Fallow Park Today

by Joseph Glenn

  Meredith made the mistake of making eye contact with Austin. He smiled briefly, then pointedly frowned. Throughout his conversations with Dr. Waldren, he had been cool towards her. They had exchanged few words since. She flashed a Hollywood smile back at him now, but shrugged her shoulders when he refused to respond.

  She dated his negativity towards her to their conversation earlier that day, before their arrival.

  “Big waste of time,” the director had said on the walk over. They were making a single file march on the path Alex had been instructed to create earlier that morning. Austin was ahead and had to turn or throw his words over his shoulder to Meredith.

  “Maybe,” Meredith shouted against the wind at him, hoping that her voice had an agreeable tone to it. “But, it’s on the schedule, so let’s get it over with.”

  “The doctor is one of the residents. He’s going to be as biased as his clients.”

  “Well, it could be interesting. After all, this guy is permitted to maintain some kind of a practice; he’s actually able to work in his original profession, his real-life career. It seems like most of the jobs the Fallowites are expected to do are so menial, like working on the grounds or in one of the kitchens, never taking advantage of the individual’s skills or background or education.”

  “Maybe,” Austin shouted, but without enthusiasm.

  “Now remember, we are guests in this man’s house. I should have made this point with you before you barged into Tyler’s place on Monday. That was embarrassing to me, and it was incredibly pushy on our part. Fortunately, I was able to smooth things over. You must be more respectful. Please don’t interrupt the doctor every time he says something negative about the park. You’ll just have to cut that stuff later—in the editing room. Leave him free to say whatever he wants. It’s too distracting to be constantly silenced and redirected. I, for one, lose my train of thought.”

  “It gets you back on the scripted material we’re supposed to cover,” the director reminded her.

  “It’s disorienting,” she said with a firm finality. “And I’m afraid he’ll become too guarded. You might make him shut down—which we certainly don’t want. If he does that, then we’ve really wasted our time. This guy’s a pro; he’s probably accustomed to people giving him their full attention. It would be insulting to him to deal with constant intrusions.”

  Austin had stopped at this point, turned to face her, and taken her by the shoulders. This prompted all the others in the single-file line to come to an abrupt halt.

  “Your friend Miss Germaine didn’t seem to think we were intruding,” he pointed out. “She didn’t make any complaints about my redirecting her conversation; neither did you, as I recall. I think you’re being overly sensitive on behalf of the folks who live here. Most of them seem to love the attention, no matter how they’re characterized. We were probably the highlight of Sybil Germaine’s week.”

  Meredith was prepared for this; the filmed meeting with Sybil had gone well. “That’s different,” Meredith told the director. “She’s used to that kind of attention; she thrives on it. Besides that, she’s used to having directors yell at her.”

  “When did I ever yell at her?” he demanded in a raised voice.

  Meredith ignored the fact that he was yelling now and tried a different approach: “This Dr. Waldren fellow and his patients are another story. They need to be handled in a gentler manner.”

  “I know how to handle people.”

  “Just consider what I’m saying. Let the guy give his spiel. You can humiliate him later, when you piece together the footage you want to keep. Why set him off or put him on the defensive by hinting this is something less than true journalism?”

  “Don’t ever tell a director, especially not this one, what to do.” He said this with such finality Meredith made no response. Austin had turned and continued trudging on to Building K. She knew he would ignore anything she said, claim he could not hear her, and blame it on the wind. At least, she satisfied herself, she had planted a seed. It was worth ruffling Austin’s feathers if it increased the likelihood that he would give the psychologist some room to share his thoughts. The therapist’s candor and her own intent to ignore the script held promise: with any luck this, too, would turn out to be a difficult scene to edit. No matter what miracles they performed in assembling the film, it was sure to be a much weaker segment than they planned.

  As Austin now made final checks and consulted with one of the assistant directors, Meredith surmised he remained doubtful about the merits of this interview. As they continued to make eye contact, Meredith flashed him another of her “let’s make the best of it” smiles. After triple-checking the sound and viewing the image from both cameras twice, he returned Meredith’s smile with a thumbs-up, letting her know they were ready to begin. She, in turn, straightened up in her chair and faced the camera.

  “Action!” Austin commanded.

  “This is Bradley Waldren,” Meredith began, “a psychologist and resident of Fallow Park for fifteen years. Before coming to the park, Dr. Waldren worked as a clinical psychologist for how many—

  “Twelve years,” he said before she had the chance to finish phrasing the question.

  “Twelve years,” she repeated. “You were approximately forty when you came here, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right, forty-one.”

  “Doctor Waldren is a resident here. He works as a volunteer at the park because the park lacks the budget to hire counselors. The park is lucky it got you after you earned your degree and had the opportunity to get many years of experience. I suppose you are one of the last?”

  “Oh, to be sure,” he said. “The younger generations here at the park, of course, weren’t living on the outside long enough to get advanced degrees or to work significant periods of time in their professions. When the last of the park’s psychologists die out, that will be the end of it.”

  “He’s been here from the very beginning,” Meredith told the audience. She then addressed her guest, “You came to the park back in…”

  “Just a couple months after it opened. It’s been nearly fifteen years.”

  “Because he lives at the park, he’s expected to work in some capacity—”

  “Everyone under age sixty-seven has to work,” Dr. Waldren said. “That is, with the exception of the grossly disabled. And even they are encouraged to do as much as they can.”

  Meredith continued with her softballs, detecting an increase of ease and self confidence from the psychologist. She noted that Austin, too, was more relaxed; he had transitioned from a squatting position to sitting Indian style. “Doctor Waldren, I know you are in high demand. We’ve been told that you have to turn prospective clients away. How do you find your patients or, I guess what I really mean to ask is how do they find you?”

  “Some are walk-ins in the infirmary. But most of the people I see now have heard about me and have sought me out.”

  “So, primarily a clientele built by word-of-mouth? How many clients do you have?”

  “I see roughly sixty individually—some weekly, some monthly—and I have six groups like today’s. Approximately one hundred people. That’s about as much as I can fit into my schedule.”

  “We were fortunate enough to be invited to a group session earlier this afternoon,” Meredith said as she addressed her camera. “Today’s group was comprised of a number of residents who identify as bisexual, rather than gay. Is that representative of all your clients?”

  “No, not at all. I work with people dealing with a variety of issues. And some are not defined by a theme or similarity; they’re just people interested in treatment—some individual, but many in a group setting.”

  “The life—the pressures—that the people of Fallow Park face are unique, obviously. What kinds of problems or issues are you finding in this population?”

  “Well, of course, the same kinds of difficulties I treated on the outside: depression, substance abuse issues—although I have a caveat to
add to that, posttraumatic stress disorder, other anxieties. Substance abuse is not quite the way your viewers might perceive it. As the residents of the park have no access to alcohol or other controlled substance, the continued use of the drugs or alcohol is not the issue, but the disorder itself.”

  “Looking back on what you’ve encountered in your fifteen years here, do you notice anything particular about your clients that you didn’t encounter, uh, as you say, on the outside?”

  “I mentioned depression,” Dr. Waldren offered. “Here in Fallow Park I encounter a great deal of situational depression.”

  Meredith turned directly to the camera and, ignoring the words on the teleprompter in front of it, said: “That’s a point worth repeating. Are you saying that the parks cause depression?”

  “Certainly,” he said, quite matter of factly. “That’s not too surprising. Any kind of confinement would be expected to cause some degree of depression in an individual. It is quite acute in many of my patients, as is anxiety. It’s contradictory to human nature to live in such close quarters and under this degree of surveillance. This is particularly true for this population, coming as they do from a culture that values human rights and freedom to the extent that it does. The matter is further complicated by the fact that my patients, that all of us, are so keenly aware that these values and freedoms remain integral to our society, that they remain very much a right for much of the population, but not for us.”

  Taking on the role of devil’s advocate, and pausing a half-beat before continuing, she said, “This is probably a discomforting thought to our viewers. Naturally, most of us have operated with the understanding that the life of bliss at Fallow Park, a veritable Shangri-La beautifully situated in the middle of a winter wonderland, leads to a great sense of fulfillment. You’re not finding that to be the case?”

  “No, not at all. And in addition to psychological disorders, I also see a great deal of anger. You have to understand the women and men of Fallow Park.” He leaned back as he said this. He took a sip of his coffee. His pause seemed to be a clue that he was about to digress. Meredith was pleased that her subject was turning out to be quite the little actor. She found it easy to get him to denounce the park, but what a great surprise to find that he could do it in such a camera-friendly way. Was it too much to hope that some of his eloquent words, too articulate, too pointed to dismiss, might survive the final cut of this fiasco? He continued at present, “Many of these people have been here since the early days of the parks. I work with quite a few people who gave up everything they had. Even for the dozens of my patients who had little to relinquish—in terms of material goods—we’re still talking about their lives, the world they knew. These are women and men who gave up a big part of their identities—their achievements—to begin anew. And however great or minor their achievements were, they gave away so much of their essence when they came here. This is America, for God’s sake. This is the country where no one thinks it’s rude or forward to open a conversation with, ‘What do you do for a living’. Many of my clients are lost without the identities their professions gave them. The frustration is even greater among the better-educated. I’ve had many clients who now regret the time spent earning degrees they’re unable to use. I’m luckier than most as I was able to use my training and experience before the plug was pulled. Consequently, I am able to make use of that experience here. I’ve got clients who were attorneys, engineers, a graphic artist, who are now called upon to dice produce, mop floors, or hose down the outdoor furniture.”

  Dr. Waldren changed his tome, as though preparing to attack a new topic. “And then there are the possessions,” he said. Lifetimes of collected belongings, the items that so many view as a part of their characters. These are their tangible accomplishments. The valuables were claimed by the Federal Government and sold—almost all for less than true value. And much of the rest of their belongings—the prized treasures and keepsakes of nominal value—are gone too. Everything that was valuable or in excess of what could fit in their cubicle homes was lost. And, of course, all their money: lifesavings, pensions, nest eggs, government benefits—all confiscated to offset their expenses here. Bottom line, they gave up everything they had. This population I work with feels understandably cheated. Cheated, I say, because they made the sacrifices expected of them with an expectation that they’d have a certain quality of life in exchange. They’ve been swindled, and there’s nothing they can do about it.”

  “Promises made, promises broken,” Meredith flatly reflected.

  “Precisely,” he said. “We say that a lot around here.”

  This, she was learning, was something of a catch-phrase at the park. These were the words of her companions at breakfast the other day. These were also the words of Jack Harbour. Indeed, it seemed to encapsulate a large thread of his movement. It was impossible to get away from the phrase outside the United States. It frequently cropped up on European television or the internet. She now understood that it had apparently entered the lexicon among the residents of Fallow Park as well. If this was a bit unexpected to Meredith, it was because she was of the opinion this sentiment was rarely showcased in the U.S. media. As even the private messages from friends ‘outside’ were censored, she was uncertain how the term cracked through the park’s electrified fences and coils of barbed wire.

  “I always advocated coming out,” Dr. Waldren said, apparently changing topics. “I think it’s an important step towards becoming a fully-realized, self-loving gay person. However, when the process became mandatory, and when the anticipated increased tolerance and understanding flickered briefly and then was extinguished, the quality of life for gay men and lesbians became appreciably worse. This we all know.” He turned directly to Meredith: “You and I, we’re old enough; we lived through those times.”

  “But weren’t we talking about the disillusionment the people here have experienced?”

  “We still are,” he answered. “My point is this, many of my clients grapple with posttraumatic stress disorder in varying degrees because of the experiences they had before the parks. Many were physically beaten, most were verbally attacked. All have scars from the harassment and oppression, the mental and physical beatings our society decided it would tolerate in the wake of the genetic ‘breakthrough,’ the moment of revelation, the scientific acknowledgement debated and anticipated from pulpits to the floor of the U.S. Senate that was supposed to put gays on an even level with heterosexuals. As we know, in the wake of this major scientific advancement, wholesale discrimination became the norm. True, there were some with religious bents who agreed this was now proof of God’s plan. God, a limited number of voices sang out, intended for a portion of his children to be this way. But another element, once hiding behind religious fervor, were ready to drop their religious arguments in favor of scientific ones. These were the ones who simply opposed gays because they differed from their ideas of normal. They hailed the scientific discovery as nothing short of a revelation. Here, at last, was justification for their hatred; here was indisputable science that seemed to justify—and certainly make possible—a total rejection of an entire class. The genetic knowledge was more than just proof that homosexuality is a nature, not a nurture, occurrence, it was seen as proof of genetic deformity. In the aftermath of the increased discrimination, and with the loss of anonymity once available to gay men and women, it was no longer safe, or even feasible, to be left to fend for oneself. For many of them, the parks were truly sanctuaries. This,” he stated with a wave, indicating, Meredith believed, the whole park, not the confines of his quarters, “this was the ‘happy ending’ to their suffering. For this population to be short-changed, to find out they have been sold out and that they’re getting less than they bargained for is, of course, quite a betrayal. I hope your special is going to include those old advertisements, and all the medical reports from that period when the parks were built, as well as the year or so after they opened.”

  “I don’t know,” Meredit
h said with authentic uncertainty. “I don’t think they’re planning on—”

  “That’s a pity,” Dr. Waldren said. “I think some viewers would be shocked by the kinds of promises that were made to us, and the reasonable beliefs we had about what life here would be.”

  She stole a glance at this point in Austin’s direction. Per their conversation, he had held his tongue throughout Dr. Waldren’s politically-charged diatribe. She was relieved, even a little surprised, by his restraint. But how far would he let this scene play out? This was, in his terms, just wasted time and film. When she did not see him where she expected to find him, she quickly scanned the entire room. On her second pass, she noticed the pesky intern pointing toward the floor. She followed the trajectory from his extended extremity: there was Austin against a wall, his knees pulled to his chest and his face in his hands.

  Meredith redirected her attention to the interview, unsure at first what to do with the apparently free hand she could play in Austin’s abdication. “Are you talking about creature comforts? Do you mean the alcohol and tobacco?”

  “Booze and cigarettes?” Dr. Waldren asked, or seemed to ask, but the inquiry was more like a demand; his voice was noticeably louder; he was almost shouting. The anger behind the question told her he was not expecting her to reply. And she did not. “Fuck booze and cigarettes! You’re talking to a psychologist, a healthcare provider. I’m no advocate for those things. I’m not talking about vices or ‘creature comforts’ as you say. We’ve done well enough without all of that for quite some time. I’m talking about the systematic, relentless paring away of our basic rights, our legitimate entitlements. Years ago, we lost our right to vote. When that happened, we were stripped of what remnants of political participation we had. I’m talking about the immorality of treating gay people as though they are criminals. It’s tantamount to the treatment of Japanese-Americans in this country during World War Two. We’ve committed no crimes. No one has been convicted of anything to earn a place here. Nor can there be any reasonable showing that we pose some security risk to the nation. Yet, with every passing year, the living conditions more closely resemble those in federal and state penitentiaries. Is it any wonder we are increasingly perceived as criminals? The director of this very park is a former prison warden.”