demanded Miss Penny, who then opened the table drawer and withdrew the coiled strap. “Do what you’re told or else!”

Butch was no stranger to the strap. He stood there, holding the soap near his mouth. The class was goggle-eyed.

Miss Penny unfurled the strap. “You’ll get it around the legs if you don’t hurry up and do what you’re told.”

“Oh no! Not the legs!” Butch cried, knowing from grim experience that it hurt much more when the leather curled around the legs.

Miss Penny stamped her foot loudly, causing the whole class to murmur and shift nervously in their seats, their leather shoes banging on the floorboards. The sudden bang did the trick. Butch took a small bite at the soap, dropped it on the floor and ran for the door, which suddenly opened before he got to it, and there stood the principal, Mr. Foster, Stewart standing sheepishly behind him. Miss Penny gave Butch a little shove that caused him to lunge past the principal and knock into Stewart as he entered the room.

“What is it, Miss Penny? Stewart would not tell me what had happened. Only that you had to see me at once,” said the Headmaster, a little annoyed.

“It seems that young Freddy Brambles has, er, you know, is holed up in the toilet and has had an accident,” said Miss Penny.

“You mean he hurt himself?” The principal frowned.

“No, not that kind of accident. You know…” stuttered Miss Penny.

“Good Heavens, Miss Penny, how awful. Here, I will take care of your class while you go down and see what’s the matter.”

Miss Penny grimaced. “Oh! But he’s in the boys toilet, I would think.”

“He’s just a boy, now Miss Penny. That doesn’t matter. Now off you go and look into it. If it’s what you say, I will have to contact his parents.”

It was a good hundred yards out to the boys toilet. Miss Penny was not at all pleased. And it was not until she reached the bottom of the stairs that she thought of a solution. Of course, there was a student teacher in the building, assisting with grade 4, she thought, and the classroom was right at the bottom of the stairs. She walked straight into the classroom. The children were also listening to the Nature Study broadcast. She approached the teacher who sat at her desk, looking very busy.

“May I borrow your student teacher?” she asked. “There’s been a small accident for which we need a little extra help.”

The teacher looked up, smiled a little, and pointed to the student assistant who sat studiously taking notes, at the back of the class. “Of course, take her, but bring her back before the end of the broadcast. She has to teach the lesson.”

“Thank you so much,” smiled Miss Penny. “This is one I owe you, with all my heart.”

“Miss Prendergast,” the teacher beckoned,” could you go with Miss Penny, please? She needs your assistance with a small emergency, is that right Miss Penny?”

“Yes, indeed. Miss Prendergast, please follow me.”

Miss Penny left the classroom, followed by the reluctant student teacher.

“You may leave your notebook there. You will not need it,” said Miss Penny.

Miss Prendergast followed Miss Penny out the door, down the corridor and out past the gully trap (Butch was nowhere in sight) where Miss Penny stood facing the playground and pointed. “Down there, in the boys toilet. One of my pupils, his name is Freddy, but all the kids call him Tich. I’m told he has had an accident of some sort. Could you go down there and see what’s up?”

“An accident? I haven’t done my St. John’s first aid exam yet. If it’s a serious accident…”

“It is serious, but not that kind of serious. Now off you go and get him. In the meantime I will try to find a place where we can take care of him.”

“There’s no sick room?” asked Miss Prendergast innocently.

“We’ve never needed one. There’s the staffroom, but we couldn’t use that for obvious reasons.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll see. Now off you go.”

“But it’s the boys. Shouldn’t it be a male teacher who goes there?” complained Miss Prendergast.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s just a little boy. Now get going, if you want to get this over before the Nature broadcast is finished.”

By this time, Tich was beside himself. He thought of taking off his pants, but then thought in horror what would come out and what it would reveal. He went to sit on the toilet seat, but was dismayed when he felt the squelch inside his pants when he sat, so he quickly jumped up again. He just jigged from one foot to the other. Waiting. No longer crying, but whimpering. Anticipating what was to come. And at last it did. It came in a high pitched voice.

“Is there someone in there? I’m Miss Prendergast. If there’s someone in there, could you come out please? We are all worried about you.” Miss Prendergast had already forgotten the name Miss Penny told her. . “What’s your name, young man?” called Miss Prendergast. All she could hear was whimpering and sniveling. “Now sniveling won’t help any. Just come out and we’ll see what we can do to help you. Are you hurt or something?”

“No Miss,” came a pitiful voice, cut off by another whimper.

“Now it’s no good crying. That won’t help. Where are you hurt?”

Tich’s crying all of a sudden turned into a wail. The words, if there were any, were garbled. It was no use. Miss Prendergast could not understand what was wrong. She would have to get up the courage to enter the boys toilet. Something that she, of course, had never ever done before. She entered, tried not to look at the open urinal, wanted to hold her nose, and almost turned around and ran back out. Tich’s wails were so ear splitting, she had to force herself to keep going, pushed at the door to the cubicle, but it would not open. Titch was pushing against it.

“Don’t come in! Don’t come in! I’ve pooped myself!” he cried in between his wails.

Miss Prendergast stepped back in horror. “Oh My God!” she whispered to herself. She pushed harder at the door.

Finally, Tich gave in, and retreated to the back of the toilet, now shivering, knees clasped together, arms held across his small chest. A pitiful sight curled up in the corner.

“Come on now,” said Miss Prendergast, “take my hand and we will go back up to the school and get you cleaned up.” She offered her hand and waited. Admittedly, her hand was stretched out as far as she could in a silly effort to keep as much distance from him as she could. The pitiful little creature looked up, his dark brown eyes blurred by tears, and gingerly offered his hand. Miss Prendergast forced a smile. “That’s right, come on then.” She looked around the gloom of the rather filthy cubicle and took his hand, having no idea what she would do next, except take him to the principal’s office. And who would want this smelly little crying bundle in his office? She led her reluctant little smelly boy up to the school and was met at the door by the principal who immediately put on a bright and brisk smile.

“Come now, young man, let’s get you cleaned up,” he said with a cheerful grin. But he made no attempt to hold Tich’s hand. Simply walked, assuming he would be followed, down to the end of the hallway where there was an old table that the caretaker had retrieved from the storeroom, and a big dish of water set upon it.

Tich waddled along, holding Miss Prendergast’s hand now quite strongly. And out of the principal’s office emerged a buxom woman, a parent of one of Tich’s classmates who lived nearby. She had come with a clean set of clothes, soap and washcloth.

“Let’s get him on to the table,” said the principal, meaning of course, that Miss Prendergast must lift him up. “And then let’s get those clothes off him and put in this bag here that Mrs. Foster has brought.

Miss Prendergast hesitated.

“Don’t worry Miss Prendergast,” said the principal with soft reassurance, “you can teach your lesson tomorrow or whenever it suits your classroom teacher. This is more important for now.”

Miss Prendergast tried to lift the shivering Tich by grabbing under his arms and lifting him at arm’s length. This made him heavy and she struggled to lift him up, but finally managed, when she saw that no one was going to help her.

“Now Miss Prendergast,” said the principal, “I have an old dust coat you can put on to protect your lovely dress. Then you better undo his clothes. There’s going to be such a mess, there’s nothing for it but to get him naked and wash him down thoroughly. Now I’ll leave you two to it.” He smiled and quickly retreated into his office.

Mrs. Foster laid out the fresh set of clothes at the end of the table. “He’ll be all right once we get him cleaned and dry and into these fresh clothes, poor little thing.” She handed the wash cloth to Miss Prendergast who took it, reluctantly.

“Freddy, can you undo your shirt and pull it off please? There’s a boy,” she asked.

Tich fiddled with his top button, but his shivering and whimpering got in the way.

Mrs. Foster took over. “Come on, I’ll do it. We don’t have all day! These young teachers,” she muttered to herself.

She briskly unbuttoned Tich’s shirt, tossed it into the bag, then proceeded to do the same for his shorts, trying not to look at the brown smudges that were now making their way down his legs.

“Better take off his shoes and socks first,” suggested Miss Prendergast.

“Then please do it,” said Mrs. Foster curtly.

Miss Prendergast carefully undid his shoes and managed to pull off each one without getting anything on her fingers. The socks were another matter. They were by now well soiled at their tops where Miss Prendergast would have to grab them.

“Freddy, lift your foot, now, come on. You can’t expect us to do everything for you. You’re not a baby, now, are you?” said Mrs. Foster.

The shoes and socks were off, the socks thrown into the bag, and now the shorts dropped to his ankles, followed by his underpants that Mrs. Foster, with the fingernail of her index finger and thumb, managed to pull down.

And there he stood, up high on the table, naked, his knees pressing together, his arms crossed tightly over his shivering little body.

Naturally, his underpants contained most of the nasty mess, and these were tossed into the rubbish bin. Now Mrs. Foster started to wipe him down, all the time rinsing the washcloth in the big tub of water, adding soap as she went. The water was cold, and Tich cried and cringed some more as Mrs. Foster splashed it over him then rubbed the cloth all over with her rough hands.

By the time they got him clean, and were putting the finishing touches to their good works, the bell signaling recess sounded, and the noise and rustle of kids’ voices flowed into the corridor. The table was right by the stairway where all the bigger kids from the upper grades came down.

The principal came out of his office to make his presence felt when the kids walked by, two by two, and to inspect the good works done with Freddy. The kids, including those from Tich’s own class, walked by, pointing and giggling. Tich, of course, cried even more, especially when Butch pointed and laughed loudly. At which the principal called out, pointing at Butch with a stern finger, “this is nothing to laugh at, young man! Let it be a lesson to you all. And if you don’t stop laughing this minute, I’ll bring you into my office and strap the lot of you!”

The laughter reduced itself to chatter. And then the principal, his hands on his hips beamed, “cleanliness is next to godliness, you know. Now move along, children. That’s the spirit.” And he returned to his office.

Mrs. Foster produced the clean clothes from her basket and handed Miss Prendergast a towel. Together they wiped Tich down and dressed him in dry clothes.

Miss Prendergast brought Tich back to his classroom just as the bell rang signaling the end of recess. He sat in his place, his head on the desk buried in his arms, as the class came in from recess. Sniggers and snickers passed over the classroom like leaves of autumn blown in the wind. Miss Penny stood in front of the class, her face very serious. She raised a finger, her lips pushed out a bit. The kids knew that they were going to be yelled at.

“Stand up, Freddy!” she ordered.

Tich sat, face buried, and did not move.

“Freddy! I said stand up!”

Butch started to laugh, and leaned over to prod Tich in the back.

“Butch!” cried Miss Penny. “This is no laughing matter! Come to the front this minute and stand over there in the corner.” She then advanced to Tich and pulled him out of his desk, shook him so that his had to release his arms from his head, and stood limply in the aisle. She dragged him to the front and faced him to the class. “You have all seen what happened to Freddy. Let it be a lesson to you all. When the bell rings for you to come in from the yard, you come in immediately. You go to the toilet before the bell rings. Going to the toilet is never an excuse for getting in late for class. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Miss Penny,” muttered the class in unison.”

“But Miss Penny,” came a little voice, Tich’s thin voice. “I would have had time but he wouldn’t let me into the toilet.” He pointed at Butch standing in the corner, a big grin on his face.

“How dare you speak up to me. I don’t want to hear any more of this. There’s no excuse. None at all.” She shoved Tich forward, and pushed him into his desk.

“And as for you,” she said looking at Butch, “you’re getting what you deserve. She returned to her desk and opened the bottom right drawer. A faint sigh of anticipation rippled across the classroom. They all knew what was in that drawer. “Put out your hand,” she demanded.

Butch, his well-known silly grin on his face, put out his hand and received one of the best.

Moral: Humiliation is the handmaiden of tyrants

© Copyright 2021 Harrow and Heston Publishers, for Colin Heston

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For France
A psychiatrist grapples with torture.

     Family is the most important thing in my life. Is it not so in every life? In the end, we are left with family. No one else really cares. Is this not why, regardless of every effort,  neglect and even abuse are routinely uncovered in aged care homes and institutions?
     Every morning before I leave for the office, I pause at the kitchen table, watch my two children, Pierre just twelve years old, and Mateo ten, munching on their cereal. I lean over and kiss each of them good-bye and call Marie who responds from the bathroom, a muffled “bye.” She used to come out and we would hug, but for some time now, we have both felt somehow uncomfortable, distant. Strangely, our bedtime trysts have been incredibly physical, I suppose I mean, aggressive. You might even say violent. On my part that is. There is something there, I am sure. The boys don’t sense it though, or at least I hope not. And Marie, I know she wants to talk, but I have avoided it. I suspect that she knows, and soon I will have to come clean.
     When I say that I leave for the office, I don’t really mean that. It’s not an office, at least not any more. Not since I gave up my private practice and offered my services to the Commandement de la Gendarmerie Nationale in Algiers. I used to be a psychiatrist, a very good one, but patients were hard to come by in private practice. In the 1960s psychiatry was a specialty in its infancy and for people to admit that they went to a psychiatrist was to admit that they were stark raving mad.  
     Nor did I actually offer my services. They came knocking at my door.  “I am here at the direction of General Massu,” began the impeccably dressed man in civilian clothes, obviously a career bureaucrat of all bureaucrats. “The General respectfully requests that you attend an audience with him, with a view to taking charge of the D.O.P.”
     “Which is?” I asked. I had never heard of the D.O.P.
     “The Détachement Opérationnel de Protection.”
     “Which is?” I repeated, receiving no reply.
     General Massu would later describe this operation as a division of “specialists in the interrogation of suspects who want to say nothing.”
     Mindful that the main mission of any psychiatrist is to get one’s patient to talk,  “the talking cure” as they say, I agreed to meet with the general, himself a famous military man, well known for solving the problems of terrorism facing French colonies around the world.  And my wife and I were very much concerned about the political turmoil in Algiers, the bombings and riots. Right now, Algiers was not a safe place to live or to raise a family. So it was easy for me to agree. Although I diagnosed the general as a hard man, obviously an egotist of the first order, he was a patriot, and seemed honest and direct.  General Massu was also a well-read man, who had survived torture by the Nazis during World War II. He asked me to take on the job of director of intelligence. He thought that a professional, such as myself, would be able to conduct interrogations that did not require the use of torture, which he had experienced himself and of course abhorred, as would anybody. And, as he said to me, he wanted to make sure that torture was not used unless absolutely necessary, to which I of course agreed.
It was an easy choice to take on the job. In fact, I felt flattered. The money was good too, a great opportunity to earn some money for my young family. We had been struggling for some time. The hospital had no psychiatrist and did not see the need for one. Besides,.people did not have the money to pay for doctors. They were grim economic times then, and still are, made worse by the economic turmoil. It’s why, of course, so many Algerians are packing up their bags and migrating to France. We should do the same.  But my wife does not want to leave her many relatives and friends.
     My staff included a number of assistant interrogators who had police training, a couple of male nurses, a psychologist, and several male secretaries, perhaps the most important of all staff, to record the respondents’ answers, describe their demeanor and so on. It took me many weeks to find secretaries of such caliber. It demanded much more than simply taking shorthand or typing. It required a level of sensitivity and perceptiveness on the part of the observer/recorder to set down in good prose everything that happened, being careful to avoid any slightly inflammatory wording, finding words that, one might say, neutralized such actions as hit, whip, drown, etc. “Pressure was applied,” was a popular expression, as were “subject was persistently asked…” or “subject’s answers were double checked by other interviewers” (we never used the word interrogate or its derivatives).  
     I should have taken one thing that the General said more seriously.  That my work was part of military intelligence. Therefore secrecy was absolutely necessary. Nothing we did or learned from our suspects was to be conveyed to the outside world. No talking to friends or relatives no matter how distant. Of course, never ever talk to the press, those cunning sneaks who wormed their ways into bureaucracies and organizations. “Information is power,” pronounced General Massu. “If even the slightest inkling of our activities is leaked to the press, we lose. It’s as simple as that.”
     I thought later that I should have asked, “and how will we know that we have won?” It was only later still, after I had become accustomed to  my secret life as chief interrogator, that I answered my own question: “when all the terrorists are dead.” I know now that this answer is also just as silly. For once the terrorists are dead, the journalists and politicians will mine the records of history to find out what really happened behind the secret walls of the imperial buildings of the Commandement de la Gendarmerie Nationale and its connected neighbor Barberousse prison. Though in some ways, there were no secrets. Or at least there was plenty of submerged knowledge of the happenings behind the walls of Barberousse prison. Convicted terrorists were guillotined behind its walls. Everyone knew that. What they didn’t quite know, and I and my staff pretended not to know, was that many were probably convicted on the basis of the testimony offered up by our subjects.
     My driver showed up as usual and we drove off, a ten minute ride. The car can be any color or make, seems to be a different car each day. Security says they do that so terrorists can’t learn what cars contain Gendarmerie personnel, so make it less likely to be bombed. I’m appreciative of that. But the car does show up the same time every morning, so I wonder if a terrorist out there — and believe me I know who many of them are, having interviewed them — knows where I live and could easily lie in wait. But praise Allah, it has so far not happened. Of course I say nothing to Marie about all this. She would go nuts if she knew what I do.
     Well, what I do is psychiatry at the highest — and lowest — level. I know the theory of mind control. After all, isn’t that what psychiatrists are supposed to aim at? To exercise enough control over the patient’s mind to put him back in control of himself, to be able to live with himself. How many normal people have trouble living with themselves from day to day? Most, if you ask me.  I spend just as much time helping my staff as I do helping our mostly unwilling subjects answer our questions, tell us what they know, get it off their chest. It’s a burden to them, to keep information in and to be unable to share it. This is a basic principle of psychiatry, in my view. It is the aim of any good psychiatrist to help his patient to talk about his worries and cares, insufferable thoughts and impulses. Not only that. We clinicians also know that there are many thoughts and past traumatic events that lie beneath the patient’s consciousness. We can help by getting them to vomit (excuse the unseemly word) up what lies deep inside their consciousness (or unconsciousness, if you are Freudian or one of his followers). 
     I have been doing this for almost a year. My staff have come and gone. There are only a couple upon whom I can rely and be sure are trustworthy. Those who have suddenly left, saying that the job was too stressful, I let go of course, but am required to notify my bureaucratic superiors of their whereabouts. I try not to worry about them. I trust that General Massu does not have them watched, that they will not talk to the press or anyone else about our work. After all, they have been willing participants. To speak out is also to admit that they too are complicit in our secret mission.
     Since you are reading this, it is reasonable for me to assume that you know why you are reading this “story” — let’s call it that.  You are curious. You want to be let in on the Big Secret of interrogation. Especially by one who is trained in psychiatry, the science of mind control. Interrogation of unwilling suspects has a very long history, from the slaves of Roman times, to the Spanish Inquisitors who catalogued and mastered the art, merging on science, though they did not know it.  I should add that we do everything to avoid the use of any violent means to extract confessions. We French are a civilized people after all, with an impressive history of caring for those in countries who need and will prosper on our enlightenment. Government by the people, for the people. An idea that we French invented.
     The first step, then, with those who will say nothing, is to scare our subject by demonstrating our omniscience of his past actions and collaborators. Embedded in this trick is something that may be obvious to you: if we know everything, why is it necessary to extract a confession out of this unwilling subject? I could answer that, but will not right now. There are many apparent illogicalities in the torture trade. We confront him with a boukkaraor cagoulard, a Muslim terrorist with his head covered in a bag with eye slits, who is one of our successes, and is now an informer.  Some of these informers are very good at what they do or are made to do. Many will drop to their knees, their hands tied behind their backs, sobbing, wobbling back and forth, singing the names of accomplices, and whatever else we ask. Depending on our psychological assessment of our unwilling subject, we may use a female informer, instead of male. If we have concluded that our subject has a special relationship with a woman, this may be a very effective technique, especially if we strip her down a little, just enough to give him a taste of what we are capable of. I say “we” here, but I assure you, as a psychiatrist, I would never touch any subject or intentionally hurt them in any way. I leave that to my assistants provided from the military arm of D.O.P. Some appear to enjoy what they do a little too much. If I see that, I quietly take them by the arm and usher them out of the interrogation room for a cooling off period.
     The majority of our suspects break down easily when confronted with these informers. I sit at the back of the room, often with a secretary and record the names of collaborators, their addresses, and so on. And if pending attacks are indicated, I quickly convey this information to the D.O.P emergency personnel. May I remind you, we are doing this for France and her dominion Algeria. We have brought Algeria out of the dark ages. They will become civilized whether they like it or not. Their supposed independence for which they say they fight is nothing but a cry to go back to the barbarous ways of little tyrants in their little fiefdoms, dishing out a primitive justice to their enslaved people. 
     In the rare (though admittedly increasing) occasions when our subject does not “break” (he is hardly broken, this is violent language that we try to avoid), we move on to the necessary next step. No, wait. There is an intermediate step. After showing him our sobbing informer, we send our subject back to his cell, where we leave him for a day or so. We may even send a guard into his cell as though he is to be taken out and tortured, but then make up some excuse for not doing so. The guard may feign good will on his part, pretend that he is taking pity on him. We make the best of psychological manipulation. It is our aim to make our suspect completely dependent on us. We can do this by manipulating his environment: we provide drinks of nice or horrible taste, a little food, though this is not recommended because should the subject vomit in response to our interrogations, it makes a terrible mess, not to mention the smell. And of course, there is the danger of choking. A few more sessions like this will usually get our suspect talking.
     In the unlikely event that our subject does not open up, we move on to the next technique. I must repeat. We only do this as a last resort, our methods up to this point work with ninety percent of our patients. We depend on psychological methods. We abhor violence, the essence of torture. I owe a debt of gratitude to my military associates who provided us with the necessary equipment. This was an army signals magneto that, when wound up, would produce enough alternating current to cause quite a jolt of electric shock. We called it the gégène, which proved to be very effective. It is very important to note that we did not adopt this without any research on its effectiveness. In fact General Massu told us that he had tried it out on himself and found it most effective and safe. This was applied to various parts of the body, from ears, fingers, mouth and teeth, and later, inevitably I suppose, the penis and testicles. We pioneered this technique which was later to be adopted by interrogation departments throughout the civilized world.
     But the most valuable feature of this form of interrogation was that it left no marks on the body (if applied properly). And once this was fully realized, we then experimented with other types of torture that did not leave visible marks on the body. The most obvious was the one that has been used for centuries: water torture of various kinds, but mostly forcing water in the mouth, bringing the subject close to drowning, then saving him. From a psychological point of view, I preferred this method because it made it look like we were successively saving the subject’s life. We were doing him a great service. 
     I could go on, but it is not my aim to scare or outrage you, the reader. I do want to remind you that our intentions were always noble and controlled. Anyone under my supervision who took too much pleasure in these proceedings was immediately moved to a different task. On the other hand, though, if anyone refused to carry out these tasks, for whatever reason, we insisted that he show clearly why this was so, to explain what other course of action was open to us? We did these things not because we wanted to, but for, quite frankly, the good of France, for the bright future of Algeria. We were saving a country that was under attack. We doubtless had the blessing of Allah!
     This seemed all very well and good. But you have to understand that doing this day in and day out, takes its toll. They say that if you do not enjoy your work, you should quit. But how does this apply when one’s job is torture? This is what it came down to. And besides, it is in the very nature of torture that one must not enjoy doing it, otherwise if you do, you are some kind of sadistic creep, is that not so? I routinely managed to fire most of my interrogators who appeared to enjoy inflicting pain. I first tried moving them out of the interrogation room, but they resisted, even reported me to my superiors for not being fair, complaining that I was punishing them for doing their job with enthusiasm. This was an unsustainable logic. 
     I am a psychiatrist, I told myself. And psychiatry is a new science. I should keep my emotions out of it. But how does one do this without falling into other traps of logic? Is not the psychiatrist supposed to have empathy for his subject? But this was asking too much. I can’t have empathy with my subject if at the same time I am inflicting horrible pain and suffering, can I? Or is this the same as saying to a patient, “this will hurt” when giving him an injection?  My solution in the end was the good old psychological tricks of self-deception and denial. I justified my actions by arguing that this was the same as working in a slaughterhouse, killing and preparing animals so that eventually people would be able to enjoy eating them. It was all to the good. 
     And so on this day, a day like every other day, my driver dropped me off at the office, I did my duty, then at the end of the day my driver picked me up. And on the journey home, I pondered, even worried, that this was a car that had probably picked up suspects late at night and brought them to my interrogation center.  I also knew, but tried to dismiss it from my mind, that some such suspects never made it to my office.
     “Hello my darlings,” I called, “I’m home!” The children ran to me. I kissed them both. We ate a delicious supper of Moroccan lamb that Marie had cooked. She said nothing. Just a faint smile, I think. But the lamb reminded me of the slaughterhouse. I excused myself and went to the bathroom and had a long shower. I scrubbed every inch of my body. It was like I had fallen in a cesspool. My body smelled like armpits all over. I went straight to bed. Marie came to me. Or did she? I was in some kind of delirium. 
     Then she was shaking me. “Wake up! Wake up!”
     It was morning. My driver was waiting downstairs. Would he take me to my office? What did he know? He never spoke. Just looked at me in the rear vision mirror. Or was it my turn to disappear?.

Moral: To punish another is to punish one’s self.

  ©  Copyright 2021  Harrow and Heston Publishers, for Colin Heston

A Fine Balance

A duel compounds the vicissitudes of honor.

     There is honor, and there is honor, if you will forgive the repetition. A couple of hundred years ago, the western world was overtaken by what could only be called a neurosis of honor that beset only males, and males of a particular class, so-called. When a man’s honor was attacked or questioned, usually by some kind of verbal abuse or a physical slight, it was incumbent upon him to challenge the aggressor to a duel; in the 1800s, usually a duel in which each party brandished a pistol. The reason for this unwritten law of behavior was that if any man’s honor, that is, his standing as a gentleman, was questioned, he had no recourse but to demand a duel to “clear his name.” 
     So it was in Sydney, Australia, in 1827 that a certain Henry Fodsworth challenged a Dr. Pisston to a duel in an isolated field in Homebush. (It should be added that these names have been changed in order to protect their forbears, who may be innocent.) These two gentlemen were, in the eyes of Sydney society and of course in their own eyes, men of good standing, deserving of the respect of their stations. Henry Fodsworth was, after all, the brother-in-law of Governor Darling, which was as close to high society as one could get. And Dr. Pisston was editor and part owner of The Australian, a paper whose name remains today Australia’s shining light of national media, and certainly owned by a gentleman of that class. 
     The severe breech of honor was instigated by Dr. Pisston. It should be added that he was also a pal of Charles Wantsworth a serial litigator and dueller, who met his end when one of his enslaved convicts murdered him on his Petersham estate in 1834. Dr. Pisston accused Fodsworth of taking information from The Australian and leaking it to the Sydney Gazette. This was a falsehood, claimed Fodsworth, and promptly challenged Pisston to a duel. 
     According to the rules of dueling predominant at the time, each party of the duel could appoint a second, or assistant. In some cases, they could even pay a representative who could fight the duel for him. But on this occasion, Fodsworth accepted the challenge and they both showed up at Homebush field to face off. Pisston appointed Wantsworth as his second who, upon presiding over the duel, urged Pisston to accept a verbal apology from Fodsworth. Fodsworth offered the apology, but Pisston declined it. Wantsworth retired, no stranger to duels himself, and prepared the dueling pistol for his friend. 
     Now it is important to understand that, although the outcome of such a duel was by no means certain, there was plenty of room for error, and indeed luck. Not to mention that neither of the parties was handy with a pistol and from twenty paces (or whatever it was they agreed upon), it was pretty hard to hit the target, and besides, if you aimed at the head, and missed, you were an open target yourself. Or, if you aimed at the chest or widest part of the body giving yourself a higher chance of hitting the target, chances were that you would not be lucky enough, unless a really good shooter, to hit somewhere that would incapacitate your quarry so that he would not have time to get in a shot. 
     Wantsworth stood by the two men who faced each other, then about faced and stood back to back. 
     “Gentlemen!” called Wantsworth. “You will take twenty steps to my count, but before I begin, I ask that either of you turn to your opponent and offer a verbal apology, should you be so inclined to do.”
     The duelists remained silent, or if they didn’t they muttered something so that they could not be heard. Later, Wantsworth claimed that Pisston said he would rather die than to accept an apology from that excuse for a gentleman. And Fodsworth opened his mouth as though to speak, but coughed instead, putting his hand up to his mouth, the one holding the gun. Then he jiggled his arm as though it needed to be loosened up. He then took the gun out of his firing hand and exercised his fingers, opening and closing his fist, then again taking hold of the pistol and waving his arm around. 
     “Pistols pointing to the ground, please!” ordered Wantsworth. 
     Fodsworth coughed nervously, and his finger tightened on the trigger.
     Wantsworth stepped back and announced in a ceremonious voice as the duelers walked: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty!”
     The two men turned, eager to get in the first shot. Fodsworth, a comparative novice, pulled the trigger before he was fully facing his quarry. The bullet zoomed off somewhere into the eucalyptus bushes. Dr. Pisston, a practiced cool hand, now faced Fodsworth squarely on. He raised his arm slowly, his handlebar mustache twitching as he squinted to get Fodsworth in his sights. He pulled the trigger. There was a very loud bang, the gun recoiling so much that he dropped it. Fodsworth fell to his knees in fright as the bullet whizzed by where his left ear might have been. Pisston scrambled to retrieve his gun that had landed in what looked like a rabbit burrow. 
     Fodsworth now had him in his sights. He was not sure whether it was allowed to hit a moving target, but he wasn’t going to wait for Wantsworth to make any kind of judgement. He had four shots left (these were antique duelling pistols that were custom five shooters rather than the usual six; no one in Sydney wanted to copy the Americans after all). Pisston, caught without his gun, scrambled up from his knees, and, doubled over, ran for the bushes. Fodsworth aimed in the general direction and squeezed the trigger five times, his wrist hurting from the recoil, and the bullets flying who-knows-where. 
     Wantsworth ran forward, making sure he was out of the crazy Fodsworth  lines of fire. He waved his arms, holding his rare copy of the Kanun dueling rules. “Halt! I say! No firing when the other is down! No firing!”
     Fodsworth threw down his pistol and announced himself the winner. Wantsworth ran forward to retrieve the gun, one of a pair of a very expensive collector’s item. “Hey, Dr. Pisston!” he called, concerned about the pistol.
     Dr. Pisston rose up from behind the bushes. He limped forward, his face twisted in pain. “I’m hit!” he cried, “I’m hit!” 
     “Where’s your gun?” asked Wantsworth, most concerned to retrieve the pistol.
     “I don’t know. I lost it. It disappeared!”
     Fodsworth reached out to Dr. Pisston to shake hands as gentlemen. The insult had been corrected. 
     Dr. Pisston looked at Wantsworth. “I’ll not shake hands with that filth who claims to be a gentleman,” he snarled.
     Both Wantsworth and Fodsworth were aghast. This was an ungentlemanly flagrant breaking of the rules!
     “You can’t do that!” cried Wantsworth.
     “At least I am a gentleman,” announced, Fodsworth. his mouth full of false pride.
     This was a most unhappy ending. A duel was designed to overcome such nasty outcomes. The winner of the duel, no matter what had happened before it, was clearly the right and proper gentleman. The prior differences that the two gentlemen had were erased by the outcome of the duel. That was why there were duels. Otherwise the resentments between two gentlemen, whose honor was very much at stake, could never be resolved, and the fight, as it would become, could go on forever, each one inflicting damage on the other only to be hurt himself when the other responded. Dr. Pisston’s refusal to accept the duel outcome would now unquestionably become the cause of vengeance. And such vengeance would eventually lead to feuds that could last over generations. Every sensible gentleman understood that. The very course of history had been sullied by Dr. Pisston’s refusal.
     Wantsworth was most embarrassed. He was, after all Dr. Pisston’s second. It was partly his responsibility to make sure the rules were followed right through to the end. He flipped through his copy of the Kanun Code. There was no mention of this unhappy outcome. No one had envisaged that one gentleman would behave in an ungentlemanly way. 
     “Dr. Pisston!” he cried as he reached inside the rabbit burrow and with considerable satisfaction retrieved the pistol. “You have broken the dueling code of honor. I don’t know what I or anyone can do to fix it!”
     Dr. Pisston ignored him. He was of course, in pain. Blood streamed from half way down his leg. He limped over to his horse and with great difficulty, managed to get himself up, then rode away.
     Wantsworth offered his hand to Fodsworth, who took it gladly. “I pronounce you winner of this duel on this day!” he said in a thin and faltering voice.
     “Thank you Wantsworth. I am amazed I managed to pull this off. Thank you for your understanding and professionalism. We are both fine upstanding gentlemen, are we not?”
     “We are indeed,” nodded Wantsworth, “we are indeed.”
     They went to their horses and rode off. As far as they were concerned the matter was settled. 
     As for Dr. Pisston, although he was a doctor, he did not act like it, or at least maybe the state of medical knowledge was still developing.  He was so upset over the outcome of the duel that he kept riding on into the bush then out and about until he finally, after some hours arrived at his residence. He had lost quite some blood, and the leg developed gangrene. Having removed the legs of many men in battles of yore, he did not wish to have some surgeon do the same to him. And so he died of gangrene within the week.

     Moral: Deserved punishment is always a balancing act

  ©  Copyright 2021  Harrow and Heston Publishers, for Colin Heston

Spilled Milk
A kitchen story

by Colin Heston

     This story is based on true events, as is all fiction. In 1950s Australia, in a small and rapidly growing suburb of Geelong, a place called Norlane, there was a little old pub, built of bluestone, now painted a dirty cream, red corrugated iron roof, a couple of red brick chimneys, and a very old public bar, complete with a pock marked linoleum bar counter and vintage old taps. The bar room was about the size of a two car garage, which appeared big early in the morning at opening, but by 6 o’clock at closing time, patrons were packed in like sardines, elbow to elbow. As you might guess, there was no shortage of brawls when the men jostled each other to make it to the bar to order drinks for themselves and their mates. And the din of men talking and chortling was huge.
     Hidden away at the far corner of the bar was the only man sitting in this bar made for standing. This was the special stool that the pub’s owner had put aside for good old Joe Smith, the painter. The noise of the bar made no difference to him. He sat on his stool, stared straight ahead across the bar counter, eyes dreamy, maybe focused on the only picture in the bar, of the young Queen Elizabeth, hanging above the refrigerator that kept the beer cold.
     
     Joe was a special kind of painter, crucial to the Ford Motor company that stood across the road from the pub. Every day, now going on fifteen years, Joe showed up there for work, dressed in paint spattered overalls, nothing except underwear underneath (so one supposed), because it was so hot when he donned the plastic coated outer garment that covered him head to toe. It was his job, as was one other who worked with him, to spray-paint the bodies of the cars as they passed along the production line. The paint in full spray was, of course, toxic so he breathed through a contraption that was most likely an adaptation of the old gas masks they used in World War I. 
     Joe and his mate (to whom he spoke rarely) painted from eight in the morning, ten minutes smoke-o and a cup of tea at ten, then paint again until lunch at twelve, a sandwich his wife made him every morning, and a quick run across the Melbourne road to the pub for a couple of beers then back to work at twelve-thirty. Then they painted until four, knocked off and sprinted across to the pub to drink the rest of the day until closing at six. This had been Joe’s routine for the last fifteen years. He was very proud of his work, drove his painter mate almost crazy because of his insistence on attending to every small detail. He would not allow any blemish to go down the line. Every car, he said— that is when he spoke which was rare—must be perfect. Would you want a new car that had a paint blemish on it? He would ask. Not that he himself ever had a car. He couldn’t afford it. And anyway he was happy enough sitting at home, doing his garden and coming in and having a beer by the telly.
     Because the paint fumes were so toxic, even when you wore all the protective clothing and masks, Ford had a rule that a painter could only work at that particular job for fifteen years, and that was it. They were then reassigned to some other part of the production line. Of that, though, Joe would have none of it. He was a painter and that was all he was. No standing at a production line doing the same thing over and over again, having to listen to all the gossip of the other men. 
     So Joe retired when his fifteen years were up. He always said he would. This meant that he had lots of time to spend in his garden, and that was what he did every day. After breakfast at eight he went out, rain or shine and worked on his garden. The front full of rose bushes and geraniums and the back full of seasonal veggies. Usually, he worked at the front in the mornings, broke off for morning tea at ten, returned to the front, hoping there would be no people walking past that he would have to talk to. At midday, off he went to the pub, just ten minutes’ walk down North Shore road, sat in the corner on his stool and socked down a few beers, in the winter often a few glasses of Abbotsford stout to keep him warm in the garden when he returned home, always at about one. He allowed this small change in his routine, and indeed, sometimes even made it one-thirty.
     Missus Joe as she was known to all up and down the street, did not drink. They could not afford for both of them to spend money on drink, she announced ceremoniously every day, or at least to Joe is seemed like every day. She especially upbraided him when he came home after lunch and she could smell (so she said) the stout on him. 
     “You’re not a bloody invalid, are you? So what are you doing drinking that muck?” 
     Joe simply ignored her, or seemingly so, though he did grunt, a small grunt, one that she would not detect, since she was too busy rummaging around in the kitchen cupboards, complaining that she could not find what she wanted. 
     “Why don’t you build me some new shelves for the kitchen instead of buggering around in the garden and drinking your beer?”
     “And why don’t you go fuck yourself” Joe muttered to himself.
     “Did you say something dear?” said Missus Joe, a sarcastic smile and tilt of her head.
     Joe turned away. He could not bear to look at her. Compared to the cars he painted, she was truly ugly. And away he went to the garden. Afternoon was veggie time, where he spent a lot of time laying out the garden in very straight rows, nice little paths between each bed, each bed bordered by rows of empty beer bottles pushed into the soft dirt, bottoms up. 
     Missus Joe, for her part, labored over the kitchen sink that looked out over the back yard. She sang to herself, happy that Joe was out of her kitchen. “If only…” she mused to herself, but forced herself to stop. She washed the dishes over a second time. She had wanted children badly. But it was not to be. They tried, and finally gave up. Joe wasn’t up to it anyway, with all his drinking. It was his drinking that she blamed. Makes men sterile, that’s what her friends at church said. She had thought of leaving him, but truth be said, where would she go? What would she do for money? Get a job, maybe? Not that anyone would employ her so old, and a woman and all. She had pleaded with Joe not to retire. But he would not listen. Once he got an idea into his head, there was no shifting it. “Stubborn old bugger” she grumbled to herself. 
     And so their gritty life ground on, a grit that seemed to hold them together, yet made a life as two individuals never truly to meet.
     
     One day, it could have been any day, or any year of their marriage. But on this day, Joe came in from the garden, a little earlier than usual because he had pricked his finger while pruning his roses.
     “Time for a cuppa,” he mumbled to Missus Joe as he trudged past her into the bathroom.
     “It’s not ready yet. You don’t come in this early do you?” She did not expect an answer of course. But she hurried and put the kettle on and got out the cups and saucers and placed a small plate of yo-yo’s, as she always did, at the center of the table. And he always complained, though did not say anything, just made an obvious wince, when he had to stretch across the table to get the yo-yo.
     “What are you doing in there?” yelled Missus Joe, her voice a rough crackling voice, one that penetrated silence like a bulldozer.
     Joe finished sucking his thumb when the bleeding had stopped. He wiped his hands on the towel, noticing that it was smudged and had not been washed properly. He walked steadily to the kitchen and sat down on his usual chair. Missus Joe stood at the stove waiting for the kettle to boil.
     Joe sat motionless, elbows on the table, propping up his chin. “Come on! Where’s the bloody tea?” he complained.
     On cue, the kettle whistled and Missus Joe made the tea. Her routine was also messed up. She went to the cutlery drawer to retrieve knives and forks and placed them on the table at their respective places. She had to reach around Joe in order to place the knife and fork exactly in the right place. If they were not straight, he would notice. Wouldn’t say anything, mind, but she knew he would be annoyed. Immediately, he sat back in his chair, a heavy wicker chair, and stared ahead. “What’s this for?” he asked, then licked his lips and pushed his tongue against his teeth as though the words were stuck in there. “Don’t need a bloody knife and fork to eat a yo-yo, you silly bitch.”
     Missus Joe tried to ignore him and reached over to take the knife and fork back.
     “Steak knives too, they are, you silly bugger!” He grabbed his knife, banged the handle on the table, and reached for the fork, pushing Missus Joe’s hands away. She turned to pour the tea in the cups and pushed his towards him. Joe leaned back in his chair, his eyes seemingly out of focus. He now held one of the steak knives in his clenched fist. Missus Joe, struggling to remain calm, went to the refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of milk. She leaned over him and went to pour a small amount into his cup, just a tiny amount. She had to hold the bottle steady and be very careful, because if she poured too much, he would be furious and would demand another cup of tea. Holding a bottle of milk, mostly full, poised above a small teacup was a challenge, even though she had done it a thousand times. “In my defense,” she thought, “the bottle is slippery from the condensation on the bottle.” Perhaps it was that thought that tilted the bottle forward, the hand of her aching arm letting go. The milk splashed out into the cup with such force that the teacup overflowed, and tipped over. Missus Joe dropped the bottle of milk on the table where its contents gurgled out and flowed slowly to the edge and on to the lap of Joe’s old gardening overalls.
     Joe was a man of few words, everyone knew that, especially Missus Joe. He gulped and his eyes grew wide, pushing at his cheeks swollen from years of alcohol, his lips pursed tightly shut. His nostrils expanded like those of a Spanish bull about to charge. His fist tightened even more on the steak knife and his eyes, no longer dreamy, quickly focused on its serrated blade reflecting the florescent light of the kitchen. His thumb moved down to the blade and tightened. It was an awkward grip. But no matter. He rose from his chair as though thrust by a canon, and he lunged wildly with a wide slashing movement, as though pulling open the curtain of a large window. And just as quickly, he dropped down on his chair, exhausted. Missus Joe was standing, pale and rigid with fright and shock, one hand to her bleeding throat, the other leaning on the table to keep her balance. For the first time in a long time, Joe looked at her right in her face, stared into her eyes. From where he sat, she looked like something from Madam Tussaud’s wax museum. But only for a moment.
     Her body sagged, then fell to the floor, Joe’s eyes still staring where her eyes had been. She fell with a plop, blood spraying all over the place, a couple of spasms, and she was plainly dead. Joe looked at the floor and was upset for a moment that she had got blood all over the floor. Then he realized of course, that it was none of her doing. No, correction, her end was all her doing, it was just him who finished the job. 

Moral: Punishment delayed, is punishment unleashed.

  ©  Copyright 2021  Harrow and Heston Publishers, for Colin Heston

Pardon My Tutu
     President Biden’s attendants seek to rehabilitate him.

     “Come on, man!” 
     Georgie yelled back, “come on man your fucking self!” and threw his biodegradable coffee cup, half full of a four shot flat white, right at the TV. It had no effect of course. President Biden continued to speak, informing his fellow Americans of the coming roll-out of the Corona virus vaccine. Georgie’s long suffering partner Fiona lay on the couch, groaning. 
     “Georgie, you better get the car ready,” said Fiona with a faint smile.
     “Already?” asked Georgie, “so soon?”
     “I know. But there may be something wrong. Better sure than sorry.”
     Georgie drove Fiona to Bethesda Hospital where she would give birth to their twelfth child. He did not wait for the arrival, though, because he had other matters of State to attend to. President Biden’s speech infractions had to stop. It was a terrible example for all Americans, and undermined his committee’s work. He punched “Clinton Cleaners, Pennsylvania Avenue, Baltimore” into the GPS. He would raise this issue at the weekly meeting. They met in secret because of the many threats they had received from extremist republicans. Of course, there were no republicans on his committee. 
     Georgie looked around quickly at the interior of his old Toyota Prius to make sure all the doors were locked. He had chosen this place in Baltimore because he wanted the committee to meet far away from the Capitol building, but also on the assumption that the press would never look for them in one of the worst places of Baltimore. Besides, members of the “unofficial” undercover squad of “genderamerie,” basically hate-speech spies, always attended his meetings and they were paranoid of having their covers blown.
     If you are as prejudiced as most people who are not good democrats, you are no doubt wondering how come a life-time democrat has a partner, wife, that is, in old terminology, and eleven going on twelve kids. The answer is a bit complicated, but the simple one is that he was born a catholic and remains a good catholic, and in spite of the modern catholic doctrine of turning a blind eye to birth control, he does not believe in it, obviously, though he is of course in favor of abortion and all the rest. That’s the short answer, the official one that he tells when asked by prying individuals and other friends so-called. 
     The real answer is quite different. It goes way back to the time at high school when he was changing in the locker room for gym. He was a teenager as were all the others, some a little more advanced, one might say. There were bullies and the usual fools mucking about, flicking towels at each other. Then one of the kids spied him trying to cover himself up, so he pulled Georgie’s towel away from him and pointed, laughing, “look, he’s hardly got one! It’s so small!” The kids danced around and made fun of him. All Georgie could think to say was, “you wait, it might be little but it’s a good squirter!”
     Now on Pennsylvania Avenue, Georgie stopped at the lights, checked again that all the car doors were locked, then perused with some detachment the continuous rows of boarded up houses or shops that lined each side of the street, and the frequent vacant blocks where there was once a house. As the lights turned green, he saw the sign “Clinton Cleaners” painted in black letters on a dull yellow board that covered where there was once a window. Who would have anything cleaned in this neighborhood? It would be all they could do to buy food at the local store, let alone dry cleaning. The answer was that locals did not use it. Rather,  people from the suburbs or from downtown places of work, the university being one of them, found it a convenient drop-off place, and easy parking. Mind you, they all looked over their shoulders when they got out of their cars. 
     Georgie pulled into the vacant block next door. The meeting house was the boarded up place right next to the dry cleaners. He had made sure it was comfortable, though. Fitted out with standard issue office chairs, two multi gender toilets, basic kitchen for making coffee and reheating take-out meals that many brought with them, and of course the essential refrigerator. He had, after special request, installed a refrigerator with a very large freezer compartment, because one of the genderamerie hate unit had a fetish for stracciatella gelato.
     There were about a dozen members of the committee, including the few from the gender and hate police who sat in on discussions. To be honest, it was not his first choice of committee assignments. Georgie was a bit embarrassed when he had to admit it to himself. A loyal democrat all his adult life, working his way up the ladder, first a council man, then chair of the school board, then assistant to the state congressman that represented his county in Bethesda. There he had remained locked in and unable to move up, until after some twelve years and the birth of his eighth kid, an opening came up to assist the congressman representing his district in the congress of the United States. This, he thought, would at last provide him with a way up, though he was not quite sure where “up” would take him.
     The trouble was that, after four years of Trump, his unexpected rise to power, and the incredible rallies he conducted, a memorable one in Virginia, Georgie and most of his committee members had come to the conclusion that Biden had no hope of winning the presidential election. So for the year leading up to the election, they fooled around a lot of the time. They did draft the incredible document that Speaker Pelosi would sanctify, the one that erased all mention of gender in official documents of the United States Congress. When they drafted it, many of them did so after quite a few drinks, combined with quite a few whiffs of weed. So they were all amazed when Biden won, and of course invigorated by the upset. Now, Georgie had banned liquor or weed for the entire session of their meetings, and allowed them to imbibe only after they had finished their business. 
     These meetings were now ones of great excitement. The real possibility to make a difference. A President who thought what they thought. Or so Georgie thought until that morning when President Biden had begun his TV speech with the well-known favorite opening words, “Come on man!” He would, on this very morning, raise this issue that had bugged him from the very first day he was appointed chair of this now very powerful committee. Indeed, its power was unfettered. It could publicly accuse anyone of hateful, gender-biased speech, on Twitter or anywhere else, and it would automatically result in the character destruction of that individual. He had the power to destroy people’s lives, without actually killing them. What more power could one want? But should he do it to the president? Surely he did not want to destroy him, the president of his own party? 
     The answer to his quandary came from an unexpected source,  the genderamerie, gender police. At the risk of revealing classified information, the genderamerie was the brainchild of none other than Hillary Clinton. It was she who gave it the French sounding name, telling Georgie, her hand covering her mouth, that it would be enough to confuse the far right Russian spies. At first, Hillary resisted Georgie’s appointment as chair of the committee, because he had more than one child. But his unmasking of many of her enemies as gender offenders, especially, well, we should not list their names for fear that the information is classified and stamped as “FOR HER EYES ONLY,” that she reserved the right as the only one who had permission to reveal the names, which she did so at the most opportune moments. It was she who ordered the committee to go on a rampage of unmasking many greats of old. She had commanded Georgie to begin the committee’s work by ferreting out all the salacious details of J. Edgar Hoover’s cross dressing, which Georgie found when Hillary told him the file was in the hands of Edward Kennedy’s grandson, Owen Kennedy. Actually, this proved to be not quite true, but did lead to an amazing revelation. The file, actually the manuscript of an unpublished book written by Woodward the Watergate hero, according to Owen Kennedy, lay hidden in the President’s oval office, sat on by every president since JFK’s reign. Each had promised that they would release it for publication, but once in office, none did. Would Biden do the same?
     That was the question that Hillary had put to Georgie, one that he promised he would investigate. He had been trying to get an interview with President Biden for several weeks, in fact since the very day of his inauguration, in order to follow up this lead. And now, with that insulting and unempathetic opening line of “Come on man,” it was time to call him out on it. He had asked Hillary if she could get him a meeting with the president, but she had cut him off in her well known crabby manner. He was annoyed with himself for asking her. Should have realized that Biden had the job that she coveted. Fair enough.
     Georgie called the meeting to order. We need not go into all the boring procedures and silly addresses and questions to “Mister Chairperson.” Georgie insisted on as much congressional double-talk as possible to maintain the decorum of the meeting, also demanding that all the gender permutations of Mister Chairperson be used throughout the entire meeting. This required a recorder, usually appointed by him at the beginning of the meeting, to keep track of each permutation, to inform the person who spoke, which permutation to use, and at the end of the meeting if not all permutations were used, the recorder for reasons of equity, was to address them all to the chair before Georgie would declare the meeting closed. 
     At this meeting, an important piece of information was unmasked by the genderamerie. One of the gender police operatives had a close relationship with the FBI liaison to the White House. He had observed Biden reading the secret manuscript during one of the weekly briefings with the FBI. Why not ask Woodward what’s in the manuscript that every president finds so interesting and that the public must never know about? After all, everyone knows about Hoover’s cross dressing.
     Woodward was famous and revered because he always made sure that he had three independent sources for any salubrious piece of dirt he dug up on his quarry, usually a president. Thus, anything he wrote and published was absolutely true. The operatives of the genderamerie had pressed Woodward on this secret manuscript, even threatened him with leaking false information, and claim that it was in his manuscript. This thoroughly annoyed Woodward, but he would not give in. Speculation had it that whatever was in the manuscript was the reason why every president since JFK, allowed Woodward access to the Whitehouse and was able to write a revelatory book about each president. Why did he have such access? It had to be what was in that secret manuscript. 
     Georgie had an idea. He turned to a genderamerie spy. “Can you get me into  the weekly meeting of the FBI with the President?”
     The operative shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I could try,” he said looking sideways.
     “Good. Then you can pick me up and we will go there together,” said Georgie with a big smile that reminded the operative of Georgie’s close relationship to Hillary.
      *
      President Biden was enamored with the Oval Office. He treasured the few times he had sat opposite President Obama chatting and waiting for Hilary to show up (she always did). And on the day of his inauguration, President Obama had sidled up to him and slipped something into his pocket. 
     “I don’t smoke,” joked President Biden, “if that’s what you’re sneaking to me.”
     “Neither do I,” grinned President Obama.  “I’ve just given you the key to the long kept secret of every president going back to the time the Whitehouse was built.”
     The President felt in his pocket and discovered a small, round disk, smooth to the touch. “Feels like a poker chip,” smiled Biden muttering through his PPE mask that was decorated with a likeness of Hillary. 
     President Obama looked around to make sure there was no hidden camera or person eavesdropping. “Every president hands it down to the next occupant of the oval office. But given, well you know, Trump, I decided to hang on to it until someone respectable was back in the Whitehouse.”
     “That’s very kind and wise of you, Mr. President, if I may say so,” said the President.
     President Obama continued. “And I replaced what was a big key and tag with a remote ID chip. All you need do is wave it near the inset bookcase with the semicircular top to the left of your presidential desk, and it will open up.”
     President Biden looked at President Obama, incredulous. “You mean, it’s a secret door? To where?”
     “A small basement, kind of like a man’s cave, you know? When things get to you, and they will, I can tell you that, you can sneak away down there and do your own thing, have a nap, or whatever.”
     “Could come in handy,” mused President Biden, “I’m surprised that Clinton didn’t use it.”
     President Obama grinned. “Yeh, you’d think so. But he loved the limelight, and besides you know what he was like. He just couldn’t wait.”
     “But even to get away from…”
     “Yeh. Hillary. Maybe he did. Anyway, Bush passed it on to me and I’m grateful for it. It’s why we’re such good friends.”
     “Well, thanks, and stay safe,” said President Biden, in a most presidential way.
      *
     It was no small basement. When President Biden sneaked into it after he had dismissed all his entourage of secretaries, interns, assistants and advisers, he waved the disk just like Obama said, and the bookcase responded accordingly. It opened into a large room, not really a basement, though the stairs did go down somewhat. It was crammed with all kinds of mementoes and souvenirs, much of which he had no idea of its significance. But of great interest was a dart board set up in one corner of the room, on which was pinned a black and white photograph of J. Edgar Hoover standing in a hallway, his legs crossed, naked except for a tutu. It reminded him of a painting he had been forced to admire at an art gallery in Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art, that featured a special exhibition of Lucian Freud’s paintings. He was there for a charitable opening of some kind, and part of his duties were to visit the gallery’s special showings. There, he was confronted by Freud’s giant painting of an overweight man, legs crossed in a kind of pirouette posture, and every part of his body showing. It was gross, but he grinned to himself, thinking that it would have been a very funny painting if the man were wearing a tutu. 
     He picked up a couple of darts and threw them at Hoover. They both missed the board. Then he spied something else lying on the rather dirty floor to the right of the dartboard. It was an actual tutu, tinged with blue. For reasons he still could not explain, he leaned down and picked it up, shook the dust off it, then pinned it to the dart board, and went back to have another throw. He missed again. Then he did a three sixty of the entire room spying something else that he should have noticed before. There were mirrors all round. That caused him, without even thinking, to start a careful search for hidden cameras. He found none. And why would there be if past presidents had kept this secret for so long? He turned, listened for any noise in the office, and, hearing none, squeezed his key and the door opened for him to return and automatically closed upon his exit.
     He was back just in time. There was a knock at the door and Tom Pain, White House chief of staff entered. “Your weekly FBI briefing, Mr. President.” 
     Deputy director of the FBI, Saul Butt, entered followed by an entourage of notetakers and assistants, including Georgie. They were all introduced carefully in order of their seniority, and finally Georgie, to whom the President turned.
     “You’re new, I think?” asked the President.
     “Georgie, sir, chair of the Congressional Committee on Gender Eradication.”
     “Yes of course. Excellent work you guys are doing. Keep it up. And why are you here at today’s briefing?”
     “Our committee is working closely with the FBI, sir, to ferret out and unmask miscreant abusers of gender identity and hate speech, sir.”
     “And why are you here?” persisted the President pressing Georgie.
     “Sir, it has come to our notice that there is, in the Whitehouse library, or possibly on a shelf in this office, a manuscript authored by the famed Woodward of Woodward and Bernstein, and that it includes a number of hate speech and gender infractions,” said Georgie in his most formal manner.
     “That’s serious. In this office you say?”
     “Yes sir. Would you mind looking around for it?”
     “I don’t have to. It’s in the bottom right drawer where I keep my, err, never mind.”
     The President leaned down and withdrew a large manuscript, the edges of its pages torn and grubby. “This what you’re looking for?” he grinned. “The former, er,  president told me about it. Said he couldn’t see anything wrong with it and it might as well be released for publication. Said he felt sorry for Woodward, the pathetic little guy. Of course, if that president said there was nothing wrong with it, that was a red flag to me. So I decided to keep it close to me for safe keeping. I have not looked at it myself, though by the look of it, many presidents before me have.”
     “Sir, I respectfully request that my committee be permitted to examine it for gender unmasking and hate speech analysis,” requested Georgie, most officiously.
     “All for a good cause!” quipped the President. “Here you are, you can have it for one week and one week only, and it must not be taken out of the Whitehouse. An intern will hold it for you.”
     “Thank you Mr. President.” Georgie leaned forward and took the manuscript. 
     “Now what does the FBI have to tell me this morning?” asked The President.
      *
     It was, indeed, a remarkable manuscript. The title was “Secrets of the Oval Office: From Taft to Trump.” A large portion of the book was devoted to the so-called secret basement. Georgie easily smuggled it out of the Whitehouse by promising an intern a significant place on his gender eradication committee if she brought it with her to their next meeting.  He even picked her up outside the Whitehouse and drove her to their Baltimore meeting place. She was a little nervous when they came to the rundown parts of Baltimore, asking where were they going, did the committee really meet in such a terrible place, fearing that he had designs on her. To which he answered, as he always did, that it was necessary to remind ourselves of how the poorer half lived. He then, out of the blue, made an offhand comment, “by the way, my wife Fiona is giving birth to our twelfth child probably as we speak.”
     The intern tried to hide a gasp and her cheeks turned red. But completely out of nowhere she  blurted, “oh, my goodness! Poor thing!” Shocked at her own words, she covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh, I’m sorry. I mean, I meant, that’s wonderful! Congratulations!” 
     Georgie grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m used to it. I’m proud of it too. Fiona’s fine too. She’ll be a bit sad for a few days, because she loves being pregnant. We both love children.”
     He pulled into the vacant lot next to Clinton Dry Cleaners. His Toyota Prius looked a little pathetic beside all the smartly polished black SUVs and Hummers. The comparison made him feel extra good. But he knew that he would face, this morning, a challenge of immense proportions. He would make a proposal to censure President Biden for using gender insensitive language, specifically “Come on man.” Simply arguing that it was a common manner of speech was no excuse. Many of those old words and expressions had been eradicated from all speech and dictionaries. “Come on Man” had to be eradicated or at least reworded so that it was no longer offensive.
     Without thinking, Georgie held open the door for his intern who looked at him with a mixture of fear and disdain. How dare he do that? Opening the door for her was an infraction of the gender eradication code, was it not? The intern gave him a disapproving look. He extended his hand and said, “hand me the manuscript if you will.” And she did, making sure that their hands did not in any way touch when she gave it up. She wanted no skin contact with this guy. She did not trust him. He took the manuscript and walked quickly to the entrance. She scrambled out of the car (from the back seat mind you where he had insisted that she sit) and ran to catch him up. “If there’s anything I can do, take notes of something?” She pleaded.
     “Thanks, but no. Notes of this meeting are the last thing we want.” Georgie pulled the door open and walked in, leaving her to catch the door as it closed. 
     Georgie immediately swung into action. “Good morning members, and visitors if there are any. Please place your phones on the table in front of you. I request that you switch them off for the duration of the meeting. No notes or recording permitted. The members sat at a large oval table, at one end of which was a very large office chair that would be his as chairperson. The rest of the chairs were standard prison-made chairs, square metal frame, hard wooden seat.
     Now, one must understand, that, when a group of more than three or four people comes together to deliberate on a plan of action when faced with a difficult problem, the odds are that it will reach an illogical, strange or unpredictable conclusion. What was about to happen would prove that to be true. 
     Georgie called the meeting to order, then produced his own phone, fiddled with it until YouTube came up, and then started a video, turning the phone so that all present could see it. He had made a composite video of the opening remarks of the last several speeches Biden had made over a few weeks. This resulted in a video that repeated many times over “Come on man!” All members of the committee stirred uncomfortably in their uncomfortable seats. Georgie began his well-rehearsed speech.
     “I regret that I must broach this very difficult problem of President Biden’s favorite opening remarks to almost all his speeches that implore the viewers to do or agree with a particular policy or action he is promoting. Is he not speaking also to women, I mean those other than men, my apologies? The expression is incredibly gender insensitive, and violates the common sense of inclusiveness and diversity.”
     One of the genderamerie interrupted. “Then tell him to stop! Problem solved!”
     “It’s not that simple,” put in an unmasking gender eradication expert. “Our work requires us to uncover all past infractions and make perpetrators pay for their past mistakes. None can be allowed to get away with their lack of empathy. And that includes the president. I applaud Georgie for having uncovered this blatant infraction that has occurred hidden in plain sight on a daily basis.”
     “Then what would you suggest be done? Impeach the president?” put in another.
     “That’s a bit of overkill. Perhaps censure would be more appropriate,” put in yet another.
     And so it went.
     Until finally, Georgie  produced the secret manuscript. “We have heard many good suggestions. Let us break off to talk informally, then come together to make a resolution. During the break  I am passing around a bit of a bombshell. It is the secret manuscript by Woodward that many of you have no doubt heard about. Look through it and see if you find anything that might be applied to solve our problem with our miscreant president.”
     With money and equipment donated from Farbucks Coffee, Georgie had set up an espresso bar, complete with a barrista (the gender of that term he was not sure of) to serve the best coffee in town, as everyone had heard. The secret of the coffee was simply that the barrista routinely served double the shots customers asked for, and they predictably responded with “wow what great tasing coffee.” The caffeine therefore did its job, and had everyone talking animatedly, though there was some jostling around the single copy of the secret manuscript. However, always thinking one step ahead, Georgie had installed a small office copy machine so they were able to make copies of the more interesting and relevant pages. Those pages turned out to be those that described the dart board and J. Edgar Hoover in a tutu.
     As a favor, Georgie  had his intern call the meeting to order. “Before we get down to the business of the day I would like to make one personal announcement,” said Georgie. He put his phone down carefully on the table. “My dear wife Fiona has just given birth to our twelfth child. They are both doing well.” 
     The intern smiled excitedly and blurted out, “boy or girl?” She immediately put her hand to her mouth when she realized her mistake.  A hushed silence descended on everyone around the table. A gender spy took notes. 
     Georgie forced a grim smile. “I’m sure we can overlook that offensive remark,” he said, “they are both doing well regardless.”
     The intern abruptly got up and left, crying on the way out.
     Georgie continued. “Now, what ideas do we have for the Come-on-man fiasco?”
     “Before we get to that,” interceded a gender spy, “what does this manuscript have to do with it? Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if Woodward made it all up.”
     “Very perceptive,” countered Georgie. “It has nothing to do with Come-on-Man directly. But therein lies the idea for how we may get compliance from President Biden.”
     The group stirred, feet shuffled. 
     “Do tell us,” said the head of the genderamerie, with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
     “I thought that, in order for the President to demonstrate how sorry he is for using vile gender epithets, he should go on national television, dressed in a tutu like J. Edgar, and apologize, promise he will never use that manner of speech again.”
     “You’re mad!” exclaimed a small spy who sat in the corner.
     The room erupted with everyone talking at once. Exactly what Georgie wanted. 
     Another gender spy stood up to make his point. “I will repeat what I said right at the beginning. Just tell the President to stop saying it. That’s all that is needed.”
     Another interjected. “No, it’s not enough. He must make up for this egregious error. He must apologize. He’s the great example to all citizens and especially children. He must show everyone that he understands his error and convince the viewers that he is really sorry for what he has done. After all, it must amount to several hundred, even thousands of infractions of the gender code.”
     Yet another spoke up. “Yes, it’s not enough to simply say you are sorry. He’s on TV. He must truly show that he is sorry. The question is, how does he do that convincingly?”
     Everyone looked each way and that, waiting for a bright idea. 
     The intern returned and quietly took its seat.  
     “I still say, just tell him to stop it. That’s enough,” insisted the gender spy.
     The intern spoke up in a querulous little voice, “I did tell him to stop it. Well, not exactly, I just mentioned once that maybe the Man part wasn’t appropriate.”
     “And what did he say?” asked the gender spy.
     “Nothing. I don’t know if he heard me. I’m only an intern, you know. I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”
     The group murmured as one. Shoes scraped the floor. 
     “Then it’s clear that we must educate him,” responded Georgie. He held the manuscript up, turned to the page on J. Edgar and the tutu. “Here is a way out suggestion, but I think it would do the trick. We have him dressed in a tutu just like J. Edgar, while he gives his sorry speech.”
     Shuffles and silence. Georgie looked around the table, challenging each one to look him in the eye. None did. They all looked down to the table. 
     Except the intern who blurted, “great idea! He’ll look just like that Lucian Freud painting, except he’s not quite fat enough.”
     It’s doubtful whether any of the group, except the gays whose numbers were unknown, knew what painting the intern was talking about. But Georgie did, and responded with a loud laugh and all followed. It was done. Now it remained who would convey this demand for the punishment of a sitting President?
     The director of the genderamerie decided that it was about time he asserted her authority. “I hate to say it, but isn’t this unconstitutional? The only way a punishment can be delivered to a sitting president is to impeach or censure him-her-it.”
     “We are not punishing, just asking for an apology and correction of past wrongs. It’s a bit like a confession,” answered Georgie quickly.
     “Is there a second for Georgie’s proposal?” asked the intern.
     “I’ll second,” answered the genderamerie director, “though I want it noted that I still think it’s unconstitutional.”
     “Any more discussion?” asked the intern very businesslike and not waiting for any response. “Then all those in favor, say, aye.”
     Of course, the ayes had it, unanimously.
     “Who should convey this demand, I mean request or suggestion, to the President?” asked Georgie.
     Silence. All eyes turned to the intern.
     Georgie checked his phone. “I have to run. My wife is giving birth to our twelfth child, as some of you know. I have to run. I’ll leave it to you all to decide who conveys the message.” He shoved the manuscript in the direction of the intern and left.
     Predictably, the gender eradication and hate speech committee failed to appoint the messenger, though it was pretty clear that they wanted the intern to do it. It was the logical solution. It had nothing to lose, whereas the futures of all others were at stake. They were not prepared to stick their necks out.
     The intern, however, would have been overjoyed to do it, anything to get close to the President, the most powerful gender-thing in the world. But he-she-it did not speak up. Instead, gathered up the manuscript and hitched a ride back to the Whitehouse with some gender spy who spoke not a word to it-her-him. 
     When Georgie finally arrived at the Whitehouse VIP gate, he was fearful of how the President may respond. While he sat at the gate awaiting the security guard to clear him, he thought of poor Fiona, who had let out her last gasp, truly the last, the baby born with all, and we mean all, the necessary equipment to become a thoroughly successful gender addition to diverse America. A truly fitting replacement for Fiona. 
     The security guard informed him that he was not on the list for today, but made the mistake of addressing him as “sir” to which Georgie quickly pointed out his hate speech error, so the guard let him through. He quickly made his way to the outer office adjoining the west wing lobby, where all the interns were kept in voluntary captivity. His gender eradication intern sat immediately outside the door to the oval office. 
     “Do you have the manuscript?” he asked. 
     “It’s in my desk. The President has been in here twice asking for it. I didn’t want to give it up without you saying so. He, sorry, I mean the President was quite angry.”
     “Give it to me,” ordered Georgie crossly. He marched straight into the oval office only to find that the office was empty. He stopped, embarrassed and returned to the intern room. “He’s not there. I have to go. My wife Fiona…” He held out the manuscript and just as the intern was about to take it, it was snatched away. And there stood the President, an angry smile on his face, all those teeth, his eyes reduced to little horizontal cracks in his forehead. 
     “Give me that,” growled the president.
     “Your Presidential Self,” addressed Georgie, “my apologies for keeping the manuscript for so long. But my committee on gender eradication and hate speech met this morning and it took quite some time to come up with a solution to the Presidential problem that I must now urgently inform you of.”
     The President looked at him, trying to process the jumble of words that Georgie had just tossed his way. “Step into my office. I have just five minutes. It better be good.”
     Georgie beckoned to the intern to follow. The President sat at his desk, looking all business-like. “Come on man!” he said. “Out with it.” 
     The intern put hand to mouth to cover the shock of hearing this abomination yet again. “Your Highness, I mean President, that’s hate speech! You can’t say that!” Sobbing loudly, she-her-it turned and ran out of the office, slamming the door behind her-she-it.
     All those white, gleaming teeth burst into yet another grin, this time not angry but empathetic. “You better go and console her,” said the President to Georgie.
     Georgie ignored the advice. “I have to inform you that the gender eradication and hate speech committee resolved unanimously this morning that you must make a public apology for using your most used offensive expression, ‘Come On Man,’ further, that you must make amends for having spoken such hate so many times. One of our interns has counted several hundred occurrences in the last six months.”
     The teeth remained in their smiling position, this time surrounded by disbelief. “You mean I have to go on TV and make an apology?” asked the President.
     “Yes, First Citizen, if I may call you that.”
     “You may. Indeed I quite like it,” answered the President still smiling.
     “And there’s one more requirement,” said Georgie, a little nervously, “it comes from the secret manuscript.” He pointed to the dog-eared pile of papers sitting on the president’s desk.
     The First Citizen looked down, and flipped through the manuscript pages with his thumb. “Let me guess, you sons of bitches…”
     “Please! First Citizen! No more hate speech. That’s shocking. I don’t want to have to go through this all over again with yet another infraction of the gender code.”
     “My apologies, what’s your name again?”
     “Georgie, sir, I mean First Citizen.”
     “Well, Georgie, out with it. What’s the committee’s recommendation?”
     “It’s not a recommendation. It’s an order.”
     “I don’t think you understand, No one can order me to do anything. I’m the President, First Citizen.”
     “Yes, First Citizen. But in this case, we are dealing with thousands of infractions against the gender code. If you don’t get out in front of this, your next opponent will slaughter you in the next election. You will be a one term president.”
     “That’s not too bad a thought,” quipped the President, First Citizen.
     “First citizen!” cried Georgie, demanding attention.
     “All right then. What do they want me to do?”
     “That picture of J. Edgar Hoover, dressed in a tutu…” murmured Georgie.
     “You mean the one pinned to the dart board?” Said with a very large presidential smile.
     “Yes, First Citizen. We know about the secret basement.”
     “You know more than I do. I assure you there is no such basement. That manuscript is all crap.”
     “Whatever, First Citizen. It is the committee’s unanimous verdict that you must dress in a tutu, a tutu only, and apologize for your past gender infractions and hate speech, on live TV, or we are prepared to allow it to be done on You Tube.”
     “But they’ll think I’m…” The President managed not to say what would normally have come naturally.
     “Indeed they might. But then, is this not very much in your favor? You will be the President of all the people, all diversities, all genders. It will be a magnificent triumph of unity!” Georgie couldn’t believe he had come up with such a fantastic proposition.
     “What’s your name again? Georgie, of course. Georgie my boy, I mean my premium citizen, I thank you for this great opportunity to empathize with my people.” As if it could not get larger, his smile truly reached from ear to ear, and those teeth gleamed as the sun’s rays penetrated the oval office window that looked out on to the lawn.  “Let’s get to it!” he shouted. He picked up the phone and shouted, “send in the media people. I am going to speak one-on-one with all my citizens!”
     Georgie remained rooted to the spot. He thought briefly of how proud Fiona would be of him at this moment. 
     The President turned to Georgie, now with an affectionate smile. “You know, maybe you should come and work for me. Your talent is wasted out there with the gender spies and hate speech researchers. 
     “First Citizen! I would be honored! When do I start?”
     “What about right now?”
     “First Citizen?”
     “Yes, Georgie?”
     “Have you ever seen the painting by Lucian Freud? The one with a naked individual showing all its equipment?

 Moral: The masking of truth is its revelation.

  ©  Copyright 2021  Harrow and Heston Publishers, for Colin Heston
     

Deliverance
Teacher, student, and strap
by Colin Heston

    The tiniest teacher in the school was also its most senior. Every day without exception she came to school dressed in grays and browns, sometimes a black beret sitting precariously on a head of grayish brown hair, cut short, though still covering her ears. And for a dash of color she wore a beige scarf tied loosely around her neck. The boys most likely paid little attention to Miss Brown’s dressing habits though they had good reason to, since she stood out to the boys in the school—hard to believe—as its giant disciplinarian, (and girls too, probably, though they were spared the specific punishment designed to make a man out of its recipients). 
    No matter what the problem was, if there was any altercation or kids’ complaints of any kind, they went to the door of the staff room that opened out into the quadrangle, where Monday morning’s assemblies occurred (lorded over by the alcoholic school principal), knocked timidly and waited. Inevitably, Miss Brown would come to the door.
    “Yes? What is it?” Miss Brown would bark, usually munching, or seemingly so, on a biscuit, the crumbs falling on her beige scarf. 
    “There’s a boy spying on us through the fence, Miss,” complains the sixth form girl, her school jumper pulled tightly over her slightly bulging breast, her navy blue school dress reaching just below her knees. Miss Brown looked up at her face, then down at her knees.
    “I’m not surprised. Look at your dress! School rules require that it be no more than four inches from the ground. Yours is at least six inches!” barked Miss Brown in her grating almost man’s voice, so gruff for such a tiny person, or any woman for that matter.
    “They was looking through the fence, Miss Brown,” persisted the girl, looking down.
    “They WERE, young lady, do you not pay any attention to your English classes?” 
    “Sorry Miss.”
    “Who is this boy? Where was he?”
    “I’m not sure who it was, Miss. I think it was Geoff Peterson.”
    “And where are your manners? It’s Miss Brown, I’ll thank you very much!”
    The girl stepped back from the step upon which the tiny Miss Brown stood, now on her tippy toes trying to make herself feared all the more. 
    Miss Brown waved her hand as if the girl were a fly. “Get away, now, and mind your own business, you hear me?”
    The girl backed away as Miss Brown came down from the doorstep and called out to a boy who was crossing the quadrangle.“You there!” she barked, “Come here, boy!” She stepped back up to the doorstep and the boy, probably a fourth former, approached her. “Do you know a boy called Geoff Peterson?”
    “Yes Miss.”
    “Yes what?”
    “Yes Miss Brown.”
    “Go find him and tell him he is wanted at the staffroom right away. Tell him to hurry as the bell for classes will be going in five minutes.”
    “Yes Miss.”
    “Yes what? You want the strap too?”
    “Yes Miss Brown, I mean, no Miss Brown.” 
    The boy ran off. Miss brown retreated behind the door of the staffroom and set up her step stool. She knew Geoff Peterson. He was the tallest kid in the school. Long and lanky, and took great pleasure in looking down at her.
    Within minutes he arrived, knocking at the staffroom door. The diminutive Miss Brown opened it and straightened her scarf as she did so. Peterson noticed this and knew immediately he was in for it. She straightened her scarf every time she was about to use the strap, and looked straight ahead, which meant more or less looking at his belly button. She unfurled the strap, a yard of thick brown leather with a wooden handle bound to one end. She made the handle herself because the width of the strap was too big for her little hand to grasp the strap firmly. There was nothing more embarrassing than the strap flying out of one’s hand at the top of a swing. Peterson looked down at it. She had a way of jiggling it so that it looked a little like a snake hanging by her side.  
    Peterson pleaded, knowingly full well, that it was useless, “I haven’t done nothin’ Miss!”
    “You were spying on the girls through the fence. I know it was you!”
    “No Miss Brown,” he complained carefully, “it couldn’t be me. If I wanted to look at them I could just get up on my tippy-toes and look over the fence.” Peterson was putting on his usual tough defense.
    “Put out your hand,” demanded Miss Brown, ignoring his plea.
    “But Miss Brown, Oh Miss Brown!” he cried, now with a big grin, “you wouldn’t strap a poor little boy like me, would you? Especially when there’s no evidence.”
    “You are such an insolent boy!” snarled Miss Brown. She stepped up on her stool, at which Peterson put his hand to his mouth to cover his grin. He (and she) remembered the last time she strapped him (only yesterday). He had moved his arm this way and that and she ended up almost chasing him around the staffroom unable to land the strap on his open hand. And when he did stop and put out his hand, she was so short she could not manage to raise the strap high enough above his hand in order to bring it down with any kind of hard blow. So this time, she had brought in a stepping stool to give her more height. 
    Up she stepped, one hand on her hip, the other brandishing the strap. “Come on, then, out with it young man!” she demanded.
    Peterson burst out laughing. He almost said, “out with what?” but managed to hold it back, instead laughed uncontrollably, which of course incensed Miss Brown even more. He moved his hand this way and that, Miss Brown lunging forward and sideways, hampered by her having to remain on her stool. He laughed and jiggled around.
    “Stand still!” she yelled. 
    But Peterson was by this time out of control. He waved his lanky arms around so that Miss Brown managed to lay a few strokes here and there, though not with the satisfying smack of leather on a bare hand that she liked.
    “The left, now. Come on! You’re getting six of the best for your insolence. Out with it!” she snarled, her face wrinkled with anger.
    But then, the bell rang for classes, and almost relieved, Miss Brown stopped and stepped down from her stool. But she was very frustrated and, completely losing control of herself, she swiped with her little, though quite strong arm when she was able to do a full swing, at Peterson’s legs. The strap wrapped around his legs, and though they were protected by his gray school pants, it was nevertheless a shock of the unexpected, and Peterson let out a wail you would never believe. 
    Miss Brown immediately stood back, her hands on her hips, the strap dangling beside her body, no longer taut, relaxed, one could almost say as though after a bristling climax. 
    Peterson, for his part, backed off and fled to class. He had a story to tell that would amuse and delight all his mates.

    Moral: Effective punishment requires the full cooperation of its recipient.

  ©  Copyright 2021  Harrow and Heston Publishers, for Colin Heston

Nothing to Declare
    Happiness unappreciated.

by Colin Heston

    Little Rita eagerly looked forward to the day, promised by her mamma for as long as she could remember, that she would make her confession. Actually, it was even before she could remember, because mamma had said, as her proud pappa (now departed for other temptations) held her in his arms, “our little darling, wait until you can go and make your confessions!”
    So on Rita’s eighth birthday mamma met her after school, and they walked together to the little church of San Clemente, just a few streets away from where they lived on Via del Colosseo. Rita skipped along excitedly, down the steep steps to the Colosseo, then to Via Labicana. Mamma squeezed her hand and took her into the church. It was small, as Roman churches and basilicas go, nevertheless to a ten year old it was massive and overwhelming. The confession box was tucked away in the far corner on the first level of the church, behind the altar.  Not that Rita had never been there before. It was the church in which she was christened, according to mamma, and Rita accompanied her almost every day and watched while she knelt at the altar and thumbed her rosaries and mumbled things under her breath. In fact after her dad departed, they went there even more than once a day.
    “Now be sure to tell everything to the Father when he asks you. Just like I told you. OK?” said her mom as she leaned down and gave Rita a little kiss on her forehead. 
    “I will mamma.”
    Her mother knocked lightly on the confessional door and there was a faint rustle of clothing. She opened the door and saw movement through the finely carved confessional window. “In you go. Make sure you kneel nice and straight.”
    Rita stepped in, the door closed behind her, and she knelt down, curious to see who was behind the window.
    “And what can you tell me this afternoon, my child?” purred the priest.
    “My mamma said I have to confess my sins today.”
    “Then tell me dear child of Mary mother of God.”
    “My mother’s name isn’t Mary. It’s Christina.”
    “Yes, of course. What sins do you have to tell me today, my child?”
    “I don’t have any, Father. I haven’t done anything bad or anything. I don’t think so.”
    “You know that you must always tell the truth to you parents and to your priest, do you not?”
    “Yes, Father. My mamma always tells me that. But I can’t think of anything I have done that was bad. I always have a happy time and my mamma has never spanked me. So I can’t have done anything bad, can I?”
    “My dear child. Everyone, children included, commits sin. You must have done something bad.”
    “You mean my mamma has done something bad?”
    “In confession, my child, we can’t talk about your mother. Only your sins.”
    “I really don’t have anything to confess, Father. I’m sorry for that.”
    “No bad thoughts, even?” asked the priest, slightly annoyed.
    “I’m always happy, and I don’t have anything to think about that’s bad.”
    “No one is always happy, my child. Are you sure that you are telling the truth?”
    “Oh! Father! I would never lie. And now I think I have just committed a sin. I have got upset with you.”
    “Do you get upset with your mother?” asked the priest, feeling he was making progress.
    “Oh No! Mamma is the sweetest kindest person I know. I love her so much. She couldn’t do anything that would make me have bad thoughts.”
    The priest responded, trying to hide his disbelief. “She hasn’t once had to discipline you?”
    “I don’t know what that means, Father.”
    “I mean, did she say you’ve done something wrong, and punish you for it?”
    “No, Father. I told you. I haven’t done anything wrong, ever.”
    “No bad thoughts? Jealous of someone perhaps?”
    “I don’t think so, Father. What does jealous mean?”
    Frustrated, the priest responded. “My child, this confession is over. Please say one Hail Mary twice a day, just to be on the safe side, in case you have not been telling me the truth.”
    “But I haven’t confessed to any sins, Father. Why do I have to say a Hail Mary?”
    “It is not for a child to question a priest, my dear.” The priest closed the window. There was a scuffle of clothing and shoes scraping the wooden floor, and he was gone. Rita stood up and left. Her mother was waiting by the altar.
    “How did it go?” she asked.
    “I said I didn’t have any sins to confess and he got angry with me, I think. But I couldn’t see him.”
    “What did he say?”
    “You said I’m not allowed to tell what we talk about in the confession, didn’t you?”
    “Yes, you are right.”
     *
    On her eleventh birthday, Rita asked her mother if she would be going to confession like last year. 
    “I think we will wait until you are twelve,” she said. “The Father told me he didn’t think you were old enough.”
    Rita didn’t question that. Just gave a happy shrug and said, “OK mamma.”
    And so, a year went by and at last, her twelfth birthday arrived, celebrated with her friends and cousins. And after they had left, Rita asked, “am I going to confession today?”
    “I have made an appointment for you tomorrow. I’m not sure if it will be the same priest. But it shouldn’t matter. They all work for Jesus and Mary.”
    “Do they get paid?” asked Rita innocently.
    “Of course, but not by Jesus and Mary, silly! The Pope pays them, I guess.”
    “That’s very good of the Pope. He must be a very kind man.”
    “He is.”
    “And very rich too. There are so many Fathers to pay.”
    “I have booked you in for tomorrow after school, at San Clemente. Do you think you can go there on your own?”
    “I’ve been there so often, mamma. I’m sure I can go there. I just knock on the confessional door when I get there, è vero?”
    “Yes. And it’s the same confessional as before, down behind the altar, in the corner. Don’t be late.”
     *
    Right on time, Rita knocked gently on the confessional door. She heard the rustle of clothing and stepped in. She had tried to prepare herself this time. Read some stories about people going to confession. How they were supposed to think hard about what bad things they had done, read the ten commandments and go through each one to see if they had broken any of them. This she did very carefully. She read every commandment and decided that she had not broken any of them. Even the one about honoring your parents. She wasn’t quite sure what the word “honoring” meant, but if it meant did she do what her mother told her, she had, every time and always. Of course, she couldn’t say anything about her father because he had departed a long time ago, when she was a baby. She wished that one day she might get to meet him. But wishing for that wasn’t a sin was it? Maybe it was honoring him in his absence?”
    “Good afternoon my child,” said the priest. It was the same voice that she remembered from two years ago.
    “Bless me Father, for I have not sinned or anything as far as I can remember,” said Rita, shifting a little on her knees.
    “But my child, that is not possible. When did you confess last?”
    “Two years ago, Father. It was my first confession.”
    “And you have not made one since then?”
    “No. Mamma said I wasn’t old enough, but now I am. I think the Father told her that.”
    “Then I will ask Jesus and Mary to overlook that, only this one time. But my child, remember you must confess every week, more if necessary.”
    “I will Father. But it’s the same this time.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I read all the ten commandments. And I haven’t broken any of them.”
    “Have you not disobeyed your parents?”
    “Never would I do that to my mamma. My dad left and I never knew him.”
    “Bad thoughts?”
    “I don’t think so. But I really don’t know what bad thoughts are. I’ve always been a happy kid. Never a dull moment, my cousins say.”
    “My child, it is a grave sin to lie to your priest in confession. Of course, lying is a sin at any time and for any reason.”
    “I don’t lie, Father, I would never do that. I am always happy. I have nothing to lie about.”
    “Are you not lying to me now?” asked the priest with a touch of belligerence.
    “Oh no! Father! I would never do that! I love Jesus and Mary so much, how could I do that to you?”
    The priest took a deep breath. He had never experienced anything like this. He should have spoken more to the girl’s mother after the girl’s first confession, but did not because of the sacred bond between confessor and priest that their exchanges should never be revealed. 
    He had another go at it.
    “Have you never wished for something that another girl had, maybe one of your playmates?” he asked, this time he would surely trap her.
    “Oh no Father, I would never covet my playmate’s toys.”
    The Father was taken aback. “You know what covet means?” he asked incredulously.
    “Oh yes, Father I read it in the ten commandments. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.”
    “Not even one of your playmate’s dolls?”
    “Oh, Father, I think I made a mistake. I had this really pretty Barbie doll.” 
    “Go on.”
    “And I was playing with Tina, my cousin, and she started to cry.”
    “And?”
    “She said my doll was prettier than hers, and she wished she had it.”
    “Are you sure it was not the other way around?”
    “Oh no, Father. But then I was feeling so sorry for her, I gave her my doll. And that made her very happy, and made me very happy too. Was it selfish of me to feel sorry for her?”
    “I don’t think so,” answered the Father, again crushed by this child’s unmitigated happiness. He was on the verge of giving up, but then, against his better judgement, decided to have one more try. He coughed a nervous cough. The child was twelve. There was one way in which he could catch her, no, that was not a good way to think about it, help her discover the sins that hovered deep inside the body. 
    “Touching?” he asked in a thin voice.
    “Touching, Father? I don’t know what. It’s not a sin to touch something, is it?”
    “Sometimes it is.”
    “I mean, once I touched  mamma’s hot iron and burned my finger. Was that a sin?”
    “Well, if your mother told you not to touch the iron, then yes, it was a sin because you disobeyed her. You violated the fifth commandment.”
    “I don’t remember her telling me not to. But I suppose she might have when I was really little.”
    “There, you see. You did have a sin to report.”
    “I have always tried very hard to obey my mamma. I never  disobeyed her on purpose. So I don’t think that’s a sin.”
    The priest, in spite of himself, coughed a nervous cough again, and said, “have you ever touched yourself?”
    “Don’t be silly, Father, of course I have. I do it every day when I wash my hands and face.  That’s not a sin is it?”
    “Mostly, not. But there are places on your body that you should not touch.”
    “You mean my…” Rita put her hands to her face covering her eyes, “I can’t even imagine it.”
    “Perhaps I should speak with your mother.”
    “About touching myself? But everyone has to go to the toilet, don’t they? How can you not?”
    “It isn’t what I was thinking,” said the Father, immediately regretting having said it. Fortunately, Rita did not follow the thread.
    “Father, when you think, do you think bad thoughts?” asked Rita innocently.
    “We all do, my dear, even priests,” he answered, relieved. “That’s why I also go to confession every few days.”
    “I’m glad you do. Hey! One day I could hear your confession after you’ve heard mine,” said Rita with a giggle.
    “You have to be a priest to hear a confession. It’s the work of Jesus and Mary.”
    “Mom said you get paid for your work by the Pope.”
    “On earth that is so,” boasted the priest.  
    “So who pays the Pope then? Jesus and Mary?”
    “Of course not. They are in Heaven. But my child, let’s get back to your confession.”
    “Sorry Father. Thank you for listening to me. I’m a bit of a chatterbox when I get started, my mamma is always saying. Do I have to say any Hail Marys?”
    “It’s always a good idea to say some, even if you haven’t committed any sins. So I will leave it to you to decide how many you want to say.”
    “Thank you, Father.”
    “May the peace of God be with you, my child.” The priest gave a sigh of relief and left the confessional.
    Rita’s mother waited for her in front of the basilica. As you may have guessed, she was a devout catholic, very careful to follow all the requirements of ritual and practice of the catholic church. “She is such a perfect child,” she muttered to herself.  But as soon as she said it, she crossed herself and looked up saying, “forgive me Jesus for I have sinned the sin of pride.” There had never been a time when she had to scold her little girl, even raise her voice. The child was so happy. Yet it seemed that her happiness caused much trouble for others, especially the priest who had heard her first confession. The priest had in fact broken the sacramental seal and hinted to her what had happened in the first confession. She was very grateful for the priest’s concern and his sharing it with her, but at the same time, the Father had been forced by Rita’s happiness to break one of the most sacred rules of the church.
    Rita, her innocence radiating like a halo, knew nothing of this. She simply enjoyed life and found not the slightest speck of badness even in situations that were awful, her absent father for example, or the day she tripped on a cobblestone near the Colosseo and broke her arm. She did not cry at all. Just said she was sorry for slipping over and causing such fuss. Why was she so happy? Was there something wrong with her? She looked up and saw Rita skipping happily towards her. Everything must have gone well. Too well, perhaps?
    “How was confession?” she asked.
    “The Father was very nice.”
    “How many Hail Marys do you have to say?”
    “Mamma. You told me I’m not allowed to tell what happened in confession.”
    “Children are allowed to tell their mothers. Didn’t the Father tell you that?”
    “No. He just said I can say as many Hail Marys as I want.”
    “Nothing more?”
    “Lots more. We talked a lot, or, maybe I talked a lot.”
    “You had a lot to tell him?”
    “Well, he said some silly things.”
    “Like what?”
    “I don’t think I should say, should I?”
    “It’s different between mothers and daughters.”
    “So would you tell me what you say in your confession?”
    “Well no. It’s not like that. I’m not allowed.”
    “That doesn’t seem fair.” Rita gave a little giggle, then looked up, “but I don’t mind. I can tell you the silly things that the Father said. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind that.”
    “Go on.”
    “Well, he asked me whether I touch myself…”

    Moral: The innocence of youth feeds the guilt of adulthood.

  ©  Copyright 2021  Harrow and Heston Publishers, for Colin Heston

Matchmaker
by Colin Heston
 A matchmaker applies her craft to crime and punishment
 Author’s note: Punishment pervades all walks of life. This story offers just a whiff of the most publicized and popular home of punishment, criminal justice. Later stories will stray far and wide into many untold aspects of punishment in society and the hypocrisies that fuel it.

    Auntie Aasiya proudly put down her phone. She would be on the next plane to Philadelphia. To imagine, that Philadelphia’s District Attorney had requested her services, offering a very high retainer. And a high daily expenses rate, the job expected to last several months! And paid in cash! The DA’s assistant, who spoke Hindi in a perfect Awadhi accent heaped praise on her, saying that he had several friends and relatives who had  found each other thanks to her wonderful services. She was so flattered, she succumbed to the request, without even asking for any details of the type of match anticipated. The DA had simply said that her services would be required for a period of several months, possibly longer, to help in a major project for the city, designed to improve the DA’s dedication to implementing a fair and just criminal justice system. All he would say was that she would be key to helping the poor and weak who were caught up in the criminal justice system. 
    “How soon can you come?” asked the DA’s assistant.
    “I have one case almost tied up. I should say in one week,” answered Aasiya (let’s call her Auntie for short as everyone else did). “I will have to speak with my husband of 35 years first.”
    “That’s no problem. We will pay for him to come with you, if that is necessary.”
    “Oh, thank you. That will make it much easier for me to get away, especially if it is for a long time.”
    Auntie had no idea what she would be getting into. The idea was the brainchild of Deputy District Attorney Ace Hole, a recent graduate of the influential University of Pennsylvania Law School, whose job it was to work with prosecutors and defense attorneys to hammer out sentences of a range of felons, usually through the practice of plea bargaining. As most know, plea bargaining, an informal practice discovered and incorporated into the criminal justice system in the 1970s, is used to short-circuit trials, to get the prosecution and the defense to agree ahead of an expected trial, for the offender to “plea” (a word rich in meaning, that’s for sure) guilty to usually a lesser offense for which he was charged, thus avoiding the expense of lengthy trial. Unfortunately, there are many distasteful side effects of this practice. There is the temptation for prosecutors to over-charge the defendant, to make sure he gets a punishment that matches the crime for which he is charged. But in these situations the defendant is often forced to plead guilty to a crime he did not commit. The resultant sentence (the punishment pronounced) is thus an abstract assessment of his guilt, only indirectly the crime he is supposed to have committed. Even worse, it increases the likely possibility that the offender will plead guilty even if he has committed no crime at all, in instances where prosecutors and their collaborators, the police, know he is innocent of the crime, or forced a false confession from the defendant. 
    But that is only the half of it. The actual range of punishment that is available is minimal, especially for “serious crimes” (gen­erally referred to as “felonies”) for which fines or probation are considered no match. Prison is the central and only punishment available, and the bargaining can go on for weeks or more over how much prison the offender should plead to via the DA manip­ulating the crime for which the offended will plead guilty, regard­less of the supposed original offense. For example, a DA may reduce the charge of first degree murder (intentional killing) to one of manslaughter (less intentional killing) if the offender agrees to plead guilty to the latter, usually in the circumstances where the DA is not sure she has a good enough case to get a guilty verdict on the first degree murder. 
    This system of make-believe justice has been criticized by experts for many years, but the fact is it is so functional, makes it possible to process so many offenders more quickly, and perhaps most important, dispenses with the need of expensive and lengthy jury trials. Probably over ninety per cent of cases in the USA and elsewhere in the Western world, are decided in this way. One is not found guilty by a jury of one’s peers. Rather, one is found guilty by a bargain reached between the prosecutor and defense, with a helpless client stuck in the middle.
    How would Auntie Aasiya fit into this rigid system that nobody in theory wants, but with which all comply? Auntie’s expertise lies in matching two people, often strangers to each other, even until the day of the marriage. The expectation (and the statistics bear this out) that the two, once married will stay together for a lifetime, their personalities and preferences and hopes a perfect match, as they say.  Auntie was proud of her record of matches. The majority of them stayed together for at least ten years, many for a lifetime, or close to it. 
    Auntie was whisked away from Philadelphia airport in the DA’s personal limousine, and deposited at the apartment reserved for her in Society Hill, not far from center city, and just around the corner to the original site of American Justice, Independence Hall. 
    Now before we get into the complexities of matching crime and punishment under the newly conceived idea of Ace Hole, a little background is necessary concerning how punishments have been matched to their crimes in recent history. In a duel, for example, the punisher is the victim of a dishonorable insult, and the offender is the one who offends. This is a perfect case of matching the punisher to the offender. The match is, however, one that runs the risk of an awful injustice. If one of the duelists is a crack shot, the other not so good, and if the crack shot is the offender, then there is a good chance that a serious injustice may be done: the offender may shoot, even kill, the punisher (i.e., victim). The victim of the insult is victimized twice over. And of course, being punished by shooting for a mere insult is obviously a failure to match the offense to the punishment. The serious flaw in the duel is that there is no dispassionate third party who has any authority at all to make sure that everything matches: the offender and his offense to the victim and his suffering, and finally to the choice of a punishment that matches the seriousness of the offense. 
    “That’s why we have a modern system of criminal justice,” you are no doubt thinking. Unfortunately, although superficially it looks as though that is the answer to this difficult problem, today it falls a long way short. For serious crimes (felonies, let’s say, though that is also an overly simple term), there is only one punishment that is made to fit all crimes: prison. The third party, the judge, dreams up, guided roughly by a criminal code, what amount of prison, months, days, years, is equal to what kind of serious offense. To give you an example of the impossibility of matching carefully a punishment to a crime; if an offender commits two murders, he obviously cannot in actual fact serve two life sentences—though judges routinely deliver such imposs­ibly matching sentences. You see the point. 
    An alternative, sometimes allowed in Islamic systems, is when the victim  may approve or even carry out the punishment (including the death penalty), or forgive the offender completely, or settle for a monetary amount. But again, if it is left totally to the victim to match the punishment to the crime, forgiving a murder, that is, letting the offender go scot free, fails to match the crime to the punishment. 
    These and many other very difficult problems of matching punishment to crime are the reasons why Ace Hole and his collaborators have embarked on this history making solution: to focus entirely on matching the punisher, a third party who is likely more dispassionate, as is a matchmaker of marriages, to the criminal and his crime. The focus is on the criminal as the primary ingredient of determining the punishment, and the seriousness of the crime only secondarily. And it was deputy DA Ace Hole, recently appointed by the new woke progressive DA of Phila­delphia, who, having followed all instructions of the DA never to prosecute burglaries or any thefts; the argument being that it is unjust for some people to be richer than others, so it is only right that those who have not, take from those who have. This principle, of course, does not apply to crimes of violence (though there are some extremists who would indeed apply the injustice rule to these crimes as well). In any case, without the necessity to prosecute “property crimes” as they used to be called, the DA office found itself with lots of time on its hands. Hence, at a three martini lunch, as they called it many years ago when corporate executives had that luxury, Ace Hole came up with his idea of using a matchmaker from India to establish a system of matching punishers to offenders. It started out as a joke, but the next morning it appeared on the morning’s agenda meeting as a serious project.
    
    Auntie Aasiya  insisted on bringing her husband to her first meeting with the DA. She had heard so many stories of men in government preying on women in America, she was taking no chances. The limo picked them up at 10 am, and whisked them the to the DA’s office, passing Independence Square, the Liberty Bell and the rest. “This is a very important place,” said her husband. “It is where America gained its independence, and they did it much before India. It is a very great country.” The driver smiled and nodded his assent. 
    Auntie Aasiya clutched her satchel to her breast. She was a little nervous. This was something entirely new. Why would they want a matchmaker, no matter how good she was? Maybe the DA’s son of daughter was looking for a match?  She leaned forward and called to the driver, “Is the DA Indian, perhaps? Mr. Hole, certainly does not sound like an Indian name.”
    “No Ma’m. He born and bred in America. White as they come, you know.” Auntie leaned further forward. She saw that the driver was African American and couldn’t help turning up her nose just a little. The driver, fortunately, was watching the traffic, so did not see. The traffic was jammed up, road work on one of the side streets. They were on Twelfth Street, just below Market Street, and her husband shouted, “look! There’s an Irish pub.” The limo pulled up right outside it. 
    Auntie and hubby sat still.
    “This is your stop. They’re all waiting for you in there,” said the limo driver with a smirk.
    “This is 3 Penn Square?” asked Auntie.
    “Not likely, Ma’m. But it’s where Holey likes to have his early morning meetings, away from the media, you know.”
    “Holey? That’s how you pronounce his name?” asked Auntie.
    “Ah, no. I’ve known him for a long time, so I call him that ‘cos we’re friends, you know,” the driver answered with a hint of mystery. “You better get out on the curb side. You’ll get run down if you get out on the road side.” He made no effort to open the door for his puzzled passengers.
    “Lucky I brought you with me,” muttered Auntie to her husband as she slid out of the car and on to the sidewalk. Thank­fully, Ace Hole emerged from the Irish Pub and held out his hand to assist her. 
    “Ace Hole at your service, Doctor Aasiya, I believe?” said Hole with a very large grin. His rather dark complexion, probably of southern Italian ancestors, though could be taken as Indian heritage somewhere in the distant past, pleased Auntie. He was close enough to be like her, that is, her light almost white comp­lexion that was the envy of all her Indian friends. “So pleased to meet you, Doctor Hole, and this is my husband.”
    “Welcome to Philadelphia, the city of sibling love,” announced Hole bowing a little. “We are very much looking forward to learning all your secrets of successful matchmaking.”
    “I will do my best.”
    Hole led the way into the gloom of the Irish pub, empty of customers this time of the morning, but with an attentive bar tender, and a a few secretaries and hangers on. Already, they all held a glass of Guinness in their hands. The pub manager had set up a large round table for them to sit around.
    “Can I get you a Guinness?” asked Hole.
    “It is fortunate that I am not a strictly practicing Hindu, or I would have been shocked at this venue. They don’t drink alcohol, you know. It’s the one thing that India refused to take on from the British invaders. However, it is too early in the day for me to take alcohol. I must keep my mind clear, for matchmaking is a demanding intellectual task.”
    “Be assured, Auntie—may I call you that?”
    “Of course,” answered Auntie, though a little offended by this presumption of intimacy.
    “We did our homework, Auntie. We know all about you. And we are very impressed by your accomplishments and success in your business.”
    Auntie smiled politely and looked sideways to see that her husband already had a large glass of Guinness in his hand. He was very much at home, having done his Ph.D. in economics at Oxford.
    “Then let’s get down to business,” continued Hole, raising his glass of Guinness. “To matchmaking.”
    Auntie lifted her bulging satchel on to the table and withdrew her wads of notes.
    
    Ace Hole addressed the participants, many curious, some trying hard to hide a smirk. 
    “The DA claims to want a “woke” administration, and I am justifying this unusual approach to criminal sentencing as the logical outcome of that. It can’t be achieved simply by not prosecuting crimes, as is now the policy for all property crimes and misde­meanors. Serious crimes must be punished. We all get that. There’s no way around it. But how can we do it in a progressive manner, a way that replaces, hopefully completely, the shockingly comp­licated, unjust system of sentencing and punishment of criminals in this woke world?”
    All around the table nodded seriously and took a swig of their glasses of Guinness.  Hole continued.
    “A few weeks ago we came up with what we think is a promising solution. Instead of matching punishments to crimes, the traditional method that we know is impossible in most cases, if not all cases, why not match the punishment to the criminal, rather than to his or her crime or crimes. Then we realized that we should, if we are to be consistent, match the punisher whoever that will be, to the criminal. Thus, the matching punishment should emerge from a perfectly matched coupling.” 
    Hole looked around the table. “Are you all with me on that?” he asked.
    Auntie shifted in her seat and flipped through a wad of notes. 
    “I see no problem in using my method,” she said, “ which is, simply, draw up a list of preferred characteristics of the one, and match them to the same or responsive characteristics to the other. Of course, there will be some disagreements and we rarely get a perfect match, but we should be able to get close. Of course, the list of characteristics would, I should think, be very different from those for marriage match making. The relationship between a criminal and his punisher is hardly a marriage, if you see what I mean. Though, I would want to know whether you see the punish­ment to be one that continues over a lifetime, or long period. If so, some of the characteristics of marriageability may carry over.”
    This was a rather long speech so early in the morning, and as well, Auntie’s heavy Indian accent made understanding her difficult. And it didn’t help that she spoke so quickly. Several of the  assistants, just out of law school,  had to shake their heads to keep themselves awake.  Auntie’s husband retired to the bar and sat on a stool, sipping his Guinness, chatting with the Irish bar­tender, or was she English?
    “Could we see what your lists look like?” asked Hole.
    Auntie rummaged around in her over stuffed satchel, and finally withdrew a handful of dog-eared pages. “Here’s one I used recently for a very successful match of a very shy little girl of eighteen and a large rotund man of thirty three, meek but cuddly. On the face of it you would think they would not match from a physical point of view.”
    “How did you determine he was cuddly?” asked Hole.
    “That is part of my personal magic. I have a gift to see through the characters of my clients,” answered Auntie proudly.
    “Yes, it’s her special talent,” called out her husband from the bar with a proud grin.
    “I also found out about his character from his big sister,” added Auntie.
    “It sounds as though we would have to give this task to a social worker. We have lots of them anyway. I always wondered what they do, so it will be good to have them make themselves useful,” observed Hole with authority. “And the lists, Dr. Aasiya?”
    “I am getting to that,” said Auntie.
    Auntie laid out her lists on the table, then glanced around the room, a serious look on her face. “The list is very long, so I will only give general indications of what I consider to be the basic, or essential characteristics to be considered. First, and probably the most important, the caste must match. You do not have this here, I know, but you have something like it. I have friends and relatives in Philadelphia, so I can give some examples.  In general, race must be considered as a primary characteristic. A black offender from West Philadelphia public housing should be matched to the same for the punisher.”
    Hole interrupted. “Even if the victim is white from the Main Line?”
    “That is not for me to say. I am just showing how my methods might be applied to your situation. “Next, how big a dowry will the punisher put up?”
    “But we don’t do that here,” complained Hole with a frown. Besides, how could that apply to punishing the offender?” He looked around the table waiting for one of his assistants to contribute. A young fresh law graduate raised his finger.
    “Instead of a dowry, the would-be punisher who is also the victim can be compensated by us, according to how much he or she has suffered,” suggested the graduate with confidence.
    “Worth considering,” said Hole.
    “I should have said,” responded Auntie, “that the same principle applies to gender. If a male offender, it must be a female punisher. Of course, I do not do same sex matchmaking.”
    “And this applies even if the sex of the offender is the same as that of the victim?” asked Hole, tapping his fingers on the table.
    “Again, that is up to you people to decide, though I would suggest that the same sex victim find a surrogate punisher of another sex. Now comes the next most important factor I consider, and I would think it is very relevant to your situation. When the one gets into an argument, or feels wronged by some­one (usually a relative but that’s probably not relevant here), is she or he able to forgive? How caring are they? How spiteful are they? How vengeful? How resentful? Do they have nice happy thoughts most of the time, or do they think dark, unhappy thoughts?”
    The law graduate who had spoken was now engaged. “So you would match opposites here, male-female, caring-uncaring, and so on.”
    “That is exactly what I advise,” answered Auntie with a big smile. 
    “Excuse me,” called a voice from the bar, “but you have talked about the offender and the punisher, but what does the punisher do, exactly, what is the punishment and how is it deter­mined?” The room fell silent. The Irish bartender grinned. The voice was that of Auntie’s husband, a clear, perfectly pitched voice, beautifully clipped, the wonderful sound of an Oxford accent. So clever, knowledgeable, and wise. 
    Auntie smiled and looked back at him, then around the table. “That’s my husband. Isn’t he marvelous? He has a doctorate in Economic Deprivation from Oxford, you know. I call him Hubby and you may do so too.”
    “Pleased to meet you all,” said Hubby. “You should read my award winning dissertation on How Deprivation Benefits the Poor. Many of your offenders are poor, I presume.”
    “They certainly are,” answered Hole, “but we are doing a lot to change all that. In fact, we no longer prosecute any crimes that are committed by those who have less than $100,000 in assets.”
    “That is a good beginning,” said Auntie with enthusiasm. 
    Hole continued. “The trouble is that we have only prisons, amounts thereof, to use as a punishment for serious crimes. So the punisher does not have much to choose from. Only differing amounts of prison, essentially.”
    “Then  you need to balance this off with the contrasting characteristics of the punisher-offender relationship,” said Auntie, “if you will excuse my rather clinical language.”
    “That’s right,” said Hole, “a rich punisher gets to prescribe a small prison sentence if the offender is poor and vice versa. We can construct a formula that adjusts the prison sentence to the difference between assets of the punisher and the offender.”
    The law graduate stirred excitedly. “This will revolutionize sentencing guidelines,” he chirped. 
    The entire group erupted into engaged discussion. Auntie had no idea what sentencing guidelines were, but obviously they were something very important to her audience. She got up ready to leave and looked around for Hubby, but he was nowhere to be found. Nor was the bartender. 
    “He’s fallen for her accent!” Auntie muttered to herself.
    “What was that?” asked Hole. “We didn’t quite get that.”
    “My apologies,” said Auntie, forcing a smile, “I see that Hubby has left for better things,” so now I can say what I want to say.”
    “But we are open to all suggestions and ideas,” urged Hole. “We have open minds here.” The rest of the group muttered their assent.
    Auntie rummaged in her satchel once again, and finally pulled out a notebook that itself bulged with press clippings and notes scrawled on every page. “This is a case study that I have prepared to present to you. I was unsure whether to do so, but now that I am assured of your open mindedness, I will take the chance.”
    “Do tell us,” said Hole.
    Auntie passed out a bunch of press clippings. “No doubt you have all heard of Philadelphia’s most infamous rapist, kidnapper and serial killer, Gary M. Heidnick. Apart from his long criminal career of violence, during the period 1986 through 1987, he kidnapped six women, held them chained in his basement raped and tortured them, and killed two of them through starvation or denial of medical care. They were all African American. Of course, he was white.”
    “The younger people here may not know of this case. I certainly do,” said Hole. He was finally executed for his murders on July 6, 1999, by lethal injection.”
    “I ask you,” said Auntie, “how would a matchmaker deal with this offender? All he did, the kidnapping, raping, torture and two murders. And all you have available to you in the present day is prison. And even the death penalty is not enough, don’t you think, since he, apart from killing one person, killed another and tortured and kidnapped others. If you added up the legislated punishments for all those crimes they come to several life in prison terms and two death penalties. Yet he can only be killed once, and only serve one life sentence.”
    Suddenly, the group came to life. The group as one stirred uncomfortably in their chairs. The law graduate, proud of his legal knowledge of the Pennsylvania criminal code, said, “it is what it is. The Pennsylvania criminal code lists the possible punishments, the judge has discretion—depending on sentencing guidelines—and determines the most appropriate punishment.”
    “Who cares about sentencing guidelines? I have  no idea what they are. But as the matchmaker, I do care about matching the punishment to the criminal. Note here: it is matching to the criminal, not the crimes,” lectured Auntie with authority
    “Yes, but who or what are you matching to the offender? “ complained someone.
    “Who does the matchmaker represent? I think we are asking you, Auntie,” responded Hole.
    “Exactly the question,” said Auntie with satisfaction. The big difference between match making in marriage and in punish­ing criminals is that in most cases, when I match husband to wife, they are strangers to each other. Often, they have not even met until the day of the wedding. It is therefore crucial that I have worked out the best match, because they will spend the rest of their lives together. Also, I only work with one side, usually the parents of either a son or daughter. In this case of Heidnick I represent all the victims as one.” 
    Auntie hesitated, waiting for a response or disagreement.
    “Go on,” urged Hole.
    “The fact is that once the criminal has attacked the victim, the victim is no longer a stranger. Her identity becomes entwined with her offender. It is up to the match maker to unravel this forced relationship. One that, you might say, dropped from the sky, like a huge stone from Hell.”
    “Oh, I see what you are getting at,” said the law graduate. “It’s another version of restorative justice. Where the identities of each, the offender and victim are brought together and they learn to understand the suffering of each other. They reach an accord, a mutual understanding.”
    Auntie stared at him and then saw a number of the younger individuals nodding with approval. “Bakavaas!” she cried, lapsing into her Hindi tongue, “Poppycock!” I never heard such nonsense!”
    The room suddenly erupted, all talking at once.
    “OK! Quiet down, now!” called Hole. “One at a time.”
    A middle aged woman, a sad and sorry face, heavily lined, probably serially divorced, raised her hand.
    “Yes, Barbara, what is it?” Hole spoke as if she were going to ask if she could go to the bathroom.
    “I have devoted my life to social work and will not sit here and listen to this drivel. There’s no serious difference between offender and victim. They both are responsible for the crimes. They are an essential part of the crime. In fact the crime could not occur without a victim, willing or unwilling. That is why restorative justice makes sense. The offender and victim are treated as equals.”
    The room now became hushed. Auntie fingered her notes. “As they say,” she said sarcastically, “I will take that under advise­ment. In the meantime, let me finish, for I have only just got started.”
    Hole leaned forward over the table and looked around the room. All eyes were on him, expecting him to intervene and shut this dreadful matchmaker up. But he said nothing.
    Just then, Hubby reappeared from behind the bar, his hair a little ruffled, the bartender stepping forward. “Anyone for another Guinness?” she asked. All raised their hands.
    “Coming right up!”
    Auntie continued. “As the victims’ representative, here is what I would suggest as a procedure to match the needs of the victims and the unwanted reciprocal relationship they have with the offender.”
    “We are all ears,” countered the social worker.
    “Let us list some of the things Heidnick did to his victims. One, he kidnapped them and chained them helpless, in his basement. Two, he administered electric shock to them in a bathtub, killing one of them. Three, he raped them at will. Four, he starved them, denied medical attention. Five, he tortured them in many ways.”
    “But why go into all this?” asked Hole, impatiently. “He got the death penalty which is what he deserved. Case closed.”
    “But that only accounts for one killing, does it not? Besides, he was put to death without pain. How does that match what he did to his victims?” countered Auntie.
    “Auntie, if I may call you that,” said a group member, this time the group’s sociologist, a tall thin fellow with a tiny razor thin moustache, “I would like to go back to your original proposition, that victims are strangers to their offenders until they are victimized. We know that close to 70 percent of all assault victims know their assailants, usually family members, relatives or friends. So your basic premise does not hold.”
    “A mere detail, and I compliment you on your attempt to avert this embarrassing discussion away from its proper focus,” countered Auntie. “It matters not whether the victim knew his or her offender. If they did, then I insist that the transformation works the other way around. Once formally victimized, that is, designated a victim by the criminal justice system, then the victim becomes a stranger to that offender even if he or she was known to the victim. In fact, it is important that the identity of stranger to offender be groomed and exalted, for without that distance, it becomes very difficult for the victim to comply with a match­maker’s recommendations: that is, to match the pain of the punishment as closely as possible the pains that the victim has experienced at the hands of the offender.”
    The group fell silent. Auntie looked around the room, her eyes met quickly with Hubby’s and moved on. Hubby for his part, sipped his Guinness and did his best to convey to Auntie his approval and support.  Auntie continued.
    “What I am going to say now,” said Auntie, a very serious frown on her face, “is going to upset some of you. I simply ask that you bear with me, and try hard to put aside your prejudices that favor the so-called enlightened morality of Western civilization, of which I am sure all in this room believe the USA is the shining beacon.”
    Hole sat back in his chair and nodded approval. All eyes looked down at the table. What terrible thing could a matchmaker from India say that would upset this well-educated, progressive and tolerant group?
    Auntie shuffled her papers some more then looked around at the group. She had prepared them well, and addressed them in her best Indian Oxford accent that she had learned from Hubby.
    “Now, we have already acknowledged that one life in prison is nowhere near a match to the six kidnappings, tortures and two murders. But we can enrich the offender’s experience of prison with a slow but methodical application of the pains that reflect what the victims felt and what the offender did. Here, now, is my list of recommended pains.
    “One. He chained his victims to the wall of his basement. So he shall be chained to his prison cell for six years, one year for each victim chained.
    “Two. He tortured all six with electric shock. So he shall receive severe electric shocks to his genitals once a month. That will give him something to look forward to. Of course, the applic­ations will be supervised by both a qualified medical practitioner and electrician.
    “Three, he will be fed tasteless mush every other day, and in between days the odor of grilled steak will be fanned into his cell.
    “Four, and this is probably the most important and effective.  Over the period of his first twenty years in prison, once a year, a piece of his body will be surgically removed. This will begin with the ten fingers followed by ten toes.  The victim’s family members will be invited to wield the chopping instrument. Of course, no sedation or anesthetic will be allowed.” 
    Auntie glanced at Hubby who stood, his mouth open and eyes almost popping out. He could not believe what he heard. He nervously gulped down a big mouthful of Guinness, and his grip tightened on his Irish Bartender’s pliable rump. She, for her part, thought it all a joke and ruffled his greying hair with her lily-white hand. 
    “Five…”
    Auntie hesitated. It was time to let them interrupt.  And she was not disappointed. Ace Hole cleared his throat loudly as he fingered his phone.
    “I think we have heard enough,” grumbled Hole. Then he made a very bad blunder. “I don’t know what you people do back in India, but here in America, the bastion of civilization, we do not do such disgraceful things, or even think about them, no matter how awful the offender is.” 
    Murmurs of agreement fluttered around the table. 
    But Hole’s words had incensed Hubby. “I’ll have you know that India’s advanced civilization outdates anything you have here, and far surpasses it in its rich traditions and devotions to justice and caring for all people, including all life. In fact, it is a tragedy that the English came and disturbed the blissful tranquility of Indian life.” All of this said in his very best clipped Oxford accent. 
    Hole was about to both apologize but also chastise Hubby, but Auntie cut him short. “Let us not get sidetracked with accusations and pontifications. I am presenting a case study, it is an example or outline only. I am opening your eyes to what is possible, and to the considerable parameters that are available to you when you allow yourself to think clearly, without prejudice or preconceptions, in order to determine how one may match the punisher’s preferences with the parameters of the offender’s character and his crimes.”
    The room fell silent once again. Hole went to speak, but decided against it. The social worker, incensed, got up quietly and left the room. Hubby grabbed some more of the Bartender and they quietly slipped away and out of sight. 
    Auntie continued. “Five —  and this is where we really get to the question of reparations. During his twenty years in prison, he will donate various organs that he can live without,  (an eye, a kidney, for example) to save the lives of at least two people, a deed that will make up somewhat for the lives that he brutally extinguished.”
    Hole cleared his throat once again. He stood up and leaned against the back of his chair. “Doctor Aasiya, you have certainly given us something to think about.  You have given us a new way to look at the matching of punishment to crime. I am not sure that…”
    “…it would be constitutional to carry out such punishments, even on the worst of the worst criminals.” Auntie finished his sentence for him.
    “Yes, precisely,” responded Hole.
    Auntie smiled a little and said in her wisest voice, one full of feeling and empathy, “one day, your great Congress will remove the prejudices and blinders built into your constitution by your founding fathers, who, having themselves suffered at the hands of tyrants, failed to confront the injustices of man against man and man against woman.”

    Moral: Though imprecise, punishment is the essential measure of justice.

  ©  Copyright 2021  Harrow and Heston Publishers, for Colin Heston