Call Me Guinea Pig

Call me Guinea Pig Chris Walter

It's hard to believe how much different my life is today. Up until a
month ago I was just your average guy doing average things. I went to
work, slept, watched football on Sundays, paid taxes, barbecued
hamburgers, and went out on the occasional date. I worked the day shift
at a battery factory. The job was hot and dirty, but it paid the rent
and put beer in the fridge. My biggest worry was trying to remember
whether or not I had paid the phone bill on time. Things were going
fine; I was part of the system, a happy cog.
But then I started having problems at work. I kept drifting off while
manning the assembly line. No matter what I did I just couldn't seem to
stay awake. You see, it was my duty to load the battery casings onto a
conveyor belt then retrieve them when they came out of the machine,
filled. Sounds simple enough, right? Well sometimes one of those
casings would get mixed up and go into the machine backwards. Then the
casing would get jammed up inside the machine and the whole operation
would come crashing to a halt. Jesus, ya never heard such a racket!
What with the carbon spewing everywhere and those danged casings flying
all over the place, it sounded like an airplane crashing into an ammo
dump. I tried real hard not to let any casings go in backwards, but
that conveyor belt moves fast. Sometimes it just happens and there
ain't a gawdamned thing anybody can do about it.
Hell, nobody's perfect.
Anyway, one day I was doing my job and everything was running
smoothly. I dunno, maybe my mind wandered off for a second. I mean, the
job was enough to bore a robot to tears. Suddenly this horrific din
reaches my ears and I look over. Sure enough, the bloody casings are
flying all over the place and the machine is puking carbon to beat
ninety. To make matters worse, the machine operator is screaming at me
in Hindu and carrying on like I murdered his first-born son. What a
mess. Pretty soon the supervisor comes over and jumps into the fray.
Between the two of 'em, you'd think I was personally responsible for
the decline of the Western civilization. I guess I lost my head. Next
thing I knew, the supervisor was lying on the floor, bleeding. I won't
bore you with details, but the longshot of it was that I had to get the
hell out of there before the cops showed up. My safe, secure existence
was coming to an end.
Next day I went job hunting. There isn't a lot out there for a guy
without a diploma, and it's easy to get discouraged. I applied for a
couple of lousy jobs then picked up a six-pack on my way home. I had
learned that the future looks brighter through the bottom of a beer
bottle. I was working on my fourth little buddy when the phone rang. At
first I thought the caller was trying to sell me something and I was
about to hang up. Looking back, I wish to god I had.
It turned out that the caller wanted me to participate in something
called a 'focus group', and for my troubles they would pay me forty
dollars. Normally I wouldn't be desperate enough to go in for such a
thing but times were tough. I agreed to attend the group the following
Tuesday. What the heck, I thought.
Tuesday eventually arrived. I took the subway downtown and stood
outside the office building wondering what, exactly, would be asked of
me. Would they ask me about violence in the workplace? Or did they want
to know what I planned to do with the rest of my life? They would be
disappointed to find I had no answers.
Inside, twenty or so people were filling out forms on little
clipboards. I got my form and filled out the simple name-and-address
type stuff. So far, so good. Pretty soon this gal comes into the room
and takes us into an office with a large two-way mirror covering one
wall. I figured there must be people back there waiting to judge our
reactions. For forty bucks, I could care less if they were playing
Monopoly naked.
Anyway, the gal in charge tells us she wants to feed us chicken
sandwiches and ask us some questions about them. Great, I thought. I
was getting kind of hungry. Shortly, three kitchen helpers wheeled
several carts full of breaded treats into the room and passed them out
to everybody. There wasn't much to the sandwiches: a couple pieces of
forgettable chicken, a few limp tomatoes, and a bun. No mayonnaise. The
instructor asked us to taste the sandwiches then rate the ingredients
on a sliding scale. No problem there. I ate my sandwich and quickly
ticked the appropriate boxes. It wasn't rocket science or anything. The
sandwiches were incredibly dry and I drank several glasses of the water
provided. The water had an odd taste to it, but I was thirsty. More
sandwiches - supposedly different but tasting exactly the same -
arrived for us to taste. I drank several more glasses of the strange
tasting water. Within the hour, I was walking down the street forty
dollars richer. It was my intention to go to the subway station and
take the train home, but as I walked, I began to feel decidedly
lightheaded. All around me, brightly lit stores advertised their wares
with flashing neon insistence. I felt a compelling urge to buy
something. As I passed a store window, something caught my eye.
Instinctively, I turned back to see what it was. Behind the glass, an
expensive-looking pair of brand name sneakers called out to me. Before
I knew what was happening, I was in the store trying them on.
Experimentally, I took several steps. Never had I experienced such a
spring to my step; it was as if I was floating. I had to have these
shoes. At the checkout counter, I noticed one of my fellow guinea pigs
standing blankly in the lineup. The woman was buying a pair of sneakers
identical to the ones I was holding. She appeared not to have noticed
me so I didn't bother to say hello. I could ill afford to pay cash for
the expensive shoes, putting them instead on my well used credit
card.
I took the train home in a daze. The strange feeling was beginning to
subside. I looked down at the sneakers in my hand and wondered what had
come over me. I don't even wear sneakers. I'm a boot man.
Next day, I wasn't feeling too good. My head felt all squishy, like a
sponge soaked in Borax. I left my credit card at home, just to be safe,
and went downtown for a bit. Without even filling out any job
applications, I returned home. My new sneakers sat by the front door. I
couldn't believe I had made such an expensive purchase on my credit
card. It occurred to me to return them, but what would I say? Other
than the outrageous price, there was nothing wrong with the sneakers.
Besides, I was too embarrassed.
Eventually I found employment at a toy store. I almost liked this job
because there were so many things to play with. Unfortunately the pay
was poor and I was still having a hard time making ends meet. So when
the research company phoned me back, I wasn't as negative as I might
have been. Instead, I heard myself agreeing to attend another focus
group. It was a decision I would later deeply regret.
Several people nodded to me as I entered the room and sat down.
Tonight's taste test featured several types of crackers. Just looking
at the tiny, white biscuits made me thirsty. I vowed not to drink any
of the water, but the crackers were so gawdamned dry and salty.
Reluctantly I drank a small amount of the noxious liquid. In order to
collect my forty dollars, I had to eat more crackers and drink more
water. As soon as I could, I took my money and got the hell out of
there. The lightheaded feeling returned as I left the building. I
promised myself not to make and rash purchases with my credit card. I
wished I had left it at home. Fortunately the stores weren't pulling me
in like they had last time and I was able to make it home without
buying a single thing. Congratulating myself on my will power, I
cracked open a beer and called my brother in Ottawa. I hadn't spoken
with my older sibling in quite a while, and we spent a considerable
time cussing out various employers we had worked for. After I got off
the phone with him, I called up my buddy, Martin, in Montreal. We spoke
for a long time about every subject under the sun. He eventually bid me
goodnight and I tried desperately to think of somebody else to call.
Then I saw the clock. It was 1:30 AM. I had been talking on the phone
long distance for three and a half-hours!
I felt like crap at work the next day. That squishy feeling was back.
I couldn't believe I had spent so long on the phone. Telling myself I
would never attend another focus group, I went home to sleep off the
mushiness. Over time I forgot about the research lab and its strange
water. So the only way I can explain agreeing to attend another group
is that they must simply have caught me off guard. With a heavy heart,
I arrived at the research building and filled out the necessary forms.
Before long, the head researcher arrived pushing a cart full of
pretzels. I almost laughed. Why didn't they just strap us down and make
us drink the water? It couldn't have been any more obvious. I decided
to participate willingly in the test just to see what would happen.
Since they didn't really care what we thought of the salted snacks, I
paid little attention to which boxes I checked. Guzzling several
glasses of the funny water, I looked around at my fellow lab rats. I
recognized several faces, but curiously they refused to return my gaze.
Wondering how they actually managed to monitor the results of the real
test, I pocketed my forty bucks and made a hasty exit.
Waiting for the fun to begin, I looked around at all the stores. All
appeared normal and I had no desire to place any long distance calls or
buy any shoes. Still, I had no doubt that something strange would
occur. I walked to the subway station and waited for the train. It was
starting to get late and the platform teemed with commuter spillover
from a basketball game. As the wind whistled through the tunnel, the
familiar, lightheaded feeling snuck up on me like a bad habit. Before I
could stop myself, my hands shot out and I shoved the man in front of
me onto the tracks. In a state of shock, I pushed my through the crowd
and took the escalator back up to the street. Behind me, I could hear
people screaming in horror. Later that night on the news, I learned
that eight other people had died under similar circumstances. My fellow
lab rats had been busy.
I was beginning to wonder if anyone from my group was aware of what
was going on. Even more importantly, what the hell were those maniacs
who ran the experiment up to? I wanted to blow the whistle on the whole
freaking show, but I was guilty of murder. What could I do? Feeling as
if my whole world was about to collapse in on me, I sat trembling,
afraid the phone would ring. Outside, a cold wind blew.
Work went by in a slow fog. I could barely remember how to set up an
electric train set. Things were just as bad at home. I couldn't
concentrate on anything. Every little noise from the street jangled my
nerves so I slugged back several beers in an effort to relax. The phone
rang just as I was drifting off. Tingling with dread-filled excitement,
I picked up the phone. A voice on the other end told me to be at the
research building at four o'clock the next day. Before I had a chance
to confirm or decline the request, the line went dead. Then I realized
they had not asked me to attend, they had told me to. And what choice
did I have?
I had to leave work early in order to get to the lab on time. Usually,
the group didn't start until later. The girl at the front desk locked
the door behind me after I entered. They weren't taking any chances.
Wordlessly, an employee ushered me into the room with the big mirror.
Tonight's group consisted only of the eight people I recognized from
before. None of them even looked up as I sat down. They looked like a
bunch of zombies. No food of any type graced the table. Instead,
several large pitchers of water stood ready for consumption.
The doctor came into the room and stood in front of us.
"Drink," she ordered.
I opened my mouth to tell her what she could do with the water, but no
words came out. Unable to believe what I was doing, I reached over and
picked up the pitcher, filling the glass in front of me with tainted
water. Then, as one, we all picked up out glasses and drank.
"You have been chosen for this special group due to your willingness
to participate," said the head honcho. "Please drink some more water."
She spoke slowly and deliberately, as if reading from a script.
More water. The lightheaded feeling became a roar between my
ears.
The doctor spoke again. "You can go now. Please pick up the bags
waiting for you at the front desk. Inside are some simple directions.
You will know what to do."
We all got up like marionettes and walked single file to the front
desk. A receptionist sat passing out small paper bags. I took mine with
numb fingers and looked inside. A blue steel revolver rested on top of
a single, folded sheet of paper. I picked up the paper and studied it
curiously. It was a map of the downtown area, with one of the buildings
circled in red pencil crayon. The corner seemed familiar, I had seen if
on the news. Now I understood why the focus group had begun early--the
speeches were probably starting soon. Sticking the weapon into my
waistband, I stepped out onto the street.
The G8 Summit of World Leaders was about to begin.