The Blindfold Test

by Barry Schechter

  Parker sat down.

  “It’s like remembering a dream, isn’t it?”

  Parker nodded. “I don’t remember mentioning it to any of my friends.”

  “I haven’t been talking to your friends,” Dobbs muttered as he flipped pages. “Two weeks ago you broke out in a rash. Red sores, white pustules, itched like hell, went away in twenty-four hours. That was a mild contact poison. I’d advise you to buy a new box of detergent every time you do your laundry.”

  The least implausible scenario was that Dobbs was part of this, whatever this was.

  Dobbs was saying, “August 15, 1971. According to the front page of your home-delivered Sun-Times Mickey Rooney’s died. You’ve always been a Rooney fan so you mention it to your friends at work. No one’s seen the story. It’s not in the later editions. When you get home and check the paper, the story’s not there.”

  “I thought—” Parker gave up. “I don’t know what I thought.”

  “You probably didn’t allow yourself to think about it at all. Protective obtuseness.”

  Parker had barricaded himself behind a raised eyebrow and a bemused smirk, implying, he hoped, that he’d fathomed the joke clear to its punch line and found it only mildly amusing.

  “Ever hear of COINTELPRO, Jeff?”

  Like a man who determines to stop thrashing and float on his back till rescue arrives, Parker calmed down. He rested his eyes on the reassuring bulk of Two Hundred Years of American Rhetoric by Clyde C. Thurnball. In the lot a girl in a billowing orange dress flared out of a green Camaro.

  “Ever hear of COINTELPRO, Jeff? The FBI dirty-tricks program?”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “J. Edgar Hoover started the program in 1956. It was supposed to ‘neutralize and disrupt activists and their organizations.’ A lot of it involved the sort of thing the Red Squad did later in the Sixties: break-ins, illegal wiretaps, burglaries, poison-pen letters. But Hoover was always urging his people to be innovative and ‘forward-thinking,’ and sometimes they were almost whimsical. They tried to start a gang war between the Mafia and the American Communist Party. They must’ve spent hundreds of man-hours trying to get a scoutmaster in East Orange, New Jersey drummed out of the corps. But some of this stuff—well, for example, Hoover was worried about ‘the rise of a Negro messiah’; the FBI bugged Martin Luther King’s hotel rooms and wrote him a letter implying that unless he committed suicide they’d leak the tapes to the press. Then there was that actress who was sleeping with a Black Panther; apparently they drove her to suicide. Don’t look at me like that. This all came out in the Seventies: some of it when the FBI office in Media, Pennsylvania, was burglarized, more when William Saxbe became Attorney General and when Carl Stern at NBC sued under the Freedom of Information Act. In 1978 the House Select Committee…”

  “I heard the news stories,” Parker said. “But if you expect me to believe that the FBI singled me out for harassment, I don’t buy it. I handed out leaflets, attended some demonstrations, wrote a few anti-war columns for The Daily Northwestern. Besides, they called that stuff off in the Seventies, right? So what are you saying, Steve? The FBI is talking to me through a Coke machine? J. Edgar Hoover wanted me to think Mickey Rooney was dead?”

  Backhanding away these remarks, Dobbs continued, “In May, 1968, Hoover initiated ‘COINTELPRO—New Left.’ As usual he reminded his mischief-makers to be sure their gags were ‘forward-thinking’ and untraceable. Field offices were ordered to assign ‘an experienced, imaginative special agent’ to the program. And some of the new tactics were pretty imaginative. For example, they used to selectively leak real FBI documents ‘to enhance the paranoia endemic in these circles,’ as Hoover put it, and ‘to get the point across that there is an FBI agent behind every mailbox.’ But, for the most part, the brightest agents were discontented with ideological work, and COINTELPRO was causing morale problems. On the other hand, the agents who worked in political intelligence by choice tended to be unimaginative hacks; unless you think every mollusc contains a pearl you wouldn’t expect much ‘forward-thinking’ from these guys.

  “Well, someone came up with an approach that guaranteed both ‘forward-thinking’ and deniability. He called it the Breather Program. He figured that if COINTELPRO relied entirely on FBI hacks, their dirty tricks would become as identifiable as their blue suits and pointy shoes. So, why not go to the real experts—crackpots, cranks, psychotic practical jokers? The kind of people who—for example, have you noticed that if you call a radio talk show, they won’t let you give your address or phone number on the air? It’s because everyone in public life gets crank calls and hate mail. The weather girl, Bozo, everyone. There are people out there who, if they know you exist, hate you. If they know where to find you, you’ll be lucky to get off with hate mail filled with squiggly obscenities in every shade of the Crayola Rainbow Assortment, and coated, maybe, with dried blood and semen.”

  “All right, all right, I get it.”

  “I seriously doubt that you do. But imagine how unpalatable life could be if one of these people were paid to think about you all the time.”

  Parker imagined the furious subway bag lady sitting at a desk in an empty room, thinking about him. “You mean, just think about me?”

  “And act out whatever he’s thought. Kinda like a National Endowment for the Arts for maniacs. And it was all deniable: The FBI could pay one of these people in cash, turn him loose, and leave the rest to his autistic license. He’s got nothing else to do but hate you. If he’s caught and claims to be working for the FBI, who’ll believe him?

  “Until then, COINTELPRO had targeted high-profile types: movement leaders, outspoken celebrities. But ‘to enhance the paranoia endemic in these circles,’ the Breather Program went after nonentities. Most of the college kids involved in demonstrations had no strong ideological commitment; if the rumor went out that your life could be ruined just for marching a few blocks, you might get started buying three-piece suits.”

  “Wait a minute. I thought this was all supposed to be untraceable.”

  “It would be untraceable to the press: They wouldn’t dare print a story like this without solid evidence. On the other hand, it would be unmistakable to the victims, who were already hallucinating all those FBI agents behind mailboxes. But before the program had time to work the kinks out—or in—all COINTELPRO activities were canceled on April 28th, 1971—a month after the first press leaks and three days after Hale Boggs denounced COINTELPRO on the floor of the Senate. Course, that didn’t do you much good.”

  Parker, who realized by now that the more he expressed his bewilderment, the further Dobbs perpetuated it, remained silent. He didn’t think there was much to learn from people’s eyes, but, for what it was worth, Dobbs’s were the median brown and neither glinting nor void. They darted a good deal, not, it seemed, evading Parker, but rather tracking the hairpin turns of Dobbs’s thought.

  “In November, 1970—five months before COINTELPRO was called off—Hank Monroe, Junior was discovered by the program’s talent scouts. Monroe, Junior was behind a notorious series of crank calls in Bismarck, North Dakota. He’d phone women and tell them he was with the Health Department. Claimed there was an epidemic of ‘folicosis’ in the neighborhood, and to avoid infection—I’ll bet he was real imaginative describing the symptoms—to avoid infection they were supposed to shave their heads and leave the hair in a bag on the doorstep. Believe it or not, about four dozen women shaved their heads. They’d’ve never caught him, except he went around and collected the bags.

  “The Bureau saw to it that all charges were dropped, and Monroe, Junior was recruited for the Breather Program. I don’t know what he did between November and January—just that he went through four victims in a row, and so satisfactorily the Bureau decided to use him in a sort of honors Breather Program. He’d be given an unlimited expense account—the money could be laundered through one of the
trusts or foundations they used for sensitive projects; funny word, ‘sensitive’—and assigned to one person on a long-term basis. What could be scarier to the Bureau’s enemies than the prospect of a customized, personal demon?”

  Dobbs had propped the notebook on the higher of his crossed legs and poised a ballpoint over it. “Any comments for our readers?” His ironic tone might have alluded to his imitation of a serious journalist or—more likely, considering his slant on things—his imitation of a mock journalist.

  Out the window, leaves rose in a spiral over the lot; Parker dropped a grammar book on a twitching pile of essays. “Let’s see that notebook, Steve.”

  It came spinning edge over edge; Parker caught it one-handed, and the assurance of his gesture calmed him. Dobbs’s handwriting had been squashed kicking and screaming into its confines. Even where a distinct group of letters could be made out among scrunched verticals and imploded loops, it was usually an unfamiliar acronym or abbreviation. The entry for 12-14-84 read “V.D.”

  “It’s a covert operations term, ‘venereal disinformation’ He pays women to almost go to bed with you.”

  Rather than sit there looking stupid, Parker continued the oral exam, reading a phrase aloud and eliciting Dobbs’s evasive or laconic response. By this means he learned that as of two nights ago every book in his apartment was missing its last page; that the charges against him in a letter routinely circulated to tenure and hiring committees were so outrageous they were never discussed at the meetings, and Parker was rejected on the handiest pretext; that on the night of August 3, 1971, Hank Monroe, Jr.—at a momentary creative ebb—snuck up behind Parker on Sherman Avenue and brained him with a lead pipe.

  Fingering the scar at the back of his head. Parker said, “I don’t suppose you’d reveal your sources.”

  “Sorry, journalistic ethics.” Shrug, upturned palms.

  “Where can I find this guy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  In the pause that followed, Dobbs recrossed his legs several times and kept scratching a spot beneath his jacket. A car started; a girl’s voice in the hall said “Two weeks from Thursday.”

  Parker said, “So this guy’s like a Japanese soldier in the jungle who doesn’t know the war is over.”

  “That’s one possibility. Personally I think he’s still getting paid by the FBI. At any rate, he hasn’t held an aboveground job for ten years. Maybe he knows enough to blackmail the Bureau. Maybe the Bureau’s curious about what he’ll do next—maybe it even has a sense of humor. I favor the ‘No One’s in Charge’ theory. Obviously covert operations weren’t spelled out in the FBI budget. They’d sort of burrow their way between line-items. In the case of a long-term operation, there might be an automatic disbursement mechanism to shield it from reviews and audits. What I’m saying is, the checks might still be going out to Hank Monroe, Junior, and no one in charge knows it. Mind tossing that notebook?”

  Parker thought of keeping it—for what, evidence?—then tossed it. Resuming his newshound pose, Dobbs said, “You look skeptical. Any comments for our readers?”

  Parker told Dobbs’s readers that he couldn’t explain everything he’d heard today; he couldn’t explain magic tricks either, but he didn’t change his belief system every time Doug Henning made an elephant disappear. He urged readers of The Exhibitionist not to succumb to paranoia merely because it explained a few puzzling facts; we might as well go blind so we can learn Braille. (“I think this is called whistling in a graveyard,” Dobbs said over his notebook. “Don’t let me stop you if it helps.”) Parker inhaled. On the other hand, if there was anything to this conspiracy, Dobbs here had to be pretty chummy with the conspirators to learn of it in such detail. (“Not necessarily,” Dobbs muttered, eyes on his writing. “I might have found out through the Freedom of Information Act.” “And? Did you?” “Well, no.”) Parker reminded his audience that the FBI used to leak its dirty tricks to the victims in order to crank up their paranoia. Wasn’t it plausible that Dobbs was here on just such an errand? But why assume that the FBI was funding whimsical maniacs and surly Coke machines? Why not assume that Dobbs was Hank Monroe, Jr.? It could have been anyone the other night beneath the beard, the sunglasses, and a latex bald-wig. Anyone could have produced that John Wayne some-day-this-will-all-be-beef drawl. Parker speculated that sometime about 1970 Dobbs had flipped out—or, at the very least, acquired a political sophistication capable of embracing contradictory ideas and opposed sides. Perhaps he’d begun to confuse his identity with the cover he used when he spied on the Left or the cover he used when he told himself he was spying on the police. And what would be the effect on such a subtle mind if it ingested large amounts of LSD, Machiavelli, dialectical materialism, moral omnivorism, undercover police procedure, and The National Enquirer? Wasn’t it likely to finesse itself into insanity? Some time about then Parker must have looked at him sideways and become part of his mission. Parker apologized to readers of The Exhibitionist for not taking his own advice about paranoia, but he was sure they were used to reconciling contradictions, so he’d leave that task to them. Finally—and this was strictly off the record—he wasn’t about to let Dobbs leave this office until he produced some ID and a verifiable address where, in case of further trouble, he could be beaten up on the doorstep.

  It was hard to tell whether threats made Dobbs nervous—as it was hard to tell whether they made him skinny or redheaded. When he stopped writing and looked up, he was grinning. He stretched, the open notebook dangling from his hand, and resumed his usual posture (crowded, it seemed to Parker, as if the air were inhabited). “I love it. Write up your version, we’ll run it alongside ours. Just remember, even people with real enemies can be paranoid.” After amiably tolerating an ID check, a comparison of his ID with his phone book listing, and Parker’s calls to a mutual friend and the editorial offices of The Exhibitionist, Dobbs said, “As to beating me up, maybe I’m biased. But I suppose you’ve considered the possibility that I’m the only one who can help you?”

  “It’s crossed my mind, unfortunately.” Parker divided his papers among three manila envelopes and dropped the envelopes, his grade book, and Two Hundred Years of American Rhetoric into his briefcase. He massaged the back of his neck. “Boy, conspiratorial thinking is hard work. It feels like someone’s yanking my brain by the vertebrae.”

  Dobbs nodded sympathetically. “Your nervous system’s bucking the new order. Hang in there.”

  “Okay. Explain this. If so much effort has gone into ruining my life, why is it my life isn’t that bad? Whole neighborhoods in Chicago are more miserable, and they’re better off than two-thirds of the world. Monroe, Junior must be in the lowest percentile of demons. I could easily have ended up like this”—he gestured vaguely—“through the unassisted course of events and my own lack of character.”

  “That’s the beauty of it. A good practical joke always looks like ‘the unassisted course of events.’ Anyway, he’s in it for the long run: If you die or go nuts, the Punch-and-Judy show’s over. What I think he had planned for you was a gradual, stately downward arc. Course, he hadn’t counted on your defenses. All that work, and his only audience is an obtuse Job. Watch out, I think he’s bored.”

  “I have a class,” said Parker, fastening his briefcase. A scattershot of leaves gusted against the window. “What now? I go teach the uses of the semicolon and forget the whole thing, right?”

  Dobbs stood up. “Hang in there. We’ve got sworn affidavits, a memo initialed by the assistant director. We’re gonna nail these fuckers. In the meantime, buy a handgun. You’ll feel better even if you never use it. For walking around, there’s a legal weapon called the Taser—looks like a flashlight, shoots little hooks on wires. Fifty thousand volts, non-lethal.”

  They stepped into the hallway, where classes were letting out. Parker said, “People are always telling me to avoid self-pity and take responsibility for my own life. I guess that
’s out, huh?”

  “Pious American bullshit,” said Dobbs, leaning against the wall to let people by. “Your troubles are someone else’s fault. I’d say self-pity’s perfectly justified in your case. We’ve got to start mapping a strategy. Why don’t you come over for dinner on Sunday? You can meet my wife, verify my address again. What’s that look? You’re wondering about the Dobbses, do they spend a quiet evening tearing up the furniture looking for bugs? See for yourself. Bring Fran.”

  “I’ll have to check my appointments. Wait a minute, you’ve been working on this story for a long time, right? You said that when you ran into Henriquez a few weeks ago he told you I was working here. You must have already known that. Every detail of everything you say disintegrates on inspection, right? You said this guy calls himself Hank Monroe, Junior….”

  Coming out of the office next door, Professor John Connor Murray did a stylized double-take. “Young Parker, you’re wearing spats! What became of Form and Responsibility?”

  “Let me know about dinner,” said Dobbs, backing into the crowd. “In the meantime, keep checking IDs. Use your peripheral vision. And wake up as much as you can, okay?”

  THREE

  The world without blinders looked just the same. Parker started down the hallway, blinking at the cream-colored walls, the numbered doors, and the usual faces as if an earthquake had just bounced its rubble back into perfect order. He walked into his classroom, rested an elbow casually on the podium, and wondered how his students would react if in the next few seconds he proved to be completely insane. No doubt they’d stare at him dutifully for the full fifty minutes. But like a patient in shock who automatically recites his name and social security number for the admitting clerk, he taught two classes in a row on dependent and independent clauses. When it was all over, his beeline for the door was blocked by a paper held in his face. His first impulse was to charge through it like a bull through a cape. But the weirdness of things didn’t obligate him to go crazy; it was no less appropriate to help Joe Sapperstein with his transitions and ask him where he learned so much about bass fishing.