Fiction

The Journal of Paolo Honorificas
(part 10)

A brief note from Mr. Malby:

Dear Editor: What follows is a personal narrative concerning one of the few real jobs Paolo ever had. I understand he went on an extended vacation right after it courtesy of the Office of Homeland Security. Timely moral lessons are contained therein.

The Reception Room

The place was built like a fortress. You couldn't see it from the drive. It was only after rounding a pleasantly manicured hill that the stark beige wings of the immense edifice came into view. Driving a little further you came to the parking lot. There must have been over 200 parking places. Closest to the entrance were reserved spaces for big shots and administrative personnel. Their names were written on the curb in paint that had been sprayed through some kind of template resulting in a fuzzy after burn surrounding each letter.

Alongside the names printed were corresponding functions. What you did here was as important as who you were. Depersonalization was what this place was all about. When I first began to work here it was a state mental hospital. The repository for the criminally insane. With the bombings in various California population centers a place had to be found for identified political insurgents. The patient population was changing to reflect the new social menace.

Even now as I write...a sense of hopelessness altering my perception of reality sifts down upon this page and these words as I remember what it was like to encounter that building. A whole series of upper story wire laced windows looked out upon the parking lot. Vague shapes flickered from the windows. You always felt you were being watched because you were and it altered the way you thought and even walked. This was not the kind of place you wanted to experience if you were already depressed. My former wife was hounding me for money and threatening to get even with me. What now towered over me didn't brighten my mood.

The breathless power of the gigantic cement construction weighed down on you even before you entered the first of its doors. The first door you entered through was simply a standard double door of glass. It led to a large waiting room of institutionally pastel colors. The second door was made entirely of reinforced steel. The sound of its opening and closing was proceeded by a buzzer and an ominous bolt like click before you pulled against its heavy handle. To the left side of the second door was a square room filled with communication and electronic panels. You could see into it because of bullet proof glass windows behind which uniformed guards stared out at you.

The first room entered when you pulled against the double glass doors was a large impersonal lobby filled with institutional furniture. Plastic covered couches and chairs of pale red, yellow and brown filled the open space. Everything was square. Plain square walls, chairs with square cushions; the kind you would find in any doctors office or state sponsored building. This was the transition zone. The barrier of demarcation between the outside and inside. The staging area for the process of entombment or the liberating gateway to release depending on whether you were entering or leaving.

Once inside the second door you found yourself truly trapped. Behind you was the door you entered from. You were now in a six by eight foot square space with nowhere to go. Despite the high ceiling, the space seemed to press down and into you. Straight ahead was another door of massive steel that could only be opened by guards once you had been closely observed and underwent a suspicious, rigorous perusal. You answered the questions the guards asked. You did what you were told. Only then would a buzzer sound and the last entry portal electronically unlock for you to proceed forward. In doing so, the true impact of this secure facility made itself felt.

From a closed confining space you entered a cavernous cement hallway. It was stories tall and uncomfortably cold. Thirty people could walk abreast in it and not touch the walls. At least it felt that way. So overwhelming, impersonal and unforgiving was the impression that you could imagine no other response but submissive awe and the reality of your own insignificance. One world had been left. Another entered. The unconscious feeling of captivity and dread was the price of judicial conviction or court ordered observation. Because of the war on terrorism a new clientele was being daily received. For the people who worked here it was a question of pursuing a career or just having to earn a living.

No matter how many times you entered those series of doors, the emotional surprise and misgivings were the same. It was the price asked for and paid. Asked for because this was a place where ultimate control came from the top down regarding a hierarchy of rules regarding order, behavior and function imposed with little hope of individual appeal. It was clear that here the system was in charge. If you were not part of that system or challenged it you represented a threat. Above all else, this was a place consumed with paranoia regarding perceived threats.

Security guards inhabited their own world. They tended to be hidden away because this was a treatment facility. The visible interpreters of power and those charged with carrying out rules, regulations and treatment decisions were called psychiatric technicians. The roles played by everyone was clearly determined at a glance by the kind of uniform worn. Psychiatrists and other doctors wore ties and suits. Below them, social workers tended to wear sport coats, one arm free while the other was usually bent, curved around a bundle of papers and charts. They always appeared to be hurrying somewhere. Dressed in white were the psychiatric technicians. In contrast to them, dressed monochromatically in brown khaki were the numerous patients.

The institution had originally been set up for court ordered male criminal offenders. Sexual offenders mostly or individuals the judicial system could find nowhere else to put. Slowly, they were giving way to a new kind of patient. These were political offenders. All were housed in a series of secure living areas called wards each opening, by a series of locked doors, into the main hallway. The entire building was built around a courtyard the size of a baseball field. Each ward held from fifty to over 100 individuals in a series of dormitories with a large common room where the nursing stations, educational teaching tube (TV), ping pong tables and socializing areas were located.

Approximately 13 wards were located on two stories. There was a special high security ward and hospital ward. There was a commissary, barber shop, dining rooms and a theater. Each doctor and social worker had their own office. A special area was reserved for administrative personnel. This then was the world in overview. A world dominated by the colors of beige painted cement, the white clothes of the psychiatric technicians and the predominate khaki brown uniforms of the patients.

Here was the playing field of lost hope, where incarceration was viewed in terms of months and years. Those in suits and coats were gods. Those in white were the primary authority figures. Those in khaki were the reason for this place, troubled souls that society could find no other place to house; murderers, rapists, pedophiles and dissidents. Those who were unlucky enough to have been caught, processed, regimented, categorized and swallowed into the system were no longer individuals but patients with terrible stories to tell, initially fading into the generalized mass of the population until time and observation made them individuals again. When that happened, the true ugliness and possible redemption regarding both the environment and its mission became clear.

This is not to say the place was without positive qualities or that people were callous and unresponsive. The one thing you never forgot was that this was a dangerous and potentially explosive world. The patients could be preyed upon by both their peers and employees and the staff was always in danger of being attacked but wherever groups of people congregate, over time a community develops. An unofficial hierarchy takes shape. A society is created and friendships emerge. The canteen, hallway and exercise yard were the areas of patient wide communication and bonding. They were the conduits for whispers, speculation and gossip.

When the "dirty bomb" was discovered in a suitcase in San Francisco a national emergency was declared The hospital geared up to welcome a new kind of patient. The laws were changed to admit potential terrorists, dissidents and "undesirables" who were viewed as possible social threats. No longer was a jury or court ordered hearing needed. A judge or prosecuting attorney had merely to sign a paper with an individuals name on it. The single page papers were forms, orange in color with an empty space at the top where an individuals name could be written in and a line at the bottom for the authorizing signature. They were called "Cachets"

Once a person was admitted it was up to the staff to document why continued incarceration was no longer necessary. The observation period was lengthened to six months unless there was a military signature at the bottom of the form. If this were the case, military law prevailed and an individuals stay was indeterminate.

I once worked there. As an employee I did what I was told. Due to what I thought was an employee calling in sick, I was ordered to report to the "Portal". This was a special room adapted for receiving large groups of dissidents at one time. New arrivals queued up in long lines behind a series of tables which they faced. A male or female employee dressed in white stood behind each table. Showers lined the walls.

As I entered the room that day, I was immediately met and approached by a no nonsense supervisor I had heard about. Her name was Glenda. She was known through gossip as a woman who loved her work, a stickler for rules who reveled in carrying out unpleasant responsibilities that others tended to shy away from. She was short and heavy with pronounced, muscular arms. Fat hands tapered out into unusually long wicked looking fingers that never seemed to rest. As she approached me, I could see that behind her were two burly psychiatric technicians I had never seen before. In Glenda's hand was a Cachet.

"Paolo" she explained, "we have an incarceration order with your name on it. It's an embarrassing mistake I know and we'll soon have it all sorted out but you have to be processed."

"What?" I was stunned. She seemed to be making no sense. I involuntarily backed away from her. " Me? Are you serious? I work here!" I was in a state of disbelieving shock. The two technicians moved closer to me as if expecting to wrestle me to the floor, daring me to object.

Glenda motioned them back. Her small round eyes burrowed straight into mine. "This is as uncomfortable for me as it is for you Paolo. It says here that your parents are of Lebanese descent. Is that true?"

Her words took on an accusatory tone. I felt my stomach churning. My mouth dried as I responded, "Yes, but what does that have to do with anything? They're American citizens. For god's sake, I was born here. I'm as much an American as you are."

Glenda looked down at the orange paper she held. She hesitated for a minute and then seemed to make up her mind. Her tone turned darker. "I have to ask you to remove your clothes and place them on the table. This can be as easy or as difficult as you want to make it."

"Why? What have I done?" The unreality of the situation overwhelmed me.

Glenda looked exasperated as she spoke. Her tone was tense, becoming coldly officious. "I know you've worked here a long time. A mistake may have been made in your case. But rules are rules. You know that. We picked up some intelligence last night. The patients are smuggling messages out. Everyone is suspect. I have a signed 'Cachet' with your name on it."

"Who signed the paper?" I demanded.

"Don't make this worse than it has to be. I don't know the signer but the Director is trying to contact them right now. In a few hours this will all be cleared up. In the meantime do what you're told. I asked you to remove your clothes and place them on the table. I won't ask you a third time."

The white clad psychiatric technicians beside her moved closer toward me. I could smell their breath. I sensed they wanted to prove their loyalty to their supervisor and secretly hoped I would resist. They towered above me. I removed my white shirt, white pants, socks and shoes. I placed them on the table in front of her. Glenda carefully examined them for contraband. It was humid. The dampness of the cement floor seeped into my bones. Glenda was in her element. She examined the clothes I handed her in a slow, meticulous manner. When she finished she placed my things in a plastic bag, looking narrowly at me. " Now give me your underwear and undershirt."

"Wait a minute", I began but was interrupted by one of the burly men dressed in white placing his hand securely on my shoulder. I backed away instinctively. A hundred faces turned my way. Everywhere, people were in various stages of undress. They stopped what they were doing and looked over in my direction. A sickening thought crossed my mind that my own co-workers were setting me up as some kind of example.

Glenda's voice was increasingly more commanding and professional. "I won't ask you again. Do as you're told."

A smile appeared on one of the technicians faces. He was tensing as if making ready to spring at me. I did as I was asked. Glenda's directions became more cursory and demeaning as I slowly stripped. Standing naked in front of her, I was now just another piece of meat caught up in the familiar routine of her job. She loved her work. Took pride in her thoroughness. She continued talking as she placed a latex glove on her right hand and lubricated her index finger with a white jelly. My god, I thought. This can 't be happening to me. I'm one of the good guys.

Glenda's perfunctory voice intruded like a sledge hammer between my confusion and the horror I was being subjected to and expected to meekly acquiesce. She continued, "Raise your arms over your head. Good. Slowly turn so that I can get a good look at you. Turn toward me. Rub your hands through your hair. Slowly now. I want to make sure you have nothing hid in there. Now lift up your scrotum please. Okay, now raise your penis. Grab your scrotum again and lift it up. Are you frightened? It looks shriveled."

One of the technicians snickered. She waved him to silence with her gloved hand and turned back in my direction, " This is just routine. Now turn around and bend over. You know the procedure. Place your hands on your cheeks and pull them apart. Wider. I said wider!"

The technicians came over and pushed down roughly on my shoulders. Glenda was in her element. She quickly approached me from behind. She shoved her finger inside me and began to probe vigorously. The surprise and pain of her maneuver made me involuntarily jerk. I tried to stand up. Sensing resistance, the technicians took control. They pressed my head back down almost to my knees. I could feel Glenda trying to force my contracting muscles apart with her finger. I tried to keep her out. The more I tried, the harder she shoved. She cursed to herself as she thrust her full weight behind the effort and plowed forward in my direction.

With her free hand she raised it high and slammed the flat of it down angrily against the side of my butt. The pain and surprise was so total I relaxed in shock allowing her terrible finger to move deeply forward. I could feel her finger joint like a baseball bat grinding forward toward my groin. My overwhelming sense of violation both angered and shamed me. Experiencing her finger inside, I felt like my individuality and humanity was being pried loose. Hatred for her and the system clouded my judgment. I exploded. I could not control myself and tried once more to struggle free.

The two technicians reacted with such humiliating force that I was all but immobile within a matter of seconds. Nevertheless, I tried to put up a fight. It seemed that they wanted me to do just that. More people had stopped what they were doing and turned in my direction. Glenda produced a syringe she had conveniently prepared ahead of time and jabbed it into my backside. The needle was pressed so violently in that the syringe pressed against my flesh. She pressed hurriedly with a steady pressure down on the plunger. An unforgiving, fiery stream of liquid burned its way into and through me. Almost immediately, a cloaking, disorienting fog enveloped my senses and effected my coordination. All those watching now knew what to expect if they offered any resistance. I felt weak. So very weak. My struggles ceased. After a few minutes of dry heaving and disorientation I once more heard Glenda's officious voice.

"All right. He's sedated. Take him to the showers and give him some clothes. Watch him closely. We don't want this one to get away."

Steadied by the two technicians I was led over to the showers and made to wash as they watched. When they felt I was in the water long enough, one of them tossed me a towel.

"Sorry dude" he said as I dried off. The other one said nothing. He stared, leering at me. I was then escorted into an interview room. There, one of the technicians shoved some khaki clothes into my hands. I was told to dress. Once dressed I felt stronger, my humanity was beginning to resurface.

I tried to mentally make sense of what was happening. Yes, I thought to myself. Yes, this was happening. It was an indignity but it would be over soon. I had nothing to hide. This kind of mistake could happen to anyone. I couldn't get over the realization that it was not happening to just anyone. It was happening to me! Somewhere inside myself I knew that I was lying to myself. This had been carefully orchestrated and planned. How long had they known this was going to take place?

Certainly, long enough to have everything organized. I began to feel sick again as if realizing for the first time the full extent of my predicament. My bottom hurt. I needed to go to the bathroom. I was afraid of the future, desperate to prove my loyalty. Strangely enough, I noticed myself feeling guilty. Standing beside the door were my new warders. They began talking to themselves as if I didn't exist.

Looking around the room I noticed a desk. Beside it was an American flag with gold fringe lining the edges. A picture of the president of the United States hung on the wall. In front of the desk was a wooden chair. The door opened and a man in a sports coat entered. He threw a pile of papers on the desk and sat on its edge. Facing me, he pointed to the plain wooden chair, directing me to sit. I looked over to the two technicians as if to instinctively ask their permission. Noticing this, the social worker motioned them with his eyes to leave. They exited with a shrug.

"Well, Paolo.it is Paolo isn't it? It seems we have a little problem. " He looked down at his papers thumbing through them until he came to the orange form. He started talking as if to cover up the fact that he was not well prepared for the interview. "My workload is unbelievable. We're understaffed you know. Sit down. You make me nervous".

As I tried to adjust to the hard, wooden chair he moved behind the desk and sat down. It was hard for me to sit. The pressure of the chair was painful. He put his hands behind his head and leaned back into his own heavily padded chair. His head towered above mine.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I asked. "What have I done?"

"I'm not doing anything to you Paolo. I'm trying to understand the situation. I notice on your psychological profile that you may have a problem dealing with authority figures. Is that true?"

"It depends on who they are".

"Have you ever threatened any elected officials living or dead?"

His question irritated me. I answered quickly, "Besides questioning stupid decision making, no".

He smiled. "Doesn't that suggest your deep anger and resentment toward authority figures?"

"I don't know what you're getting at."

He continued, "Have you ever become so angry with a political leader that you might have wished them dead?"

"With the exception of you right now, no".

"I want to help you Paolo. I want to be your friend if you'll let me. Don't be so hostile."

"Look, I'm an American citizen. I was born here."

"What difference do you think that makes? Do you think I can just let you go?"

"I have rights."

"Congress passes the laws. What makes you think you're right and everyone else is wrong? You've got some deep seated problems, Paolo. Even if you shouldn't be institutionalized you can benefit from the experience. You can work on becoming a better person. We have anger management classes. Group therapy. Educational programs."

"I know. I worked here."

My response appeared to unnerve him. He didn't have a ready comeback. Instead, he began examining the papers in front of him. After an awkward silence he continued, "You're married, right?"

The question surprised me. "What does that have to do with anything? I'm divorced".

He continued, "It seems your wife. I guess former wife denounced you as a potential terrorist. What was her maiden name?"

"Burns". Having responded to his question, I noticed a frown appear which he quickly tried to hide. He looked closely at the Cachet. Then, looked up at me.

"Do you know a Henry Burns?"

I nodded. "He's my former brother-in-law."

"That's a coincidence. It's also the name of the military officer who signed your incarceration paper. The problem is you also fit the profile. You have relatives in a targeted foreign country. Your parents are of an ethnic background. No matter what I think of the present situation I can't countermand a military Cachet. Only a military judge can do that. For the time being I'll assign you to ward five. Do everything you're told and in a few months we'll see where things stand. You're a patient now, Paolo. In a way, we're all wards of the new world order.

That's all. You can go. God, you can't believe the workload they expect me to carry. I've got five more arrivals to interview before lunch! "