White Noise 1 Part 1 of 10
z119z
© by the author 2015
I welcome comments. Please send them to z119z2000@yahoo.com. Thanks.
Prologue: Stage 4
The headline in the science section of the newspaper caught his eye. "Autumnal High Noon" revealed that this year autumn officially began exactly at 12:00:00 noon EDT. The writer tried to make a big deal out of that—the odds of the seasons changing exactly at noon were so vanishingly small. What he didn't say was the odds of it happening at any given second were equally small. It had to happen at some point on the clock. 12:00:00 wasn't magic. Just an unlikely looking coincidence. It wasn't as if 12:00:00 EDT coincided with the solar noon throughout the Eastern Daylight Time Zone anyway. Given the width of the zone, it was possible that along one longitude autumn began at exactly solar noon. The article was the trash science typical of the newspapers—long on speculation and short on science.
Still, he liked the symbolism of the moment. The world poised on the cusp of moving from days that were longer than nights to nights that were longer than days at exactly the moment the sun stood right overhead, at least according to the clock. He wasn't superstitious. It wasn't magical that it was happening exactly at noon, but still there was something to be made of the double change from am to pm and from summer to autumn.
Because he was all about change, alteration, modification, improvement. Most of all, improvement. A change that wasn't an improvement was a waste of time. The end product had to be better than the inputs. He was very fortunate that he had the tools and resources to make that happen. He could do what others could only dream about. He could imagine an ideal and then bring it about.
He had been wondering when to begin Stage 4. It was so momentous. It was fitting that he do something to mark the moment. Begin something just at noon at the moment of the autumnal equinox. Then complete it at the exact moment of another equinox or solstice. Nothing less than a cosmic alignment was a propitious time to begin or end his new creation.
There was still a week to go before the equinox. That would give him enough time to prepare.
Chapter 1
"Is your leg still bothering you?"
"A bit."
"The way you're limping, it's more than a bit."
"It's this weather. Cold, damp weather always makes my joints ache."
"Let me have a look."
"It's fine. Don't fuss at me."
Michael let more of his irritation show than he intended. Nothing was going to fix his leg, and it didn't help to have Jeff come running and hover over him pestering him with exaggerated expressions of concern every time he winced when he put his weight on it. Well, they weren't exaggerated. At the very least, he owed Jeff honesty. Jeff was concerned. "Exaggerated" was an expression of his annoyance. But he should know better by now than to react to the pain around Jeff. He had to develop the ability to keep his face neutral when Jeff was present and a sudden stab of pain racked his body.
The attention from Jeff was an unwelcome reminder that he was damaged and would be for the rest of his life. It wasn't as if he would ever forget that, but dealing with Jeff's worries didn't help. Jeff just added to the burden of the pain because it hurt him twice—once from the physical pain he experienced and once from the anguish his pain caused Jeff. Things weren't going to get any better, and the doctors were noncommittal when he asked if they might get worse. He had to learn to live with the pain and not burden others with it.
And now Jeff had that slightly aggrieved look on his face that he got when his help was refused. After five years, Michael knew all the subtle hints that played across Jeff's face. Perhaps that was what love meant—that you stayed around long enough and cared enough to observe your lover in such detail that you learned to read his thoughts.
It was so hard on Jeff. Love combined with guilt. It didn't matter that he had told Jeff over and over that he was not responsible for what had happened. Jeff still felt guilty for the role he had played. Michael hoped he didn't exploit that guilt. He tried to reassure himself that love was behind his reliance on Jeff. He wasn't capable of getting by either physically or emotionally without Jeff's help. The alternative would be to hire someone to come in and help him or to live in an assisted living apartment. He didn't want either of those. He didn't want a stranger whose got paid by the hour to be caring. And he certainly didn't want to be in an assisted living facility. He had been in one of those for two weeks after he had been discharged from the hospital. Never again. He would commit suicide before he went back to one of those warehouses. But he couldn't live by himself. He needed a combination of nurse and personal aide to survive daily life. What were small, insignificant acts for others were challenges for him, sometimes even insurmountable obstacles.
He was lucky that Jeff was willing to be that person. If you love someone as he loved Jeff, then you had to be willing to allow that person to express his love for you by doing things for you. It didn't matter whether you needed his help or not. You had to be willing not to be totally independent. You had to share your life and do things together.
It didn't help that Jeff was so gorgeous. Jeff could have anyone he wanted. An agent had once come up to them when they were drinking coffee at a Starbucks and given Jeff her card and offered to find Jeff jobs as a model. The woman hadn't even acknowledged his existence. It was as if she couldn't bring herself to see a man whose left eyelid drooped permanently at half-mast, whose nose swerved to the right of center, whose left ear was misshapen, who relied on a cane to stay upright as he shuffled along. The reconstructive surgery on his face had undone the worst damage, but it left the skin taut and immobile. The scars on his face may have been almost erased by plastic surgery, but his whiskers did not grow through the scar tissue, nor did those areas tan. Two or three hours after he shaved the remnants of the scars were visible as channels of livid white flesh bounded by his heavy, fast-growing black beard.
Occasionally when he was out with Jeff on the street or in a restaurant, he would catch someone's eyes shifting back and forth between the two of them and clearly wondering how someone as handsome as Jeff got stuck with someone who looked like him. Beauty and the beast. What story did they make up to account for the link between the two of them? Most likely they thought Jeff was a nurse hired to take care of him. What pity they felt was probably directed toward Jeff for having to deal with him. Well, better Jeff than himself. There were times he pitied Jeff too for being yoked to him.
Sometimes he was tempted to walk over and tell the gawker, "I just got lucky." It would be no more than the simple truth. He had been incredibly lucky. In the hospital, after the "accident," some of the nurses and doctors had hid their feelings about his looks by being overly bright and jolly. He could see them pause for a second or two before entering his room and assuming a mask of cheerfulness. Others hid their feelings behind a sterile professional demeanor. He preferred the second group. At least with them, he didn't have to force himself to pretend to be in good spirits.
And then there was Jeff. That day when he had emerged from the haze that engulfed him in the aftermath of the accident, Jeff had been sitting next to the hospital bed. IV stands on both sides of the bed were attached to tubes in his arms. The incessant beeps from a bank of monitors reassured everyone that he was still alive. His mouth was wired shut, and air was pushed in and pulled out of his lungs through a tracheotomy tube connected to a pump. Jeff had threaded both of his hands through the sidebars of the bed frame, taking care not to disturb the various attachments, and was holding his right hand. Not squeezing, just gently sharing his warmth and life. When Jeff saw that his eyes were open and trying to focus, he smiled. A radiant smile. For a second the flood of emotions surging through him had been more painfully intense than the wounds he had suffered. Love at first smile.
He would tell Jeff that one day. He would have to pick the moment carefully. Jeff didn't like to talk about the accident. The "accident." Their euphemism for what had happened. "Oh, Michael was in a bad accident. But don't mention it to him. He doesn't like to talk about it." He had overheard Jeff whisper that once at a party. Jeff tried to make it sound as if he had been hit by a drunk driver or had walked in front of a bus or something. The truth was much worse, but Jeff never talked about that. At least not with him. And it was Jeff who didn't like to talk about it. Maybe someday Jeff would be able to discuss it. He hoped so. He was working on helping Jeff accept what had happened. Neither one of them would be healed until they could talk about what had happened. Just the two of them. But that was for the future. Right now, he needed to mend a fence. Sometimes you owe the person you love the courtesy of a small lie. It doesn't matter if he knows that you are lying as long as he understands the love behind the gesture.
"Maybe we should try massaging some of the cream in. Sometimes that helps. Could you get it? It's in my dresser. The top drawer, on the left."
Seconds later he heard the drawer sliding open and the click of pill bottles being pushed around. "Do you need to take any of your pills right now? I can bring them." Jeff called from the bedroom.
"No thanks. I'm all set for now. I've just got the two to take with dinner and then the usual pre-bed ones."
Jeff returned to the living room bearing the tube of ointment. It didn't really do much good. It kept the scar tissue supple, but that was about it. But it would give Jeff something to do and they would both pretend that it helped. He eased his pants over his hips and down to his ankles, exposing his legs. He studiously avoided seeing them, superimposing a memory of wholeness on them.
"I think it's looking better," Jeff said. "Not so red."
"Is it? That's good. Doctor will be `pleased' with my progress."
They both chuckled. It was one of their jokes. Dr. Cameron was always "pleased" with Michael's progress. That was another of the building blocks of their relationship, of any relationship, he supposed. The thousand little ways in which two people were linked, none important in itself, none meaningful to anyone else. The small things that made up a shared day.
"Oh, that feels good."
Jeff smiled shyly at him. "Tell me if I'm hurting you."
"No, no, it's fine." He watched the strong fingers massaging the cream into the flesh above his right knee. "Do you think my leg is getting bigger? I think the new set of exercises Joe has me doing is beginning to pay off."
Jeff drew back a bit and regarded Michael's leg judiciously. "There's definitely better definition." He was happy to be asked and happy to supply some improvement.
Michael watched him. Jeff was so beautiful. So alive. The lock of brown hair that usually swept across his forehead from left to right tumbled forward as he bent over Michael's leg. The tip of his tongue poked the flesh of his cheek out from the inside. He always did that when he was concentrating. Michael reached out and laid his hand on Jeff's shoulder.
"Am I hurting you? Should I stop?" Jeff looked up in alarm.
"No, no, you're not hurting me. I was just watching the muscles in your arm and shoulder, and I wanted to feel them move." The gesture had been impulsive, the reflection of a sudden need to be in contact. He wasn't sure if the reason he had offered Jeff was the truth. Sometimes he just needed to be in contact, to reassure himself that Jeff was real and not just an illusion conjured out of hope and desire.
"If you like, I'll undress and you can feel all my muscles." Jeff hunched over and pressed his groin against Michael's thigh.
"Hmmm. I think I'd like that. But are you sure this is a muscle?" He grabbed the crotch of Jeff's jeans and squeezed.
"Always so technical."
"Always so horny when you're around?"
"Only when I'm around?"
"Sometimes I daydream when you're not here. If I can't have the real thing, at least I can think about it."
Jeff giggled and pushed his crotch into Michael's hand. Michael stroked it for a few seconds and then moved his hand to the back of Jeff's neck. He guided Jeff's face down toward his. They kissed.
Mark hesitated. He glanced at the name and address of the store he had written on a slip of paper the night before after consulting the store's website and the comments on Yelp. From the opposite side of the street, he checked and rechecked the information on the slip of paper against the tarnished metal numbers on the door and the name on the sign above the front window. The paint on the sign had become chipped and streaked with dirt over time. The sign needed to be repainted. It wasn't that he was uncertain that he had found Foster's Sandman Shop at 2216 Buchanan Street. Mark knew he was at the right address, but something about the store made him uneasy. All the reviews on Yelp had praised the Sandman Shop—often in extravagant terms—but none of the pictures posted online had prepared him for the dreary reality of the place.
All the stores on that section of Buchanan Street were run down, tired looking. Dented aluminum siding or shingles over tarpaper covered the upper stories of the building. Every shop had metal shutters and grills that could be fastened across the windows and doors at night. On most of the stores, handwritten signs written in broad strokes with colored felt-tip pens covered the windows and prevented him from seeing inside. Those on the front of the liquor store next to Foster's advertised sales of cheap beers and wines and brands of vodka and whiskey that Mark had never heard of. From their tattered corners and faded colors, Mark guessed that they had been there a long time.
An old woman lugged a cloth shopping bag bulging with groceries past the Sandman Shop and the liquor store. As Mark watched, she shifted the bag from her left to her right hand. The bottom of the bag skimmed the ground. It must be heavy. Like the street, she looked tired and run down. She scurried along the sidewalk as if she wanted to get home as quickly as possible and shut out the world.
It was only 5:30, yet the street was almost deserted. He could see the elevated tracks leading to the subway station only a block away. He would have expected to see more people coming home from work—the trains were always packed at this hour. Now that he thought of it, the station had been quiet for this time of day. No one had been waiting to board, and he had been one of only a half-dozen people to get off the crowded train. There was none of the usual surge of people colliding at the doors of the cars. By the time he found the exit he wanted at the unfamiliar station, the other passengers had melted away, leaving him descending the open metal stairway down to the street level alone.
The street lights buzzed and flickered on. The days were getting shorter. Colder too. Mark shivered. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket and pinned his arms close to his body. He almost turned back. The neighborhood made him uncomfortable, and his first impulse was to get out of there. But Foster's Sandman Shop had what he wanted. In fact it appeared to be the only place in all of New York City that did. He had left work early in the hope of avoiding the rush. Still it had taken him an hour's ride on the subway to get there. Even if he left without going in and buying what he wanted, it would take him at least 45 minutes to get home, and that was only if he didn't have to wait too long for the trains he wanted. In the end, he decided he might as well go in. He would get what he wanted and then leave as quickly as possible.
Foster's Sandman Shop wasn't large, but it had the high ceilings of a previous age. Harsh florescent lighting from ceiling fixtures bounced off the waist-high glass display cases that extended across the back of the store and along the sides. The store was too bright, and the strong smell of incense did not completely mask an underlying odor of mold and ancient dust. Mark frowned. Smells bothered him. If he stayed for very long, he would get a headache. A narrow walkway behind the cases separated them from shelves filled with boxes, presumably holding unopened copies of the items on display. Colored crystals and small glass objects hung by chains from metal stands atop the display cases and reflected the overhead lights, staining the walls and floor with bright splotches of red and green and blue. A young man standing behind the counter on the right-hand side was showing an oddly dressed woman a tray of small objects. They were deep in an intense conversation, and the clerk barely glanced up and nodded when he heard the door open. Mark stepped over to the opposite side and peered at the objects arranged on the glass shelves of the display cases. He had to bend over to see them. The cords attached to some of the small devices made it clear they were powered by electricity. Others appeared to be battery operated. One shelf held goggles with short, stubby antennas attached to one side. Those had to be the self-hypnosis and concentration masks featured so prominently on Foster's web page. The mirrored finishes on the eye pieces reflected distorted and oddly colored images of his face.
"May I help you, Sir?" An older, white-haired man pushed aside the curtain covering the doorway to the back of the shop and sidled in, letting the curtain fall back into place. He had to be the owner, Mark decided. The younger man must be an employee. Or maybe the man's son. It looked like a family business. If so, he felt sorry for the son. Imagine being stuck in this place because your dad needed help and was too cheap to hire a clerk. A story of their family life flashed through his mind—domineering, demanding father; resentful, overworked son.
The man was looking at him expectantly, waiting for Mark to speak. Mark suddenly felt bashful. His request seemed so trivial and silly. It embarrassed him to talk about it, as if he were confessing a fault, a perverse oversensitivity to something anyone else would barely notice. Mark's eyes slid away from the man and focused on the shelves behind him. "Uh, yeah. I've got a new neighbor upstairs who comes in late at night? He makes a lot of noise and wakes me up?" Worse, now his voice was rising at the end of his sentences. He hated it when he found himself doing that. It made him sound like some teenage girl. Mark coughed and swallowed and then started again. "One of my co-workers suggested I look into white noise machines. I Googled them and found your website. I thought I'd come by and check out what you have. Do they really cover up noise?"
"Oh, yes. They work very well." The man had a very smooth voice. It sounded trained, like an actor's or a radio announcer's. Surprisingly educated for this neighborhood. "There are different models, depending on the intended use. All of them cover up noise, but some of them prevent people more than a few feet away from hearing a conversation. The white sound they generate is designed to intercept the normal range of the human voice. Others are designed to cover up the usual environmental noises—traffic, sirens, machinery—that sort of thing. They generate a different sort of white sound. Then we have models that are aimed at both sorts of noise. It sounds like you need one of the latter. Let me show you."
The man slid open a panel at the rear of the counter and took out a small, round white cylinder about three inches high and five inches wide. "This is the Sandman 2100. We have them made especially to our design, and it's one of the most popular models for nighttime use. It will effectively mask about 90 percent of external sound. The other 10 percent is usually not enough to wake anyone. Let me demonstrate it for you." The clerk unwound the electrical cord and then plugged it into a socket at the base of the shelves behind him. The plastic housing encasing the device had diagonal slits in it. The clerk twisted the top of the cylinder to open them and then pressed a switch.
"We just got these in . . ." The younger clerk's conversation with the other customer was immediately cut off as the shop filled with a sound like a fan blowing. Both of them glanced over. The younger clerk smiled at Mark and said something. Mark saw his lips move but heard no sound. Mark suddenly realized that all the street noise had disappeared. "That's amazing." He could hear himself speak, but his voice lacked depth. It was like the sound was swallowed up as soon as it exited his mouth. The older clerk smiled at him and turned the machine off. The sounds from outside came rushing back.
"What was that?" asked the other customer.
"It's a white noise machine," explained the younger clerk. "It drowns out other sounds. People use them so that they can sleep at night or so that they can talk or make noise without other people hearing. We sell a lot of them."
"It's also adjustable," said the older clerk. "This switch can be set for either high or low volume, and the cowling around the machine can be rotated to open and close these ports. You adjust it to the level you need. The top settings are too noisy for most people at first. We recommend that you keep the volume low when you begin using the machine and then increase the sound level gradually as you get used to the machine. It generally takes about a week or so to learn to tolerate the higher settings. Of course, the higher the volume, the more external sound the machine drives out. If you're using it to prevent others from hearing a conversation, however, you need to turn it down a bit or you won't be able to hear what the person you're talking to is saying unless they're talking right into your ear."
"I want one of those," said the other customer. "There is a new baby next door, and the crying is keeping us up. That's just what we need."
Mark decided he wanted one as well. "I'll take one too."
The man Mark had identified as the shop owner handed the younger clerk a bright blue box with a picture of the Sandman 2100 on it. "I'll just be a moment, Sir. That's was the last of these machines we had out front. I'll run back and get a unit for you. We just received a new shipment of these, fresh from the factory. It won't take a moment, Sir"
Mark wandered around the store looking at the other merchandise while he was waiting. The stock was varied, to say the least. A rotating stand of subliminal learning tapes sat on a case filled with crystals; medallions with new age symbols were displayed beside books on meditation. The younger clerk rang up the other customer's purchases and bagged them. "Thank you, and come again."
The clerk held the door open for the women and then walked over to where Mark was standing. "Can I show you anything else, Sir, while you're waiting for Mr. Foster to come back?"
So I was right, thought Mark. The older guy is the owner. "What are these crystals for?" He wasn't really that curious about them, but he had to do something to fill the time while he waited for Foster to return. And the clerk was definitely worth looking at. A little conversation would help keep him in view. To judge from the way his arms and chest shaped his shirt, he spent a few hours each day at the gym working out. The gaydar wasn't ringing at full volume, but it wasn't sending negative "back-off, full-het" alarms either. So maybe. Worth a try anyway. A bit of conversation wouldn't hurt. You never knew when you might get lucky. Perhaps the clerk would offer to teach him how to use the white-noise machine.
"They're used as an aid in focusing the attention, Sir. Here, let me show you." The clerk pulled out a tray of crystals from the cabinet and held up a clear blue diamond-shaped crystal on a chain. It caught the light as it slowly swung back and forth on the chain. "You hang this at around eye level and then focus on it while you meditate. It helps order the mind. You can see that the crystal is very clear. You just stare at it and then relax your thoughts and make the mind as clear and as pure as the crystal as you focus on it."
The clerk's voice was soft and relaxing. Mark could see that the crystal might work. Not that it had magical powers. He didn't believe that, but it was effective at catching your eyes and holding your attention. He watched it swing back and forth. "I don't meditate."
"That's all right, Sir. It can be used to help you relax. It's good practice just to concentrate on it and then relax. It helps to remove tension and prepares you for whatever task you want to focus on. Many people use it to train themselves to have better concentration."
"I see that Jeff is introducing you to our crystals," said Mr. Foster as he came out of the back room. "You'll find that they can be used with the Sandman 2100. The machine will eliminate all noise, and the crystal can be used to focus your attention. Many people find that sensory isolation helps them concentrate. Let me give you the one Jeff is holding up. You can try it—if it works, you might want to come back and try out some of our other aids for training the mind. I'm sorry it took me so long. They've changed the packaging on the 2100 machine, and I had to open a box to make sure that I had the right machine." Mr. Foster held up a bright red box. "I don't see why they changed the box, but it's the same model. As I said, we advise that you start off at a lower level, Sir, and then increase the sound as you get used to it. For covering up noises while you sleep, the best place to position the machine is near your bed and above your head. If you have a shelf over your bed, that would be the perfect place for it." The man began punching numbers into the cash register. "Now, Sir, how do you wish to pay?"
Mark gave him a credit card. "Can we add your name to our mailing list, Sir?" asked the young man Mr. Foster had called Jeff. He was handing the blue crystal to Mr. Foster, and it sparkled in the light. Mark stared at it again. He resolved to give it a try. It might work, and it couldn't hurt to have better concentration. "We have a monthly newsletter," continued Jeff. "It's mostly announcements about meetings of local groups and topics of interest to those of us in the Sandman community." Jeff really had a dazzling smile, Mark decided. He suddenly felt that he wanted Jeff to like him; perhaps the meetings would provide an opportunity to meet him again.
"Sure, it sounds interesting. I'd like to know more," said Mark. Jeff handed him a blank card and a pen. Mark filled in his name and email address and handed it back, receiving another dazzling smile from Jeff. Perhaps it was only his imagination that Jeff winked at him.
"Here you are, Mr. Simmons," said Mr. Foster. "I hope you enjoy your purchase. Please come again. Jeff, please unlock the door and let Mr. Simmons out."
When Jeff opened the door, Mark suddenly became aware that the street outside the shop had grown totally dark and only the streetlights illumined it. He hadn't realized how long he had been in the shop. Suddenly he couldn't wait to get home and try out the Sandman 2100. He felt invigorated. He couldn't think why he had been so reluctant earlier. Sometimes his imagination ran amok. This section of Buchanan was really pleasant. He wished his street were lined with trees too. It made the neighborhood look so much nicer, more welcoming. Plus there were all these shops around. Everything you might need was close by. It didn't appear there was much traffic along the street either. It would be quiet, probably much quieter than his place. And it was clean. He could see the sign for the subway through the branches of the trees. He sauntered toward it, pausing occasionally to check out the window displays. He was in no hurry to get home.
The two large cats lay on the bed, their front paws extending over the edge of the mattress and their eyes fixed on the ball in the man's hand. Their sleek muscled bodies, covered by glossy coats of black hair, quivered with anticipation. Their back haunches were poised to propel them off the bed, and their erect tails swished back and forth. When the man threw the ball across the floor, the cats scampered after it, sliding on the polished wooden surface as they attempted to match its every move. The man laughed and tossed the ball again and again until he tired of the game. He patted the bed, and the cats leaped lightly on to it. They curled around him, purring as he stroked their bodies. As they had been trained, their tongues licked him and their paws stroked his body. As the man became aroused, they doubled their efforts to please him. The bodies become entangled on the bed as the cats endeavored to satisfy the man. Feline and yet not feline, the duo brought the man to a climax under their tongues, their heads buried in his crotch.
Spent, the man relaxed and patted the cats. "Sleep," he ordered. The two cats ceased cleaning themselves and stretched out on the bed, the black furry costumes hiding their human bodies. Their size and the human lips that showed at the edges of the costumes' mouth slits were the only signs betraying their true nature. They slept cat sleeps and dreamed cat dreams of warm spots in the sun and meals of fish and chicken, happily unaware that they were not really cats.
The man was satisfied. His manimals were performing so well. Tonight they had been good kitties. Perhaps tomorrow he might have them be bad doggies. That was always fun. Or he could play the sheikh riding his prize stallions.
Still, there was something lacking. He needed a new challenge. The drug made it so easy to mold the test subjects. There was no waiting, no tiresome training routines. A few seconds after administering the drug, he could control the testees. They so quickly became obedient objects, mindless, ready to do whatever he wanted. It only took a few doses to destroy the subjects' free will and make them totally obedient.
But they were being so stingy about supplying new subjects to experiment on. They knew what he liked, but they kept sending him rejects, people he wouldn't even consider if he had a choice in the matter. It took all his fortitude and discipline to bring himself to work with them. It was almost as if they were intentionally sending him piss-poor excuses for human beings that they knew would repulse him. Really they didn't even deserve the label "human." They were subhuman at best. Human-shaped objects. That's what they were. Human-shaped objects. Most of their minds so drug-addled that the drug he administered actually improved them. It was tedious to deal with them. There was no other word for it. Tedious. He had to force himself to administer the drug and take the subjects through the test protocols. He would do much better if they gave him what he wanted. He had told them that repeatedly. Surely they could see that. And the test protocols were so boring. He could do much more interesting things if they would let him. He had had to find the raw materials for his two manimals himself. His report on their training was detailed and accurate. If he did say so himself, he thought his creation of the manimals showed initiative. The potentials of the drug were so clear. But other than a curt "interesting," his report had been ignored. Two days later the latest batch of disgusting creatures had been delivered to him. This time they had even included a woman. When he protested, they explained that they needed to test the drug on both sexes.
Maybe he should train another manimal. He had enough of the drug for recreational purposes. That was part of his contract with them. He was given enough so that he could pursue his own interests. He would show them what a person without inhibitions could do—that would make the scope of the drug apparent even to the dunces he had to deal with. But first he had to find the right material. And that was never easy. He had to be so careful when harvesting a new toy.
The man lay back on the bed. He needed to think about his problem. He had to come up with a plan. Should he troll the clubs again? Or visit the websites?
Chapter 2
When the door opened, Kenneth Foster looked up from the monthly sales report he was skimming in the room directly behind the customer sales area of Foster's Sandman Shop and glanced at the monitor for the CCTV. A young man took a few steps into the store and then halted. His eyes roamed the store, taking it all in.
Foster's Sandman Shop didn't get much foot traffic, perhaps a couple dozen walk-in customers on most weekdays and fifty or so on Saturdays. It wasn't located in the sort of neighborhood with a readymade customer base for its "special" products. It had to attract customers from a wider geographic area. When the store opened in 1986, it had relied mostly on mail orders. The advent of the Internet had resulted in a tenfold increase in business, and now most of its sales were made online. Foster was reaching a much wider market than he had in the days of quarterly photocopied catalogs sent to the names on his mailing lists or small ads in the back of magazines catering to its target audience. It was even reaching an international audience. Overseas shipments still accounted for only a small percentage of sales, but they were growing. Foster had high hopes for that market.
Fifteen minutes earlier, he and Jeff had been going over the accounts and sales figures in the back when they heard the street door open. Ordinarily he would not have been there on a Friday, but Cindy was taking a week off to go to her sister's wedding, and Jeff had had to be out on several service calls earlier in the afternoon. Foster had groaned inwardly when he saw who it was. Mrs. Reilly came in at least once a week. She liked to browse the crystals and talk about recent fluctuations in her "aura," a subject of immense interest to herself if no one else. Foster suspected Mr. Reilly paid no attention to her, and Cindy's willingness to spend an hour listening to the woman and Mrs. Reilly's occasional purchase of a small item to justify her visits were cheap substitutes for the therapy she so obviously needed. He had sent Jeff out to deal with the woman—delegating unwelcome tasks to employees was one of the privileges of ownership. In any case, Jeff was good at handling her. He always convinced her to buy something.
And now there was a second customer. A much more intriguing customer. A young man. A young man whose posture betrayed some unease at being in the shop. He definitely was having second thoughts about being in a place where New Age music was playing quietly on the speakers and gaudy trinkets were on display. Mrs. Reilly's preferences for large dangly earrings, assorted necklaces, and a dozen bracelets on each arm, not to mention a multicolored shawl worn over a white peasant blouse and a voluminous red skirt covered with embroidery and small mirrors, probably didn't reassure him either.
Foster abandoned the report he was reading and leaned toward the monitor to take a closer look at the young man. The lad projected a sense of diffidence and uncertainty. Those were always good qualities in a potential unit. He wasn't bad looking either. Not model quality, but not ugly—although there was a market for ugly units. Some clients equated ugliness and roughness with butchness in both men and women. But the young man on the screen was more to most people's taste. Promising, definitely promising.
Still, it was rare to find a candidate among the walk-ins. Occasionally an individual with potential would pass by the store, and the window displays would catch her—more often than not it was a woman—eye, and she would come in to satisfy her curiosity. But Foster could count on the fingers of one hand the number of such individuals who had gone on to become units. Certainly it was rare for a young man to walk past the store and come in by himself. Most were dragged into the store by their wife or girlfriend. Their unwillingness and discomfort didn't promote the state of mind that augured well for his purposes.
This particular young man didn't look like he came from the neighborhood, however. He wore a tie and a white shirt under his black nylon windbreaker, for one thing. Like many young men these days, he had a back pack slung over one shoulder. Whoever he was, he wasn't part of the briefcase brigade. More likely a store clerk or low-level white-collar worker. Someone who stood behind a counter or sat at a desk and had to wear a tie, but not a suit, to work. He probably was searching for a specific product and had stumbled across the website and decided to pay a visit.
Did he have time to begin programming a new unit? There had been a dearth of new candidates lately, but all his spare time was devoted to training that bimbo a client had brought in. He should have known better than to agree to take her on. Special orders were always unsatisfactory. First, they were less of a challenge, and the challenge of bringing a unit under control and developing it was a major part of the reward for Foster. Second, as he had explained to the client, he selected candidates for conversion only after a rigorous scrutiny and multiple evaluations to ensure their susceptibility and trainability. Perhaps only one out of a hundred of those he considered as candidates made it past his inspection process. He refused to guarantee a unit that had not undergone this process and the full training program. That was why the regular units cost so much to lease and why the monthly maintenance fees were so high.
Many of his richer clients, however, seemed to feel that they could bring in a trophy wife or a boy toy and have him wave a magic wand to make them compliant and obedient. But, as he always told them, what he could achieve was determined by the raw materials provided; the better the quality of the input, the better the quality of the output. And the current trainee gave airheads a bad name. Foster held out no hope for her. Commissioned objects were always highly unsatisfactory; indeed they were almost always failures.
It was unusual to have two people in the store at once. He had better do something quickly. The young man was showing signs of restlessness waiting for Jeff to finish with Mrs. Reilly. If he had to wait much longer, he might leave. And you never knew till you tried. The young man might qualify. Foster pushed back the curtain that separated the shop from the back rooms. "May I help you, Sir?"
The boy looked startled. He glanced at Kenneth Foster and then at Jeff and then back at Foster. Disappointment flashed across his face. Ah, thought Foster, he was hoping that Jeff would wait on him.
In person, the young man was even more promising-looking than he had been on screen. He fit all of the basic selection criteria—he was in his mid-twenties, in good shape and apparent good health. He was about 5 feet 7, neither so short nor so tall as to fall in the special-tastes category. An intriguing face rather than a handsome one. Curly brown hair, clean-shaven. He gave the impression that clothes and grooming were not high on his list of priorities. Such matters could easily be fixed, however. The basic personality qualities and good looks were enough of a platform on which to build a unit. As long as those were present, he could touch up the unit and polish it to make it more presentable.
Another factor in his favor was that he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. Of course, Foster reminded himself, these days that didn't mean that he wasn't living with someone. But that bit of information could be uncovered later. It was always easier, however, to deal with someone who wasn't in a relationship, but, if necessary, relationships could always be ended, especially informal ones. Divorce required more effort, but it wasn't an insurmountable obstacle.
The way the young man had checked out Jeff made Foster wonder if he was gay. Clearly the lad would have preferred Jeff to wait on him, but he covered his disappointment quickly and responded politely—two more good signs, as far as Foster was concerned. Politeness was another good characteristic in a potential unit, and the demand for gay units was strong. Although Foster supplied units to satisfy all sexual preferences and indeed could program for sexual preference, he found it easier to develop a unit along the lines of his or her natural inclinations rather than seek to change them.
The young man gave an immediate impression of vulnerability. In person, the sense of diffidence and passivity was even stronger—something about the way he presented himself suggested shyness and uncertainty. It was as if he welcomed others taking the lead. Of course, these were all pluses in the process of conversion. They were personality traits common in highly suggestible people. And, they were good selling points as well. Of necessity the clients were wealthy and successful. They were very demanding and aggressive, and they liked getting their way even if they were nominally bottoms. They regarded submissiveness and pliability as attractive qualities in a unit.
Foster was delighted to learn that the young man wanted a white noise machine. It was almost as if fate had led the lad to the store. White noise machines facilitated entrance into a potential unit's mind. In Foster's opinion, they were the best means of accessing a person's mind and overcoming the initial resistance that always existed. The new remote-controlled machines even allowed him to fine-tune the indoctrination and tailor it to the individual's progress and personality. Of course, not everyone wanted one. For other candidates, he might use relaxation tapes, crystals, self-improvement tapes—he had a whole gamut of devices to lower resistance and to make it possible for him to test the individual and to begin developing the more promising ones into units. He varied the initial parts of the process depending on the applicant's purchase. The store stocked both regular and modified versions of each of these objects. Most customers received the regular version. A select few were given a special gift, although they did not realize it at the time.
Mr. Foster made a production out of helping the young man select just the right white noise machine to suit his needs. He always used the excuse of fitting the machine to the particular circumstances of the purchaser to gather information on the customer—if he lived alone or not, the type of place he lived in, what sorts of noise he wanted to cover up. Like most customers, the young man was only too happy to talk about his personal life and reveal more about himself that he realized. When Mr. Foster learned that the man lived alone in a small apartment with noisy neighbors and lots of traffic, he nodded judiciously and pretended to ponder the various models on display before choosing the Sandman 2100 model. Of course, promising candidates always got a modified Sandman 2100, but Foster varied his spiel to suit the individual. For those who lived alone, he emphasized that it obscured most noise; for those with a roommate, it was "This won't disturb your roommate, but you should close your door when you use it. He (or she) won't be able to hear you, and you won't be able to hear him/her."
The regular version of the Sandman 2100 was an excellent white noise machine. The sound was like that produced by an air filter or a hair dryer. The output was very steady and regular and masked other sounds. The Sandman 2100 did everything such a machine was supposed to do and did it very well. In fact, Mrs. Reilly was so impressed that she wanted one when Mr. Foster demonstrated it. Foster pretended that she was buying the last machine on the store shelves. Her purchase provided a good excuse for him to visit the storeroom to pick up one of the modified versions of the Sandman 2100. He kept those at the back of the stockroom to prevent them from accidentally being sold to the wrong sort of customer. That would have been a waste.
Foster intentionally took his time finding the unit. He heard Jeff finish with Mrs. Reilly and then begin talking with the young man. He was confident in Jeff's ability to get the message that he was interested in testing this customer and was getting one of the modified Sandman units. It had taken only a small twitch of his eyebrow to signal his assistant. Jeff was an irreplaceable asset, not only in the store but also in all of Sandman Enterprises' many activities. He was a natural hypnotist and read body language so accurately that he could adjust his conversation to the subject and induce a trance so naturally that the subject didn't realize where he or she was being led. It didn't hurt that he was so attractive. That fact alone seemed to overcome resistance in many subjects. Many people found that they wanted to please Jeff and earn a word of praise from him.
Foster quickly found a modified version of the Sandman 2100 in the back room, but he could hear that Jeff was showing Mark a crystal and demonstrating how it could be used to relax the mind and focus attention. From the flow of his conversation, he knew that Mark was succumbing to Jeff's efforts.
"You hang this at around eye level and then focus on it while you meditate. It helps clear the mind. There's nothing magic about it. It's just a tool. You can see that the crystal is very clear. You just stare at it and then relax your thoughts and make the mind as clear and as pure as the crystal as you focus on it." A quick glance at the CCTV monitor revealed that Jeff was holding the crystal at eye level and swinging it slowly back and forth. His own eyes followed the crystal as he demonstrated how to use it. Inevitably the young man matched his action and began watching the crystal. Jeff lowered his voice, both in pitch and volume, forcing the subject to concentrate on what he was saying.
The young man said something at that point that Foster didn't catch. That was good. It meant that the guy was relaxing, and his voice was quieting down along with his mind.
Jeff replied, "That's all right, Sir. It can be used to help you relax. It's good practice to concentrate on it and then relax. It helps to remove tension and prepares you for whatever task you want to focus on. Many people use it just to train themselves to have better concentration."
Mr. Foster prayed that no one else would walk into the shop. The initial step was always a very exciting part of the process—when the preliminary tests on a candidate were promising, he felt what a hunter must feel when he sees fresh tracks. The challenge of the seduction was such a thrill. Would this person turn out to be prime material? Would he be able to ensnare this person? To train him? To convert him?
The preliminary signs were extremely encouraging. "Many people find that just looking at the crystal helps them relax. They come in all sizes. Some people use large, stationary ones; others prefer to watch the crystal move back and forth. They find that focusing on the motion tires their eyes. Some people even tell me that their eyes become so heavy and tired just watching the crystal that they nod off. But most people just notice that the crystal catches the light. It shimmers so, always changing. It is so hard to take your eyes off of it. It becomes so relaxing. It's just so easy to watch the crystal and let it sparkle as it swings. So relaxing just to watch it. So easy just to focus on it. So easy just to clear your mind and relax."
Jeff's soft voice continued along these lines, repeating the words "relax," "focus," "watch" over and over. The young man made no sound. At that point Foster dared not risk a look in case the sound and motion disturbed the man, but he need not have worried. Jeff must have felt that the trance was proceeding well, because he soon made a further suggestion. "We have a larger crystal set up on a table in back. Come with me, and I will demonstrate it for you."
Jeff led the young man into the back room and had him sit in a chair at a table on which a large clear crystal lay in the center underneath a soft light. The crystal glowed with light. Jeff continued suggesting that the young man focus his attention on the crystal and relax. Soon the man was struggling to keep his eyes open, and when Jeff suggested that he just relax and close them and let himself sleep, he quickly complied. Jeff took him deeper asleep. All the tests showed that he was in a deep trance and highly open to suggestions. Jeff then began to implant the idea that he wanted to use the Sandman machine faithfully every day, that he would find it extremely pleasurable and rewarding, that he felt very relaxed and comfortable listening to Jeff, and that he would not remember anything that happened after Jeff began showing him the crystals. Jeff gave a thumbs-up sign as he repeated the suggestions. Mr. Foster felt a rush of excitement. The initial session was going better than he could possibly have hoped.
Foster returned to the front of the shop. Luckily it was almost the usual closing time. He locked the front door and pulled down the shade. The back of the front window was covered by a plywood panel covered with black fabric to showcase the displays better. It also concealed the inside of the shop. No passer-by would interrupt.
The preliminary trances were best kept short and simple. If the candidate proved worthy of further attention, there would be time enough for more extensive sessions. Jeff soon brought the young man out of the back room and positioned him in front of the crystal display case. Under Jeff's guidance, he soon returned to full consciousness, convinced that only a short time had elapsed.
While Mr. Foster completed the sale, Jeff had the young man fill out a customer questionnaire to get his name and contact information. Mr. Foster glanced at the credit card the young man had given him. His name was Mark Simmons. Good, between the information on the credit card and that on the questionnaire, he had enough information to run a background report on Mark. Mark appeared to be relaxed and happy, although he was visibly disoriented when he realized how dark it was outside. He recovered quickly, however—Jeff had suggested that he take anything that appeared to be out of the ordinary in stride.
***** "Good morning, Director."
"Are you alone? Can you talk now?"
"Yes. I'm free for another hour or so. Then I have to leave for an appointment. Is something the matter? You sound worried."
"Have you seen his latest report?"
"The one on his `manimals'?"
"Yes. What do you think?"
"The drug is performing as expected. The uses to which he put it may be more innovative than we envisioned but . . ."
"But he's turned them into puppets, sex puppets as far as I can tell."
"Director, we knew that he had special interests when we hired him to test the drug. It was made clear that funding would be forthcoming only if we hired him and kept him occupied."
"Yes, yes. We've been over that before. But this is . . . I mean . . . I never thought he would go this far."
"But, Director, we may find it necessary in Stage 4 to use the drug to create just the sort of mindless robots he has created. There are people who can't be saved. No matter how successful the drug is, there will always be those who are criminally insane. We will have to deal with them somehow, and this version of the drug will be perfect for them. We might even use it on those who resist the new order. The ultimate punishment will be to deprive someone of his mind and turn him into a robot. Of course, we won't turn them into manimals. But we can train to do all sorts of low-level jobs. Mopping floors, emptying the trash. Routine, repetitive actions that require no ability to make decisions."
"Yes, yes, I know all that. We've discussed this before. But where did he find these people? He's got to be careful. He can't just take people off the streets and give them the drug. He's endangering the project."
"No. I discussed this with him. He's being very careful in selecting his own testees. The two that he has now—the ones he calls his manimals—were street people. Both were relatively new arrivals. He found them soon after they drifted into the city. They hadn't had time to find a group of people to hang out with who might wonder where they were if they didn't show up. They hadn't even established a territory yet. Just a couple of kids from upstate who thought they would try the drug scene for a while. He's had them for four months now and nobody has reported them missing."
"I still don't like it."
"Director, I will talk with him again and impress on him that it is paramount that he do nothing to endanger the project. But we don't want him complaining. We've got to keep him happy, or we may lose our funding. Another year and it won't matter, but right now we need the money coming in."
"You'll let me know how the talk goes? How he reacts?"
"Of course, Director. I will take care of this. On another matter, I'm glad you called. I was planning to call you this week to check on Jenny. Is she performing to your satisfaction?"
"Oh, yes. She's terrific."
"And you're making sure that she's listening to her training modules?"
"Yes. She's programmed the machine so that it comes on while we're sleeping. It doesn't bother me at all. I don't even notice it."
"Very good, Director. I see that you have an appointment for a review session next month."
"Yes, I've got it on my calendar. We won't forget."
"Excellent. I'm always happy to hear that our clients are satisfied."
"Jenny has been noticed. I've had several people ask me where I found her. Of course, I've been very discreet. I haven't said anything about her special properties. But I do have a couple of names for you—possible clients. I can forward you the information on them."
"Excellent, Director. You deserve a special reward. Have you tried Option 35 yet?"
"No, what's that?"
"I won't spoil it for you. Just tell Jenny that I told you to ask her for Option 35."
"Option 35?"
"Yes, Director."
"Hey, Mark, you're looking good." Jake shouted at him from across the break room. Several people interrupted their lunches long enough to look at Mark. Mark felt himself blushing. It always embarrassed him to be the center of so much attention. He wished that Jake would learn to speak softly. He had a loud voice anyway, but it seemed to Mark that he always spoke even louder when he had a personal comment to make about someone else.
Mark retrieved his lunch from the refrigerator and maneuvered his body into a chair at the crowded table along the back wall. It was where he usually sat, and his neighbors on either side shifted their sandwiches and salads and bottles of water to make room for him.
"Jake's right, Mark. You really do look better these days," said Annie from across the table. "You been working out?"
"No. Don't have the time to go to the gym. I did what you suggested and got a white noise machine. It's incredible. That elephant upstairs and his girlfriend can make all the noise they want, and I don't hear anything. It's amazing how much better I feel since I've been getting a good night's sleep."
Mark did feel a lot better since his visit to Foster's Sandman Shop. From the very first night, the white noise machine had made a difference. He had placed it on a shelf over his bed as Mr. Foster had recommended. The instructions included with the Sandman 2100 repeated the advice that Mr. Foster had given him to begin with the volume set low, and as he grew accustomed to the sound, to increase it gradually until the unit was being used at the highest settings. Mark set the machine at the lowest level the first night. Even at the minimum setting, the sound filled his bedroom. It wasn't an unpleasant sound. As Foster had said, it was like the sound of a hair dryer. It wasn't any louder than a vacuum cleaner running in another room, he decided. He settled down into bed and picked up the mystery novel he had been reading. Soon he was immersed in the book. A half hour later when he turned off the reading light over his bed, he rolled over on his side, stretched out his legs, pushed his pillow into a comfortable shape, and pulled the covers up under his chin. He fell asleep in a few minutes, without giving the white noise machine another thought. He woke up when his alarm went off at 6:30 the next morning. He was in the shower before it occurred to him that he had slept the entire night without being awakened by the noise of his neighbor upstairs or the sounds of sirens racing by in the street outside. After several nights of uninterrupted sleep, he congratulated himself on his purchase. As he texted his mother, "It's the best thing I've bought in long time."
What surprised Mark was how quickly the Sandman 2100 became part of his routine. He switched it on every night and turned it off each morning. Just hearing it made him sleepy. He found that he could no longer read in bed if he had the machine on. As soon as he heard the familiar pulsing sound, waves of sleepiness began surging through his mind. He literally could not stay awake for more than a few seconds. He found that he had to wait to switch the machine on until he was ready to go to sleep. Even then he had to rush to turn off the lights and adjust the covers.
He had set the crystal on his night stand, where it caught the light each time he entered the room. For some reason, every time he looked at it, he thought of Jeff and the crystal swaying back and forth on its chain. The image of the golden chain looped around Jeff's hands was vivid and detailed. Jeff's fingers were strong and well shaped, the nails nicely trimmed, and the fuzz of brown hair protruding from under the cuffs of the long-sleeved blue shirt Jeff wore hinted at the masculine body hidden beneath his clothes. Odd what the mind remembers, he thought. The clerk couldn't have held the crystal for more than a few seconds. It was weird the way imagination and desire built on the basis of a few glimpses. Mark couldn't get those brown hairs out of his mind. They seemed to be hard-wired to his groin. Every time he thought of them, his ball sack tightened and his cock stirred. Sometimes the thought of them was enough to start the pre-cum oozing.