Last Resort

Chapter One Hello diary. Sorry to have neglected you so long. I used to spend many evenings pouring out my thoughts on paper, back when I was married to Raul. (That s**t!) His philandering drove me to confess my worst fears and most evil wishes to the one listener who would neither tattle nor judge. You were my friend in need, forgotten on better days. I didn’t talk to you about Howard, not even while he lay dying. Money is a real comfort in times of grief, and dear Howard did leave me quite a pile. Of course, there were plenty of lovers to console me. Money attracts them the way s**t draws flies. Through all those years of cheerful prodigality and debauchery, and the inevitable ennui that followed, I never had a word to say to you. Now I find myself in this empty cell with nothing to distract me from my dread. The view from the window is tedious, nothing but a mowed field all the way to the razor wire. There are no bars on the window, but it doesn’t open, and the Plexiglas is at least an inch thick. You can bounce a chair off of it. I’ve tried. The walls are concrete block, painted a drab shade of institutional green that makes me itch to hire a decorator. Some former tenant has scratched an editorial on the wall. “Welcome to Hell.” There is no closet to hide in. It doesn’t matter. I haven’t a thing to wear- literally. There is only a desk, (It’s built in, I can’t use it to barricade the door.) a chair, (No knob to wedge it under, just the key way of that f*****g, double lock.) a stainless steel toilet, (No seat) a mattress on an iron cot, (No pillow or sheets) and bare, little me. There is a porthole in the door. Anyone who walks by can look in and see what I am up to. Overhead, a video camera assures my lack of privacy. From time to time, the intercom beside it crackles with static, the preamble to one way communications I don’t want to hear. The notebook and pen were waiting when they brought us in from the exercise yard this morning. I suppose writing is part of the therapy. I will have to assume that anything I say can and will be used against me. Everything else seems to be. (Will that last sentence earn me swats? Probably, they don’t need an excuse anyway.) The pen is a potential weapon, but I can’t see myself battling my way to the main gate with it. I would have one chance to poke someone. I don’t want to think about what they would do to me if I tried. I did fend them off with the chair one night, like a lion tamer. But these lions always come in pairs. They have training and guile, and they are the ones with the whips. They found my rebellion amusing. I was quickly overcome, cuffed and collared, and led away on a leash. Digging in my heels meant choking and inviting the lash. They had a tearful apology from me by morning. The chair is still here though; perhaps they left it here to tempt me. It began, as so many bad things do, with a dare. Muffy and I were having Bloody Marys at the club one morning, something we had been doing more and more often lately. Boredom breeds vice, they say. So far, we hadn’t crossed that fuzzy, gray line into problem drinking. Muffy’s vices were food and thrills, mine were men and nicotine. Not that Muffy was fat. Back in the fifties, when the physical ideal was Marilyn Monroe or Betty Page, she would have been considered “a dish”. By way of contrast, there was me, Regina Snow, ex model. Since retiring, I had adopted a less anorexic regimen. An extra fifteen pounds had taken me from gaunt to merely slender, but at five ten, I looked willowy beside poor Muffy. Muffy’s real name was Margeret Greedley. (Of the Boston Greedleys) When she wasn’t stuffing herself with éclairs, she was finding creative ways to risk her life. She had tried sky diving, hot air ballooning, and white water rafting. I was never sure if she was suicidal, merely lonely, or just plain bored. At least all that activity kept her from turning into a real pudge. I was not so different, I suppose. Men were always a high-risk endeavor, more so now than ever. I had never really been able to get past Raul. I loved the gentle force he took me with, his habit of pinning my hands to the bed with his own while he drove deep enough to hurt. Howard had been too awestruck by his own good fortune. He never had any delusions that I loved him for himself, but he was utterly devoted to me anyway. I met his s****l demands cheerfully and completely, but felt nothing in return. He was gentle and considerate in bed. I wanted a Cossack. Muffy seemed to have her own problems with the male species. I had never known her to pursue a relationship beyond the second date. She had plenty of friends, but I had known her since college, and I couldn’t say that she had ever been in love. “You really ought to quit, you know.” I looked at my cigarette as though I had just become aware of holding it. “Of course I know. I have quit, several times. I tried everything from support groups to the patch. Nothing works.” Confronting me with my own shortcomings is the surest way to get my back up. I watched the half-eaten sweet roll she was gesturing with and thought to myself that she was hardly a model of self-control herself. “I’ll quit,” I sniffed, “if you lose twenty pounds.” She didn’t snap back with the answer I deserved. Instead, she looked thoughtful and nodded. “I have been considering something along that line. Have you heard of a place called The Last Resort?” “I suppose that I am about to.” I rested my chin in my hand and stared around the room, preparing myself for a long discourse on her latest enthusiasm. The room was filled with women just like us- spoiled, bored, and over groomed, discreetly eyeing the waiters while we pretended to attend to our tablemates’ vapid conversations. “I found some interesting Spam waiting in my E-mail last night, advertising their website. It’s a spa of some kind, but with a twist. They specialize in changing bad habits. They were rather vague about their methods, but they guarantee results. They promise a whole new attitude within three months. We could sign up together. If you give up the cigarettes, I’ll lose some weight.” “This isn’t another one of those support group things, is it? I’ve had my fill of all that self absorption and hugging. It’s done to death. We all walk out filled with positive affirmations and firm resolutions that last about a week. I couldn’t stomach anymore of that psychobabble crap.” Muffy shook her head, suddenly serious. Life was always a soap opera for her, full of crises and high drama, but now she seemed even more intent than usual. “This is different, I think, more like boot camp and less like summer camp. They take complete control and enforce strict discipline. You shape up or else.” I should have asked about the “or else”, of course. We both should have. We had been overprotected children in an over permissive culture all our lives. No threat was dire enough for us to take seriously. That’s what we paid lawyers for. We both assumed that we could just leave if the situation proved unpleasant, probably with a full refund. In my case, however, there was something else at work. Perhaps her phrase “strict discipline” triggered it. Maybe it was because my parents never made me toe the mark. I was a beautiful child who grew into a beautiful woman, and all along the way I had lived easily and well. Everyone thinks that pretty girls have everything, but other girls always resented me, and boys could never treat me like a real person. I never related to anyone in a genuine way. I could get away with anything, but I needed to know that someone cared enough to smack me when I was out of line. Whatever the cause, I have always nurtured secret fantasies. Strange things turn me on. I get hot watching military recruits standing at attention, or political prisoners marching under guard. Even as a child, I was bored by happy ever afters. It was the dark side of the fairy tale that fascinated me—the cruel stepmother, the captured princess, Hansel and Gretal in the cage. I suppose Raul represented my own version of Prince Charming. I was looking for a man who would love me enough to put his hand on the nape of my neck and steer me in the right direction. I wanted to be kept like a dog, spanked when I deserved it, and treated like a s*x slave in the bedroom. Raul got the bedroom part all right, but the rest of the time he was as much of a child as I was. I was more realistic by the time I met Howard, but the fantasy never died. I told Muffy to send me the address, just to shut her up. It was lurking in my E-mail the following morning. The web site was vague and not particularly well designed. The company name was Behavior Modification Research Enterprises. There was a form to fill out, and an application processing fee that would have been daunting to a woman of more modest means. It was still less than I had spent to attend the film festival in Cannes, certainly less than I had blown during my side trip to Monte Carlo. I gave them a credit card number, E-mailed the completed form and thought no more about it. Then my life started getting very strange. I would be sitting by the pool, pretending to sun myself, but really enjoying the way the pool man’s jeans tightened across his ass as he stooped to work, when I would feel a prickling sensation in the back of my neck. I would turn and see a van parked by the gate with its engine idling. The van would glide away just as I was about to ask the pool man how long it had been there. I would see it cruise slowly past my bedroom window late at night. I would be window shopping downtown, and see the van reflected in the glass. An old friend called, and discreetly asked me if I might be going through another divorce. I laughed and told her that there hadn’t even been anyone serious in my life since Howard died. She said that she didn’t want to alarm me, but someone had been asking her a lot of questions. She joked about an IRS audit when I pressed for details and ended the conversation with a guarded warning. I noticed an odd hollow sound in the phone and stayed on the line after she had disconnected. A few moments later, I heard a faint electronic beep. I was beginning to feel like the protagonist in a Kafka novel. The call woke me late one night. “Are you Ms. Regina Snow?” asked a male voice. “Yes?” Drowsily, I fumbled for the cigarettes on my nightstand. My first thought was of an Aunt on my Mother’s side. She had been ill. Late calls seldom bring good news. “Write this down. The address is 6616 Preview Drive. It’s a boulevard west off of Division. Park in the back. If you meant what you said about giving up your smoking habit, I will expect you in half an hour.” “Wait a minute.” I turned on the lamp and went through my nightstand drawer, looking for a paper and pen. “Do you know what time it is?” “It’s time for you to change your attitude.” He said tersely. “Do you have the address?” “Sorry,” His tone of voice made me oddly contrite. How long had it been since anyone had spoken to me that way? “Could you repeat it?” He did, snapping out his words in a way that told me I was already off to a bad start. It was an unmarked steel building in an industrial park. I drove past it twice to check the address. It had rained earlier. The wet pavement stank of diesel fumes. If I had thought about it at all, I would have expected something more upscale—a suite of offices downtown, with carefully tended plants in the foyer, a cheerful receptionist, soothing muzak, and a high-pressure salesman with color brochures. There was only one other car in the lot, probably belonging to the person I was about to meet. I parked beside it. A dim bulb burned over the gray, steel door, luring moths. I stood before it, looking around uneasily, still wondering if I had come to the wrong place. The voice startled me. “Come in.” I jumped a little, saw the intercom speaker above the security camera, and giggled at my nervousness. The door buzzed briefly when I opened it. Beyond the door was a dim hallway, illuminated only by the light spilling from an open doorway at the far end. I walked toward the light. “Come in, Regina,” said a deep, male voice. He was sitting behind a folding table with his fingers steepled under his chin. My first thought was that he resembled my high school vice-principal. He had the same humorless eyes. His mouth was a ruthless line, like a tightly stitched wound. The shade on the desk lamp was tilted, casting him in shadow and glaring on me. “I don’t believe that we have been introduced,” I said stiffly. No one but my close friends had addressed me by my first name in years. Even my surname had remained inviolate through two marriages. The familiarity was unwelcome. He laughed. “No. We haven’t,” He extended a pale hand into the light and touched a thick file folder on the table meaningfully. “I already feel that I know you, however.” I looked down at the folder, seeing my name written on the tag. A chill crept down my spine. What the folder contained, I could only imagine- school records, my resume, divorce transcripts, credit reports, my medical history, perhaps. “You have been investigating me,” I said. “Thoroughly,’ he nodded. His hands came together under his chin again. I looked around for a place to sit, thinking that I couldn’t deal with this standing. This felt too much like a trip to the vice-principal’s office for disciplinary action. Perhaps that was his intention. There were no other chairs in the room, in fact, the room was practically bare, as though it had been furnished only for this interview, with no thought given to my comfort. I folded my arms in front of me, partly because I was angry, and partly because I realized that he was blatantly staring at my breasts. I had dressed in haste, not really considering my choices. Now I had reason to wish that my sweater wasn’t so tight, or my skirt so short. I had given up bras long ago, and my n*****s suddenly seemed a little too prominent for comfort. “Why?” “Hands at your sides!” he barked suddenly. Startled, I obeyed without thinking. He chuckled. “You see how well I know you,” he said. “If we are to alter your behavior, we must understand your motives, your needs, and …,” he paused for emphasis, “your fears.” Fear was exactly what I felt at that moment, yet it was an odd sort of fear. I didn’t think that I was in any physical danger, at least not immediately; though I was alone with a creepy stranger and no one else knew where I was. I wasn’t afraid of blackmail either. When a supermodel marries a Spanish playboy, and divorces him again six months later, the tabloids uncover every newsbyte and make up a few more. Very little of Howard’s respectability had rubbed off on me. It wasn’t my reputation I was worried about. It was the dossier itself that frightened me. I suspected absurdly that these investigators knew my most private thoughts, that they had lifted my public mask and gazed at the frightened child beneath, that I had revealed myself through unconscious actions, and they had deduced even my masturbatory fantasies. Yet with the fear came a sort of perverse exhilaration, as though sharing the secret would liberate me somehow. “Do you want to quit smoking, Regina?” he asked softly. “That’s what I said.” He studied me intently. “Is that really what you want?” There was a smugness in his voice that raised my hackles. His slow grin revealed teeth that gleamed through the silhouette of his face. “Yes!” He was suddenly businesslike, opening the file and removing a packet of legal papers. “Very well, sign these.” I scanned the papers. Most of them were waivers of liability, contractual obligations, standard legal stuff. “Here is how it works,” he said. “You will pay us one million dollars, in advance. You will be allowed to quit on your own. Use any methods that work for you, support groups, gum, the patch. Your progress will be monitored. If you fail, you will be taken to a treatment facility where a strict regimen will control and modify your behavior. You must agree to this treatment in advance, there will be no second chances, and no opportunity to change your mind later. These forms authorize us to use any means necessary to correct your faults, including restraint, confinement, and physical discipline.” I looked up from my reading, swallowing hard. “Physical discipline?” He nodded gravely. “If you should be so foolish as to backslide, you will find yourself in a situation that will resemble the conditions in a high security prison, where all of your civil rights are waived, including your rights to privacy, liberty, and freedom from physical duress.” “You’re telling me that if I start smoking again, I will be scooped up like a felon, incarcerated, and abused?” I was incredulous. “That’s a rather dramatic way of putting it,” my bluntness irritated him. “We prefer to think of it as a stay in a strict rehabilitation center. The usual time required is ninety days, though it has been extended in more difficult cases. You must understand that signing these papers waives all of your rights to further appeal. We do make two guarantees. You will not come to permanent physical harm, and you will quit smoking.” “How about my money back if I’m not satisfied?” I tried a smile to lighten the mood, but my smile faded when he failed to return it. “No one has ever asked for a refund,” he said dryly. My head was spinning. I looked down, and my glance fell on a form I hadn’t noticed earlier. It was a letter to my lawyer, informing him that I had, after careful consideration, decided to check myself into a private clinic, where I did not wish to be disturbed. It asked him to handle all of my affairs during my absence, and deduct whatever expenses and fees this involved. It was, I realized, a blank check on my future. There was no date on the page. At any time, I could simply vanish, and my disappearance would be officially explained “Naturally,” I said carefully, “I will want to have my lawyer look these papers over before I sign anything.” He shook his head. “Everything must remain here. You sign now or leave. I might remind you that we present you with a rare privilege. Very few who apply are even offered this opportunity.” I snorted at his blatant appeal to my vanity, but a reckless mood seized me, and I picked up the pen he offered and signed every page. I dug out my checkbook and signed a check as well, thinking as I did that I would have to cash in some stock to cover it. My hands shook as I wrote. This was madness! At the time, I could not have explained my motives for going along. Since then, I have learned to deny nothing. “Give me your purse,” he said I put a protective hand on the strap of my shoulder bag. “What?” “It’s a little late,” he reminded me, gathering up the papers that I had just signed, “for you to start asserting your rights.” Reluctantly, I slipped the bag from my shoulder and handed it to him. He snatched it and dumped everything on the tabletop. He took my cigarettes and lighter and pocketed them, scooped up everything else, and stuffed it back into the purse. Handing it to me, he smirked, “Congratulations, Regina, you just quit smoking.” The impact of what I had just signed away finally hit me. This confiscation was so brutal and abrupt, like sudden death. I had planned the moment I would enjoy my last cigarette, lighting it up with a little ceremony and smoking it slowly while something appropriately soothing played on my CD. I would hold a Cognac in the other hand and toast the passing of an old friend. This was the least of the things I had just given up. My hand trembled slightly as I accepted my desecrated purse. There was no irony in my voice as I mumbled, “Thank you, Sir” “My name is Mr. Gates,” he said. “If you see me again, I will not be so cordial. Now go- and sin no more.” He smirked again, looking up at me with eyes that already saw through my thin resolve as well as my clothing. Could he read me so easily? Did he know that I was already remembering the emergency pack I had stashed in my glove compartment? If I lit up in my car on the way home, who would know? I harbored a suspicion that his threats were mostly bluff. No one could have the resources to watch me twenty four hours a day. There were too many places where I could be completely alone, and my source of supply was as close as the nearest party store. He put the documents back in the folder and pocketed my check. “Good luck.” I had been dismissed. I staggered slightly on the way to my car, and fumbled with my keys. Two blocks away, when I was sure that no other cars were behind me, I parked and opened the glove compartment. It took me five minutes of searching to realize that my stash was gone.