Raised in Captivity

by Chuck Klosterman

  “There was no dispute. We just looked at each other, and then the individual started to back away, slowly, into an alley, and I followed her. I walked in her general direction, which she viewed as an attempted following. The alley she backed into was a dead end, and she must have felt cornered. She pulled out her phone and called the cops, who must have been just around the corner. They arrived immediately. Like, in seconds.”

  And you said nothing? There was no verbal exchange between you and the alleged victim?

  “No exchange.”

  Remember, you need to be honest with me. I’m on your side, no matter what you tell me. So did you really not say anything? There was no exchange whatsoever?

  “There was no exchange. No conversation. No argument.”

  In that case, let me rescind what I said earlier: This might only take fifteen minutes. Any credible judge will throw this out immediately. You can’t just look at a random person and accuse them of trying to bite you. You don’t have any priors, right? No previous record?

  “This is the first time I’ve been arrested for anything. But it might be a little more complicated than you realize. The alleged victim was definitely spooked. She told the pigs I appeared dangerous, due to the way I’d exited the 7-Eleven. She said I looked agitated, and I was, a little.”

  Why were you agitated?

  “The water bottles.”

  Pardon?

  “In the refrigerated section of the 7-Eleven. All the bottles of water, along with all the soda and all the beer. I was disturbed by the water.”

  You need to elaborate on this. Maybe we should go back to the beginning, whatever that constitutes. We have all morning. My slate is empty. I’m all yours. Tell me everything. Why were you agitated by the water bottles?

  “Okay. Okay. Okay. Let me try to simplify this: Have you ever gotten a flu shot?”

  Of course.

  “And what happens when you get a flu shot?”

  I don’t get the flu.

  “Sure, but that’s not how it is for everybody. I used to get a flu shot every October, but now I never do. Because whenever I get a flu shot, I essentially get the flu, or at least flu-like symptoms, for the next two or three days. As I’m sure you know, a flu vaccination is a small dose of what the flu is, and I end up experiencing a micro version of the illness I’m trying to avoid. My body is hyperresponsive to everything. That’s why I quit drinking alcohol. I quit coffee, too. That’s why I don’t use cough syrup or stay in the sun or consume gluten.”

  Fair enough. No gluten, no sun, no flu shots. You’re a sensitive person. That’s no crime.

  “But I’m also a licensed veterinarian. I passed my state board examinations last April.”

  Good for you. That’s a real accomplishment. All those little skeletons to memorize—dogs, horses, beavers. Human doctors only have to memorize one. But you still need to help me out here. I’m not seeing how your veterinary career connects to the arrest.

  “Like I said, I never get a flu vaccination. The flu inoculation gives me a slight case of the flu, so I risk it. I just drink orange juice and wash my hands. But as a veterinarian, certain inoculations aren’t optional. Certain inoculations are required by the state. And it so happens that on the morning of my arrest, I’d received all my necessary shots. Which might explain why things played out as they did.”

  Are you saying that—

  “I was a little rabid that day. Not much, but a little. I had a slight touch of rabies.”

  You had rabies.

  “Not in totality. Not completely. I had rabies-like symptoms. I had the twenty-four-hour rabies, from the inoculation. My limbs were a little tingly. My pupils were dilated, so everything looked fuzzy. No appetite at all—just looking at the hot dogs in the 7-Eleven made me want to puke. A little hydrophobia, which is why the water bottles freaked me out. And I was fatigued and a little aggressive.”

  You were aggressive.

  “I mean, sure. Yes. That’s what she would say. I’m sure that’s what the woman told the pigs.”

  What else did she tell them?

  “I’m not exactly sure what she told them, because I was in the back of the pig car when they were interviewing her. But I’m guessing she said I came barreling out of the 7-Eleven, a little too fast but also noticeably limping.”

  You were limping.

  “Yes. I was experiencing some temporary paralysis in my right leg. Anyway, I see this woman, and she sees me. And as I noted, my pupils were like manhole covers. I probably looked like I was on that drug rich teenagers take for dancing.”

  Were you foaming at the mouth?

  “There may have been some foaming. But mild. Very mild foaming. Less than a normal tooth brushing. But we were in public, so maybe the mere presence of foam pushed some buttons. I can’t speak for what was in her head. I had a terrible headache. We locked eyes, and we both stood there, face-to-face, maybe ten feet apart, for five or ten seconds. And like I said, there was no interaction. But I could tell she was nervous, and she started retreating, back into that alley. And I technically followed her. But I wasn’t up in her grill. I kept some distance. I wasn’t within pouncing range.”

  Why did you follow her?

  “I can’t answer that question without conceding a degree of culpability. That’s on me. I was compelled to follow her. My natural inclination is not to follow unknown women into alleys, but I felt like pursuit was my privilege. I felt like nothing could stop me from following her, and her fear bolstered my confidence.”

  I’m going to ask you this directly, because it needs to be asked: Did you want to bite her? Did the notion of biting her enter your mind?

  “I don’t see that question as relevant. Under any normal circumstance, I have no desire to bite other humans. But this situation was atypical. I was maybe five percent rabid, which is the social equivalent of ninety-five percent indignant. Have you ever had sex with someone you hate? It was a little like that. I did not want to bite this woman. I did not. Would I have done so, had the police never arrived? Perhaps. But that still isn’t a reflection of what I wanted to do.”

  Let’s stay away from that line of reasoning. That’s not a point in our favor. It would be one thing if you couldn’t remember the incident at all. That we could work with. But I’m not sure a jury would be receptive to an argument built on the prospect that you knew what you were doing, but you weren’t doing what you wanted to do. The average juror tends to frown on debates over semiotics and intentionality. We need to focus on the rabies. We need to hit the rabies hard. And it still won’t be a slam dunk. If we were in England, no problem. Legal history is different over there. You can kick a guy in the ribs if you have epilepsy. You can whack somebody in the head with a beer bottle if you’re sleepwalking. The Brits love automatism and hate peanut butter. That’s the essence of their culture. But here, it’s the opposite. You will need to shoulder some of the blame.

  “I don’t want to overemphasize the rabies. It’s not like I was Cujo. I didn’t need to be put down. I only had a touch of rabies. Just a touch. If we viewed frothing the same way we view sniffling, nobody would bat an eyelash. But I know how these things go. I know how the media works and how gossip travels. If we push the rabies angle, I end up being marginalized as the vet who got rabies on purpose. It will destroy my business. It will be all over Yelp. Nobody is going to take their dog to a vet if they think the vet might bite the dog.”

  I understand your position. I sympathize. Nobody wants to be famous for having rabies. But our strategies are limited. You voluntarily asked for the vaccination, so we can’t claim you were injected against your will. You’re also a licensed veterinarian, so we can’t claim you didn’t recognize the symptoms you were experiencing. There are traditionally three elements to any assault charge: intent, reasonable apprehension, and harm. You said yourself that you can’t explain your intent, so t
hat’s off the table. Biting someone is obviously harmful, so that’s a dead issue. The only element that remains pliable is the question over reasonable apprehension. If you actually want to fight this in court, reasonable apprehension is all we have.

  “What does that mean, legally?”

  Reasonable apprehension has to do with how the alleged victim perceives the event. Was it reasonable for this woman to think you were going to bite her? Was she justified in her belief that a person she’d never met was about to gnaw a chunk out of her shoulder? That’s our only possible point of contention. So what made her assume she was in jeopardy?

  “I think it was my eyes.”

  What about your eyes?

  “Have you ever looked into the eyes of an animal that knows it’s about to die? Most people have, once or twice: the old family cat, a deer on the highway that’s been struck by a Subaru, whatever. Of course, as a vet, this is something you encounter all the time. You’re constantly looking into the eyes of a creature that cannot speak, yet still communicates an undeniable awareness that it’s about to cross over into something unknown and unwanted. It’s a horrifying experience the animal cannot grasp, and you can see the intensity of that fear intertwined with the depth of their confusion. They know they’re not merely sick or hurt. They know something profound is happening, something worse than anything they’ve previously encountered, something that transcends their inability to understand the passage of time or the biological limitations of corporeal existence. They are petrified by an abstract understanding of something they cannot specifically comprehend. Once you see this a few dozen times, it becomes something of a diagnostic shorthand. The pet owner wants you to help the animal, but that animal knows it cannot be helped. Its optical desperation cannot deny the truth. My livelihood is defined by the pupils of mammals who cannot speak. So when I stumbled out of that 7-Eleven and locked eyes with that unfamiliar woman, dialogue was not required. Her thoughts were unconcealed. She believed she was looking at a raw animal, and the transparency of her panic made me stronger. She looked into my eyes, and then she looked into my mouth. She stared at my teeth. Something primitive wilted inside her. Her fear was undercut by bewilderment, and she started to back away, and an illogical force churning within the fluid of my spine told me to follow, because that illogical force was now in control. As long as she could see my teeth and feel my eyes, she knew I was in control. My sickness was my power.”

  Okay, wonderful. We’re going to plead no contest here. It should take about fifteen minutes.

  Just Asking Questions

  He wasn’t trying to be a jackass. He was trying to make conversation.

  “That was a terrible summer,” said the average man. He was the most average man possible. “I thought I had turned a corner, socially and professionally. I was so excited about the future. I was twenty-seven. I was finally making a little money. I’d purchased a house. But then everything collapsed at once. I lose my job, for a mistake that was not my fault. I drive home in the middle of the afternoon, unemployed, depressed, and humiliated. And what do I find when I get home? My wife is sleeping with my best friend. In my own house. She was having sex with my best friend, in my own bed, in the house I’d just bought and suddenly couldn’t afford.”

  “Are you sure he was your best friend?” asked the jackass.

  “In retrospect, obviously not,” said the average man. “I obviously know that now.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” said the jackass. “Was he really your best friend at the time? On the day before you realized he was making love to your wife, would you have classified this person as your best friend? Or was he just a normal friend?”

  The room grew colder.

  “I don’t understand the question,” said the average man. “You want to know the nature of our friendship? He was my best friend until he fucked my wife, which significantly changed how I viewed our relationship. We did not spend a lot of time together subsequent to the fucking. We did not remain on the same bowling team. What are you getting at?”

  “I’m not getting at anything,” said the jackass. “I just think it’s interesting how these types of stories always seem to involve a person’s best friend. It’s always, ‘My best friend stole my wife,’ or ‘My best friend got me involved in a bad business deal,’ or ‘My best friend died on prom night.’ I never hear anyone say, ‘My third-best friend stole my wife,’ or ‘A longtime acquaintance stole my wife.’ It’s always the very best friend who’s implicated. That seems odd to me. It strikes me as implausible.”

  “You think I’m lying about this,” replied the average man. There was an edge to his voice.

  “Oh, absolutely not,” said the jackass. “I’m sure this happened. It may have happened exactly as you describe. But I do wonder if there’s some psychological reason people inevitably want to connect the worst moment of their life with someone they’re compelled to classify as their greatest friend. It’s not like I would have any less sympathy for you if you’d merely claimed it was a close friend. It doesn’t need to be your best friend in order for your sadness to matter.”

  “I’m not asking for your sympathy,” said the average man. “I’m telling you about an incident that happened to me ten years ago, an incident that ruined my life. This is as hardcore as I get, about anything. Yet the only detail that concerns you is the potential inaccuracy of how I categorize the person who had sex with my spouse? Go to hell.”

  “Just hear me out,” replied the jackass. “This is not a criticism. I’m simply noting that memory is a tricky thing. Like, let’s say you were describing a dream you had last night. You would describe that dream and search for symbolism. You’d look for details that had symbolic value. That’s the only reason we care about our dreams. Well, as time passes, our real lives become more and more dreamlike. Distant memories have much more in common with dreams than they have with documents or photographs or facts. The past morphs and refracts and contradicts itself, and we can’t recall precisely what happened, even though the thing that happened specifically happened to us. We end up looking for symbolism within scenarios we only half remember, and it’s obviously more symbolic to be betrayed by your best friend, as opposed to just a random friend.”

  “Are you suggesting I only half remember watching my naked wife straddle my best friend?”

  “Not quite,” said the jackass. “What I’m saying is that this person might have become your best friend because he slept with your wife, at least within your memory. A best friend is someone significant. This thing that happened to you—this horrific infidelity, committed on a day that was already traumatic—deserves to be classified as a transformative personal event. It changed you. Had this never happened, it’s possible you’d still be with your wife, and this friend—what was his name again?”

  “Ian.”

  “This friend, this Ian . . . you might barely remember him at all. He might fall into that very large category of friends who seemed important at the time, but were really just temporary placeholders within the ever-revolving door of your circle of influence. And I realize that’s a mixed metaphor, but I think you know what I’m getting at. If he hadn’t wrecked your marriage, it’s possible he’d just be a guy you used to bowl with. Was he the best man at your wedding?”

  “He was not,” said the average man. “Thank God.”

  “There you go,” said the jackass. “Now, that would been symbolic. That would have been some tragic irony, full stop. But he was not the best man at your wedding. He was just a man. Your wife cheated on you, but only with a man.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel good? That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Yes,” said the jackass. “You were not betrayed by your best friend. You were merely betrayed by a person. And, of course, your wife.”

  Though they would stay in contact for years, the average man would never grow to like the jackass
, or his insights, or the way he made conversation. Technically, they did become friends. They were always friends. But that’s not the way he would be remembered.

  To Live in the Hearts of Those We Leave Behind Is Not to Die, Except That It Actually Is

  He looked the way a man can only look when he’s reached the point of no possible rally. Asymmetrically emaciated. Brittle. Invisibly shattered. It seemed as though his bones were vibrating in place. The room smelled like antibiotics and vomit cleanser and cold McDonald’s french fries. The lights were bright and the air was synthetic. All of it was terrible. But he could still talk, and he wanted to talk, and she wanted to listen.

  His life had been remarkable. All lives are extraordinary in their own way, but his was extraordinary in the way strangers could easily understand. For almost five decades, he’d humbly occupied the dead center of American exceptionalism. Every major newspaper had his obit updated and polished, ready for circulation the moment he surrendered. His daughter had received numerous voicemails from all the major outlets, some for purposes of fact-checking and some for purposes less noble. She hadn’t responded to any request. This time belonged to her, and to her alone. There was no one else to share it with. She sat by his bed, all day and much of the night, holding his quivering hand and listening to words only she would get to hear. Maybe she would write about this in her next novel. Maybe she would keep these thoughts to herself. The only thing she knew for certain was that this period of excruciating pain was a period she wanted to remember.

  “Nona,” he said on the third day of his torture. “I want to tell you something.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  He coughed for almost a minute, eventually spitting a spheroid of caramel-colored mucus into a clear plastic cup.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  “Never apologize,” said Nona. “Just tell me what you want to tell me.”