(Menial 63700578—Jake)
When he wasn’t working, Menial 63700578 went by the name of Jake. Jake wanted to get his hands on Madeleine Burroughs. He wanted to run his fingers through her thick chestnut hair and possibly, maybe, perhaps, get close enough to her so he could draw in her scent. And not the wafting scent of her perfume that trailed behind her everywhere she walked—he wanted to smell the deep earthy scent of her natural skin. Fresh on her. Instead of the way he usually smelt it on the crumpled clothes she left for him to pick up off her bedroom floor. Jake wanted to get his hands on Madeleine Burroughs, have her look him in the face and whisper ‘Jake’.
Sometimes he imagined being pressed up against Madeleine in a close embrace, skin to skin, tight enough that even in his imagination he could not tell where her skin ended and his began, all was just smooth, pale and soft.
Of course, he didn’t talk about this. He hardly allowed himself to think about it. But on the odd occasion, when it was all too much, he would go on the In and find the confessor.
Before Jake had met the confessor, he didn’t understand what the thought of Madeleine Burroughs did to him. He didn’t have the words to describe his thoughts and feelings about her. The confessor had given him words.
He remembered his first confession. His chosen face floated in the cloud, a passive expression pasted to it, giving no sign of how clueless he was. All he knew was that his thoughts were wrong and overwhelming and he couldn’t understand what was happening in his head.
He was afraid that first time; scared that he was part of a scam, that his private thoughts were not private at all and that soon everyone would know how damaged he was. The confessor was patient with him.
‘I don’t know your name. I don’t know where you’re from, what level of the hierarchy you’re on, what you look like. This face you’re using for this conversation is all that I know about you. There’s no way for anything that you say to be tracked back to you personally.’
Jake still didn’t speak.
‘It’s okay,’ the confessor said. ‘You don’t need to speak. But remember, this is about letting go of the feelings that affect your day-to-day existence. Confession is a way to unburden yourself. It’s a service, not a trap.’
Jake let the confessor talk for a while. He didn’t say a word; he just breathed into his comline and waited. He didn’t know what he was waiting for but he knew when the waiting was over.
‘I look at her,’ he said, when he was ready.
‘Who?’ asked the confessor.
‘I…’
‘It’s okay. You don’t need to use names if it’s difficult for you. You could make up a name if that’s easier?’
‘No. No, she’s just … her. The woman.’
‘The woman.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you look at this woman.’
‘Yes.’
‘You know there is nothing wrong with looking at people?’
‘No, I … I look at her.’ Jake didn’t know how else to say it.
‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean.’
‘She … when I look at her I have … feelings.’
‘Can you describe these feelings?’
‘I don’t … I don’t have words.’
‘Can you tell me what happens when you have these feelings?’
That was difficult. It wasn’t complicated; it was just hard to say it out loud. He did, though. Eventually.
‘I touch myself.’
‘Where?’ asked the confessor.
‘I touch my … penis? Is that the word for it?’ Jake knew the question gave away that he was a menial. Only a menial would struggle this much with words. It wasn’t necessary for them to learn any vocabulary beyond what they needed in training. But he thought ‘penis’ was the right word. He had come across it on the In. It seemed right.
‘What you use to urinate?’
‘Yes! Yes. My penis.’
‘So, when you look at this woman you touch your penis?’ asked the confessor.
‘Not when I look at her. But after. When I’m alone. My penis changes and I touch it.’
‘How do you touch it?’
Jake explained what he did and that was the day he learned the word ‘masturbation’. The confessor told him a lot.
The confessor wasn’t one person. It wasn’t even lots of people. It was just someone. Some face, generic and simple and totally focussed on one thing: the person confessing. Jake sometimes wondered if the confessor was just a computer programme. But then the confessor’s responses to him—to everything he shared—were so personal and empathetic. He didn’t think a machine could fake that kind of humanity. It didn’t really matter either way to him. He was just glad that he could talk. It felt like he had dirt crusted just under his skin, and talking about it—about Madeleine Burroughs—pulled it out.
‘Hello, Jake,’ the confessor would say, because after a while Jake had begun to use the name he had given himself instead of Menial 63700578. He felt he had to because his name—Jake—was an impor- tant part of his fantasy. He had to hear her say it.
‘Hello, Jake,’ the confessor would say. The confessor’s profile would float before Jake’s eyes and the confessor’s voice would sound in his ears, close, like a whisper.
‘Hello, Jake. How are you today?’ That was a difficult question to answer. Jake was never sure of the truth; he always hesitated, but the confessor would wait.
‘Hello, Jake. How are you today?’ Silence. And then he would speak.
‘Fine,’ Jake would say.
‘Fine? Is that why you’re here?’
‘Where’s here?’ Jake had a feeling he might be smart. He would often answer a question with a question, turning something simple into something complex. He liked to think this was a sign that he could play that game called Face.
‘Jake, you’re deflecting. I don’t think it’s healthy for you to waste your own time.’
‘Time. Such a strange concept,’ Jake would say, because he was smart. People didn’t think menials were clever but in Jake’s case he was sure they were wrong. He was underestimated; they all thought his kind was shit. No, it was worse than that. They didn’t think about them at all. Menials were nothing.
‘Time is a strange concept. But we all experience it linearly, so let’s focus on your confession, shall we? It won’t be long before you have to clock back in to work.’
‘I have ten minutes.’
‘Good. Let’s not waste them. What would you like to confess?’
‘The same thing I always confess.’
‘I need to hear the words, Jake. You have to let them out before you can feel better.’
‘You know what I’ve been thinking.’
‘I can’t read minds, Jake.’
‘I’ve told you!’
‘Tell me again, Jake.’
‘Why do you do that? Use my name so much?’
‘It’s important to you, Jake. That’s why I use it. You’re deflecting again. I know this is difficult, but it really is better for you to let it all out.’
‘Do you have a confessor?’
‘This isn’t about me, Jake.’
‘But do you? Do you need to talk to someone else? About the things we all say—the thoughts we put in your head? You must imagine it all. It would be hard not to. When I talk to you, do you see me with my hands pressed to her face? Can you picture me as I bury my face in her hair? Do you hear her whisper my name?’ She was still just ‘the woman’; Jake couldn’t say her name out loud.
‘Is this what you’ve come here to confess, Jake?’
‘Do you enjoy listening to us? All us freaks and perverts. I bet there are loads of us just talking talking talking about flesh on flesh. Do you ever imagine the smell of it? I do. Sometimes, when I touch her in my head, I don’t just use my hands. I press my cheek to hers, lean my forehead against hers, sometimes I get so close our eyelashes entangle. And then I bend my head, put my nose to the nape of her neck, and pull her in, really smell her. And the thought of it is so vivid I can almost feel…’ but he didn’t know what it would feel like. He couldn’t.
‘Is this what you’ve been imagining?’
‘Is this what you imagine? When you listen to us? What do I look like to you? Do you think about me? Do you think about my body when I tell you what I do to myself?’
‘Jake, this is a safe place. We leave aggression in the Out.’
This was a normal confession. Jake found it difficult but whenever he was done talking he felt … satisfied. Yes, that was the word. Ten minutes would disappear and he would get up, go back out into Madeleine Burroughs’s pristine apartment and do what he was told to do.
Copyright © 2022 by Joma West
