Floyd’s Reaction

Floyd’s Reaction

It was four o clock—time for the psychology experiment.

Floyd strode quickly down a narrow hallway in the building that housed the psychology department, his mind on other things. In twenty minutes he had to take a final examination in his history class in another building. He didn’t want to play guinea-pig to the psychology students in the first place, but it was a requirement that all students take a science class, and a requirement that all students in the psychology classes take part in one experiment at some point during the semester. He had postponed for the bulk of the term, but it was nearing Christmas and this was his last chance to get it done.

Floyd barely noticed the posters and fliers and other bits and pieces tacked to the walls. His mind floated back to the previous day’s lecture. Dr. Heller had droned on and on as always. He had spoken of psychology and ethics. "Morality is something made up by cultures to help the society run more smoothly," he had said. "Psychologists must not attempt to mix ethics with science—the two are incompatible." Floyd didn’t understand that. He simply felt out of place and tired when he listened to Dr. Heller’s lectures.

The door to the graduate office was open. Floyd entered and sat down next to another waiting student.

A short, angular little graduate student in a self-consciously informal green T-shirt walked out of the inner office. "Hi. Floyd? We’re ready for you and Bill." His voice was like a smooth, ingratiatingly smile; his face casual and unconcerned.

Floyd and Bill followed the graduate student to the inner office.

"Please have a seat. My name is Terry."

They all sat down, Bill and Terry on a short couch and Floyd on a stuffed chair across from them. A low coffee table sat between them.

Terry opened a small, black leather case and placed it on the table. He spoke clearly and directly, as if he were reciting a memorized line. "Now as you know, we will be paying you for your time. One dollar—it’s just a token, of course. That’s all we can afford, but we want to try to show some appreciation for giving us your time to participate in the study." He slowly and deliberately pulled two one-dollar bills from his pocket and placed them on the table next to the leather case. He looked up pointedly, pausing for what seemed to Floyd a too-long moment.

"This should only take a few minutes," he continued. He began shuffling through the papers in the case. "We just need you both to fill out a questionnaire. It will ask you how you feel about certain things and so on. Basically just a simple psychological test. Nothing to be nervous about. There are no right or wrong answers."

Floyd nodded passively. He had heard such things before. It was all just psych-mumbo-jumbo to him.

Terry continued to shuffle through the leather case. He finally stopped and looked irritated. "Er, I think I’ve left the questionnaires in the other room. I’ll go and get them. Just be a minute—sorry."

He got up and left the room. The door closed percussively behind him.

Floyd slouched a bit in his chair. He stared absentmindedly at the wall. He wondered how long he would have to be here and felt himself tense, remembering the history exam. He very nearly didn’t even notice when Bill, the other student, casually reached out and pocketed the dollar bills.

"I think we only get paid one dollar each," Floyd mumbled casually.

"Huh?"

"I said, I think we only get paid one dollar each. I think one of those dollars is for me."

"What do you mean?"

The door opened and Terry’s green shirt appeared in the door way. He walked in and sat once again on the couch, dramatically slapping the questionnaires on the table next to the case.

He looked down and then confused for a moment. "What happened to the money?" he asked.

Floyd was about to explain that Bill had already picked up the money, but was stopped before he could open his mouth to speak.

"What money?" Bill affected a ridiculous, theatrical innocence.

"The money I put on the table for your payments." Terry looked around at Floyd. "Did you take it?"

"No. Bill picked it up and put it in his pocket. I was about to—"

"No I didn’t!" Bill cut in vehemently.

Floyd began to feel his pulse quickening. His mind raced. A liar and a thief! How does he expect to get away with it. I was looking right at him when he did it.

"I watched you put the money in your pocket. Why are you doing this?" Floyd had never understood why people steal. It made him angry, but more, it made him simply bewildered.

"I don’t know what he’s talking about," came Bill’s obligatory reply.

Terry looked from one to the other. "Well, if no one will come forward with the money, I’m going to have to call the police."

"Fine," came Bill’s smug reply.

"No. Look, I have a final in fifteen minutes. I can’t wait for this. Bill, give him the money back now."

"What?"

Floyd’s voice was quiet. "I said do it now."

"I don’t have the money!"

Terry repeated his threat about the police. Floyd’s muscles began to tense. He knew he was not going to allow this. Bill’s face stared just a few feet away from him. He could easily strike out and beat the money out of him. Then the police would surely be called. He didn’t care. He found himself on his feet in front of the chair. Terry stood up too, casually picking up a sheaf of papers and beginning to scribble. Floyd could see the result in his mind: He would grab Bill’s head and slam it into the desk in front of him. Blood would spray from the broken nose. If that didn’t immobilize Bill, he could see himself picking the little worm up by the throat, slamming his head into the wall until he lost consciousness—or his life. Floyd didn’t care; for one cathartic moment he allowed himself to savor the image in his mind. He lost awareness of his physical body as the fantasy overwhelmed him.

"Give—him—the—money." Floyd felt a sudden panic about his history exam. If the police were called he would miss it without a doubt. He felt the rush of blood and knew it was only a matter of moments before he would act on the bloody image in his mind.

"Fine. I’m going to call the police," came Terry’s small, tentative voice.

No one moved. "I am going to call the police now."

Terry hesitated. "Floyd. Do you hear me? I’m going to call the police . . . okay?"

Floyd barely heard him. Terry seemed to want his permission to make the call. Floyd’s voice came as little more than a strangled whisper:

"Fine."

Floyd’s fists began to ball up. Terry would call the police now and he would miss his history final. He felt the muscles of his arm twitch as they begin the contraction that would send his fist flying—then stop inches later at the strange new sound in Terry’s voice.

"Okay. Well, that’s the end of the experiment. Thanks for taking part." Terry’s voice was slightly too loud and relaxed—he was relieved.

"What?" Floyd turned to look at him, his half extended arm falling to his side.

"Yep," came Bill’s voice from the couch. "Here’s your dollar. Thanks." Bill, too, seemed a little too happy it was over.

"What are you talking about?" Floyd’s vision began to brown as the blood rushed from his head. He reflexively waved a hand to steady his balance.

"That was the test.”

"How do you mean…?”

Terry smiled his infuriating, ingratiating smile. "You see, we have found that in a moral dilemma over ninety-five percent of the subjects tested will not take any form of confrontational action—they won’t accuse someone of a crime even if they witness it themselves. You are unusual, you didn’t hesitate to accuse him at all. Bill here is my assistant. We wanted to see whether you would accuse him of the theft or pretend not to know anything. We wanted to see your reaction."

Floyd looked at Bill. They had lied to him for the sake of their experiment. He saw in his mind the image of what Bill’s face would have looked like with the nose smashed in and blood hemorrhaging from the ears. He looked back at Terry. His again-unconcerned face was buried once more in his notes.

"My reaction?" Floyd smiled.

Bill only knew that Terry had been punched when he saw his body fly back in a blur and slump back against the couch, unconscious.

Floyd looked back at Bill and smiled again, genuinely.

"That’s my reaction."

Ca. 1998.  Fist published in The Ideal Review