He fell back into the light. A squat guy was standing over him, shoulders drawn back so his arms bowed wide. A sweatshirt with ripped-off sleeves was pulled tight across his broad chest. A necklace – copper wires threaded through earth-tone beads – was embedded in the V of chest hair visible beneath the shoelace stitching the ripped collar. He matched the description of the thug who'd assisted Leah with her move, bead necklace and all.
"Didn't see you," Tim said.
"Not allowed back here," the guy answered.
The thrill of finding Leah took the edge off the throbbing in Tim's cheek. A sharp pain pinched his hip where something hard and metal had struck him. A concealed weapon?
Tim pulled himself to his feet; no hand was offered. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was limited access. I'm Tom Altman."
The man stood motionless and unblinking. "You wanna be back over with the others."
The glow from the sound board had vanished, taking Leah with it.
"I didn't get your name." Tim smiled self-consciously. "I don't know anyone here."
"Skate Daniels. We're, uh, preparing back here."
A smooth voice reverberated through the speakers. "Let's all get seats now."
With a nod Tim retreated from the unbudging figure, finding a chair. Others trickled in, filling the horseshoe as "Orinoco Flow" continued to soothe. Sweat trickled down Tim's forehead; a raised hand to the overhead vents confirmed they were running full blast. He slid off his heavy winter coat and stuffed it under the chair. He'd made one arm of his long-sleeved undershirt detachable, Velcroed in place so it would give with a firm tug. The thick patch at the elbow doubled as a bit for the makeshift gag.
When the song ended, the low rumble of a drum replaced it, heartbeat steady. Tim felt tired already from the heat, and malleable, which was precisely the aim. Those around him seemed unnaturally relaxed, no doubt due to whatever concoction enhanced the punch.
Blond, fair-skinned, and slightly equine about the mouth, the couple who took the dais seemed peeled from a 1940s German propaganda poster. They gazed at each other with shared excitement, singers on the verge of a duet chorus.
"Hello, I'm Stanley John -"
"And I'm Janie."
Stanley John winked at the crowd, adjusting his head mike. "The Program was evolved by our teacher, Terrance Donald Betters, through years of research and study. You're going to get the opportunity to hear from TD soon. But first we've got to lay down some basic practices for what will be the most transforming experience of your life. Number One: Don't destabilize our techniques. The Program is precise. Success for all is reliant on no one's interrupting the process. It's not fair to everyone else if you cut in and derail their forward movement. Make sense?"
Janie was nodding for him. "Number Two: No leaving before the colloquium is finished. No matter what. The instruction and group work go all day and night. At five A.M. when you graduate, you'll be different people. But before then you must not leave. Not if your mother has a heart attack and they're reading her the last rites. Anyone who can't handle this level of commitment should go now. This is your chance." A dramatic pause during which no one moved. "Good -but this is an active commitment. So everyone who's strong enough to see this experience through, stand up."
About 90 percent of the attendees, including Tim, rose. Slowly, the others joined them, pulled by discomfort or obligation, until only three remained sitting.
One of them, a weary thirty-something, raised her hand. "I'm an only parent, and my kids are with a sitter. What if there's an emergency and I have to leave?"
"If you're an excuse maker, then you'll never learn to take control of your life. Just leave now. No reason to stay and interfere with everyone else's growth."
"But what if…?"
"Whoa, horsey." Stanley John chuckled kindly, Janie matching his Teutonic smile. Some scattered, nervous laughter from the crowd. "Ma'am, we explained the rules. We're not gonna take up everyone else's time holding your hand."
"Yeah, let's get on with it!" a plant shouted from the audience.
"If you want to be a victim of an emergency that hasn't happened yet, if you want to walk out on growth, the door's that way." Stanley John smiled benevolently at the woman, who wilted back in her chair, then pulled herself to her feet. He smiled even bigger, clapping, and the crowd slowly joined in. "Good for you."
During the applause one of the other dissenters stood, too, his face flushed. The last, an anxious-looking man in a bargain suit, scurried from the ballroom, shaking his head and muttering to himself.
Janie and Stanley John ran through the other rules in similar fashion. No questions during activities. No smoking or drinking. Eat only the food that's been provided.
"Why can't we take bathroom breaks without approval?" a frazzled woman wanted to know.
"Because TD found out it's too disruptive otherwise."
Tim began to rethink his plan for extracting Leah. Clearly he wouldn't have much mobility. He couldn't very well page her to a house phone or catch her on her way to the bathroom.
The recitation of the rules continued. Change seats now if you're sitting with anyone you know. Music will play between activities -get back to your chairs by the time it stops. You've got to participate fully.
The stifling heat, bursts of applause, and constant sitting and standing – enough to rival midnight mass – were working their magic, making the crowd at once obedient and lethargic. People with hesitations were mocked for being uncommitted, more people from the audience joining in each time.
Tim caught sight of Shanna at the far end of the horseshoe. Grinning dumbly, lips stained red with punch, she slouched in her chair, her head angled on a lenient neck. About five more people chose to leave before the lengthy introduction concluded, departing through a hail of hisses, boos, and – worse – sympathetic ohhs. The woman next to Tim, who wore a shell of egg-blond hair and no rings on her chubby fingers, appeared to be in a daze, humming to herself and nodding vehemently, her damp smock giving off an odor like curdled milk.
"All right!" Stanley John roared when the last rule had been summarily accepted. "Look around you. Everyone in this room has made the right choice. You've all chosen change and growth. From here forward, we're all in this together."
The room broke out in applause. Skate Daniels and the other likely knock-down man, a guy with a bald pate and a pronounced underbite, slid in front of the waitstaff doors and the Actspace partition gap -the only two exits. They stood like prison guards, arms crossed, expressionless. The herd was now corralled and Tim's extraction route blocked.
Jogging athletically around the horseshoe, Stanley John counted off the participants. More blue-shirts materialized to take control of the smaller groups. Tim looked for Leah to emerge, but evidently her technical skills were needed backstage.
"All right," Stanley John said breathily. "You twenty, come meet in Actspace."
Slipping on his jacket, Tim shuffled through the partition gap with the others. His neighbor introduced herself as Joanne, pumping his hand moistly. The gruff guy in the jean jacket was in their group, along with an appealing girl in a sorority sweatshirt who reminded Tim of Leah's college roommate. A gangly, thin-necked kid with comb marks gelled into his hair brought up the rear, his hands bunching the front of his Old Navy Swim Team shirt.
They formed a huddle of sorts, Stanley John in the middle, holding a plastic bin. "Let's put our watches in here. Cell phones, too."
Will's $30,000 Cartier disappeared in the heap.
They sat in a circle like kindergartners at storytime, filling out name tags that they were asked to wear at all times. Next a stack of forms magically appeared in Stanley John's hands. "These will help us keep track of your progress. Part of your job will be to look out for one another and provide feedback to me whenever you sense someone is getting Off Program."
Ben smoothed his name tag onto his denim jacket. "Big Brother's watching."
His joke was punished with dis
approving silence.
"I'll do mine first." Tongue poking a point in his cheek, Stanley John bent over his form. He spoke the words slowly as he wrote. "My Program is: I experience empowerment as I follow guidance leading me to strength. My Old Programming is: I'm afraid to get angry." He looked up with a smile. "We want to stay On Program and reject our Old Programming. Get it? Now you guys go."
After everyone finished jotting, they went around the circle and read from their forms, the answers closely parroting Stanley John's examples. Blushing, Joanne read in a feeble voice, "My Program is: I experience fulfillment as I participate in my growth. My Old Programming is: I have a tough time standing up for myself."
Ray, the lanky kid, confessed that his Old Programming was that he was a bit of a control freak. Ben's was that he had a temper. Tom Altman confessed heavily that he often tried to solve his problems with money. The sorority girl, Shelly, admitted with obvious pride to using physicality to get a sense of self-worth.
"A consistent theme is an inability to express yourselves. Especially to express anger. We're going to do the Atavistic Yell to loosen up." Stanley John stood, the others following, and pointed at Joanne. "Go on. Yell at the top of your lungs."
She glanced around hesitantly. "What? I…Can't someone else go first?"
"Isn't your Program that you experience fulfillment as you participate in your growth? Are you participating in your growth by refusing to do the activity? Is she, folks?"
Several others chimed in. "She's Off Program."
"I think she's afraid to stand up for herself like she said!"
Her flushed cheeks quivered. She opened her mouth and emitted a tentative yelp.
"You call that a yell?" Stanley John was standing over her now, screaming. "Get out of your Old Programming. Let's hear you yell. Let's hear you stand up for yourself."
She was shaking, eyes welling. The noise level rocketed around them as people in the other groups shouted and screamed.
"Look at you. A grown woman, you can't even open your mouth and make a noise. How weak. You're useless."
The ploy – boot camp gone self-help – might have been offensive were it not so transparent.
Joanne tried to scream, but it came out a hoarse gasp.
"We're all sitting around waiting for Joanne to scream so we can progress with our growth. Everyone waits for Joanne; is that how it is in your world? Everyone waits -"
Joanne leaned forward and screamed with all her might, arms shoved stiffly behind her. She sucked in air and bellowed again, screaming until she nearly hyperventilated. Stanley John was clapping, and the others joined in. Following his example, they administered the quaking woman full body hugs. Her top, now drenched with panic sweat, felt clammy beneath Tim's arms.
Her shoulders sagged with relief. "I've never done anything like this before. This is amazing. I feel all tingly."
"This is lame," Ben said.
Shelly turned a smiling plea in his direction. "Don't be so negative."
Stanley John chimed in with his beloved standby: "You're interfering with Joanne's experience. And everyone else's."
Ben looked away uncomfortably, no doubt weighing the costs of initiating his Old Programming. "I'm just saying this ain't my cup of tea. Especially not for five hundred bucks."
Janie, who'd been prowling the group perimeters, stepped in. "Group Seven is one man short. Anyone here who can go?"
"Seven's a great group, Ben," Stanley John said. "Why don't you join them?"
Before Ben could answer, Janie whisked him off, threading herself around his arm like an adoring date. Tim watched them make their way back to Skate's province near the door, where Janie introduced Ben to a cluster of other seemingly displeased customers – a dissenters quarantine. Skate nodded into the radio pressed to his ear, as if it picked up motion.
Becoming a behavior problem clearly wouldn't buy Tim a backstage pass and get him near Leah; for the time being, acquiescence was the only option.
Now that Joanne had broken the ice, Shelly carried out the exercise with a minimum of resistance, and Ray followed suit. When his turn came, Tim allowed Tom Altman to be briefly berated for holding back. Stanley John poked a flat hand into his chest where it met the shoulder. "You don't have your money to hide behind now, Tom. You have to yell just like everyone else."
The others chimed in with impressive vigor, Joanne the most aggressive in her exhortation. "Reject your Old Programming. You're being weak."
When Tom was finally able to let loose a satisfying yell, the praise was effusive. After being smashed in a sweaty group hug, Tim realized that the temperature had suddenly plummeted. The oscillation made him light-headed, and he felt his first flash of alarm – two hours' sleep and an empty stomach might not have been the wisest preparation for what was proving to be a marathon.
The lights suddenly dimmed, Enya pouring through the speakers. At once everyone sprang into action, people scrambling back to Hearspace and finding their seats. With the synthetic arpeggios and blasts of refrigeration, the space had taken on a certain unreality.
Tim noticed Group Seven being ushered out during the distraction – so much for the "no leaving" rule. He detoured by the waitstaff entrance and picked up Janie's calling the bald door guard "Randall."
The Pros stalked the center of the horseshoe, physically steering stragglers to their seats and yelling for silence. The people in the group adjacent to Tim's were talking and laughing. Stanley John pulled the leader aside. "If you keep choosing incompetence, you might need a visit to Victim Row."
The Pro blanched, then turned and chastised her charges with renewed energy.
The lights went out completely. Pants and gasps filled the perfect darkness. Despite his weariness, Tim debated making a run for Prospace, but he knew that his chair would be glaringly empty when the lights came up. Even if he could locate Leah, he was no longer sure what to do with her.
Three trumpet blasts scaled octaves to form the opening bars of Thus Spake Zarathustra, signaling the next leg of the space odyssey. Diffuse yellow light bathed the dais. A slender man stood in the center, head bowed. A voice boomed through the speakers. "In The Program there are no victims." He raised his head, the floating black egg of the mike visible just off his left cheek. A tiny rectangle of hair glistened high on his chin – his face was youthful and smooth, his age indeterminable. "There are no excuses. You create your own reality, and you live inside it. You can follow The Program and maximize…or you can stay mired in your Old Programming and be victimized. Those are the choices – the only choices."
The chandeliers eased up a notch, the room taking on the dimmest edge of dusk. Tim peered at the digital watch face he'd hidden in his pocket – 8:03. Reggie's advice to mind the time had been crucial; with all the environmental manipulation in the ballroom, Tim needed to root himself in an external reality.
The participants gazed at the Teacher with adoration, all focus and veneration. Looking around, Tim couldn't help but feel as though he'd stepped into a dream. The Teacher began pacing the stage, and the white ovals of the faces pivoted back and forth, radar dishes keying to the same frequency.
"My name is Terrance Donald Betters."
The voices of the sixty or so Pros rose together. "Hi, TD."
"I've spent years and years and literally hundreds of thousands of dollars developing The Program. I do not exaggerate when I tell you it's going to change the world. It's a revolution. And guess what? You're ahead of the curve. You're joining in already, gaining access to The Program's Source Code. You're here to change your lives. And that change begins now." He stopped, breathing hard, looking out at the horseshoe's embrace. "Take sole responsibility for your life. You alone cause all outcomes."
Program Precept One was greeted by murmurs of wonderment.
"Your experience is your reality. You control everything. If you feel hurt, it's because you decided to feel hurt. If you feel violated, it's because of how you chose to interpret an event. The wor
ld is up to you. Make of it what you will. No experience is bad in its own right. I dare any person in this room to name an experience that is objectively bad. Well?" He scanned the masses before him, Moses considering the Red Sea. "Come on, now. I won't bite."
"Rape," a courageous effeminate male voice called from the back.
TD leaned back, laughing, his knees bending. "Rape? That's a good response." Again he began his hypnotic pacing, the steady, powerful movement of a caged tiger. "But take away societal issues around sexuality. Rape involves coercion – like lots of things in life. Getting pulled over and being given a ticket for an expired registration, for example. Paying our taxes. Submitting to having our shoes examined by idiots at airport security checkpoints. And yet we don't believe that those coercions are inherently evil. If you believe that rape involves some sort of objective, universal evil, you've been brainwashed. Society taught you rape was essentially evil. Society made you feel guilty if you entertained a rape fantasy. Society made rape fundamentally traumatic. And we bought it. Now, I'm not an uncaring guy. Nor a rapist. I'm not saying we don't experience negative emotions. After all, who among us hasn't felt sad? Who among us hasn't felt depressed? Beat up? Kicked around? Put down? Violated? We all have, haven't we?"
Shouts and exclamations. The lights dimmed until just TD remained illuminated. The heat was blowing again, mixing with the breath and perspiration of three hundred close-quarter adults to create a soupy humidity. Tim wiped the sweat fog from his fake glasses.
TD spread his arms. "You. Don't. Have. To. Feel. That. Anymore."
Somewhere in the darkness, a woman actually sobbed.
"A human being is the most sophisticated thinking machine ever devised. You work like a computer, but you know what? You're a lot better than a computer. You're the only computer able to run itself. Able to unplug itself and move itself around. The question is: Are you going to run yourself, or are you going to let others run you? The Program's not about how you feel. It's about how you think. Your Old Programming unconsciously controls how you think. Your Old Programming is everything your family and society downloaded into you that you've never considered critically. Your Old Programming is the part of your past that's holding you back. We're gonna take that, trash it, and teach you something that sets you free. You don't have to empty the trash. You can always recover lines of Old Programming code and use them again – they're always there. But we're gonna overwrite your Old Programming with The Program. And that, folks, is gonna set you free."
The Program tr-2 Page 16
