I had expected a cavernous research laboratory, but the room feels like a dentist’s office if dentists wore argyle sweaters.
Maybe dentistry is just on my mind. My daughter Janie needs braces, and damn are they expensive.
I swivel in my chair before Doctor Wilkes connects the receptors of the intention-analysis device to my forehead. I flash him my vacant gap-toothed grin, reminding myself that it doesn’t matter if strangers think I’m a moron.
“Thanks again for your participation, Cliff,” his assistant, Peter, says. Grad student, I bet. “I promise this is the last time I’ll ask this today. In your own words, could you —”
“You’ll pay me $5,000 if I swallow that poison,” I say.
“No, that’s not right,” Doctor Wilkes says. “We want to be very clear—“
“I’m pulling your leg.” It’s a fine line proving I’m dumb enough to trust but smart enough to qualify for the study. I endured hours of thinly veiled IQ tests to prove my rationality. I can’t disqualify myself now.
“That vial over there contains a powerful synthetic,” I say. Don’t say toxin, I think. Don’t let them know you know. “It will simulate a violent death. No physical harm will come to me, but the experience is horrific. If this machine proves I intend to drink the vial, you’ll give me five grand. At that point, I don’t have to drink it. The cash is mine either way. There’s no circumstance in which I ever have to drink it. But if I don’t believe I will, I won’t get the money.”
“Perfect. In fifteen seconds, you’ll feel a pulse. State if you intend to drink the vial. Please focus on your answer.”
It’s neon green. A bit over the top, like a prop from a B-Movie. Don’t they want me to think it’s real?
“Do you intend to drink the vial following this examination?”
“Yes.”
I wait. The machine beeps after a few minutes. I can’t unpack their practiced blank expressions.
“Congrats, you registered your intent and earned yourself the additional compensation,” Peter says. “Same deal, but now there’s no money on the line. Do you intend—”
“I do.” The machine confirms it.
They share a look of confusion. “You understand you don’t—”
I gulp it before they can intervene.
My life doesn’t flash before my eyes; the pain is too shattering to form mental images. When I come to, I can’t believe my body is intact.
“Holy crap,” I say when speech returns to my lips. “Those must be powerful waivers I signed.”
I’m afraid to discover what the device will reveal about my resolve today. It was easy to intend to drink the toxin before I experienced its effects.
“Do you intend —“
“Yes.”
When I hear the good news beep, I want to cry. For multiple reasons, but mostly because Janie will get her braces.
“Mr. Wallace, I must repeat that you do not have to—“
I chug it down, then brace myself.
My ears ring throughout my interview with Peter. The discussion is disarmingly informal. Maybe it’s a tactic, but these questions seem rooted in personal curiosity more than academic diligence.
I tell him about my plan for the money, the braces. Maybe it’s because the topic makes me self-conscious, but I ramble off an anecdote about a bartender who trained me on her strategy for maximizing tips.
If you want to spot the rich ones, look at their mouths. You can’t tell by how they dress or how they talk, but their teeth are flawless. I realized I had been naïve; people saw me differently. I ignored her advice. The crooked teeth club tipped better anyway.
“You’re clearly an intelligent person,” Peter says. “Why do you keep drinking the vial when you’ve earned the cash?”
“Have you ever been poor?”
He stumbles for an answer, but I don’t wait for him to garble something about a middle-class upbringing.
“Then you wouldn’t understand.”
It’s the final payday. I can’t concentrate on Doctor Wilkes’ words —or anything—lately, but I remember when to say I do. I’ll never forget the joyous, horrid sound of the machine’s beep.
I’m cleaning the beverage gun when Peter scoots up to the stool across from me. I spot the argyle sweater first, and then the face. It’s been 11 months since the study concluded.
It’s not official business, but there’s no way his arrival is a coincidence.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admits after 20 seconds of small talk. I was the only person who swallowed the toxin all three times. I’ve long cashed the checks, so I don’t mind opening up.
“Kavka’s toxin, right?” I say. He looks surprised. “It’s a famous thought experiment. Figured I’d never heard of it?”
“Uh, yeah. But that’s not a reflection of my opinions of you. It’s pretty obscure.”
“I read the waivers carefully,” I say. “It mentioned the possibility of one to three sessions. Tell me, when someone turned down the vial after the first session, did they get a second?”
“No,” he admits.
“Of course not. You’d have no reason to repeat it. I needed to give you a reason. I know you thought you were testing something else, but I took it as a job offer. Fifteen thousand dollars to swallow down some non-lethal poison is a deal I’ll take any day. My family thanks you for your generosity.”
His cheeks are red, but I can’t tell if that’s guilt or the extra strong drink I poured him.
Janie gets her braces off today. The benefits exceed the cosmetic, I’m told. But damn if I don’t miss her sweet gap-toothed smile.
About the author:
Bob McHugh is a Boston-based writer and father of two; he is immensely grateful to be both of those things. His work has appeared in Nature, Escape Pod, and many other fine publications.
Find Bob:
Website
RECENT STORIES
