Constitutional Puppies - 2

By J.R.

Whenever Roger was uneasy, he would intentionally shoot his eyes back and forth like those wooden balls you see on a psychiatrist’s desk. He thought it was funny, and for some reason it reminded him of the Simpsons. It wasn’t 7 p.m., but the Simpsons was playing across Roger’s face.

Graber (finally) turned around.

"I’m sorry for keeping you, I just needed to get these things in order. And not that it matters, but if I remember correctly, 364, not 365, died. I guess December 31st is disappointed."

"It’s fine."

(He half-wanted to divulge that he too had been thinking of an annual comparison).

Graber motioned Roger, and they sat parallel to the easternmost wall.

"So what law schools are you looking at, Roger?"

Excellent. "I’m not entirely sure, I haven’t taken my LSAT yet. Since everyone has told me the LSAT is such a huge and integral part of admittance, I don’t really want to, you know, hedge my bets or make predictions or really plan until after my LSAT."

"Yeah, it has become a real industry—law school—they base their rankings really on the LSAT scores they admit each year. But GPA and recommendations still matter. For some schools, like Berkley, GPA matters more than the LSAT."

Graber was the best recommendation one could get. Natch. He was Colombia by way of Harvard and Princeton. Roger remembered it off Graber’s website; all the other professors tried to look so well-regarded, and Graber’s picture was this self-deprecating dorky picture taken at the neighborhood Chipotle. Once you’re held in such high regard, humility only seems to bolster everyone’s perception of you.

A couple minutes passed as they talked about some other trivialities. Roger was sure to mention that he had gotten A’s in two of Graber’s class. He joked that his recommendation should therefore be twice as good. Har-de-har-har.

But before the conversation became too tangential, Graber said:

"Roger, I need you to do something for me. Think back, think back to about five, seven minutes ago. How were you feeling then? Was there anything different then?"

"Uhh…"

"Can you think of anything that was different? That maybe made you feel different? Do you feel, say, better now then you did five or seven or ten minutes ago?"

"Well…" (this syllable jammed like an obstinate engine).

"Yes?"

"Well, to tell the truth…"

"No. Make things up."

"Well to tell the truth I feel more comfortable now. I mean, I still don’t know what this census or experiment or… procedure…I’m here for is, but I felt somewhat anxious standing there waiting."

"Is that all?"

"Umm…I feel better now that I’m sitting down. I feel more relaxed. I am more…at ease. I am…more, I don’t know—better relaxed and a more pliable respondent." (Eyes: back and forth; back and forth).

"Roger—don’t rush the show. I don’t need you to try and tell me what conditions will make you a better subject. This isn’t an interview."

"Oh that’s good, because I really don’t know anything." Roger smiled.

"That’s good. That’s good. So, can you think of anything else?"

"Umm… Anything?" (he was thinking of mentioning that he is hungrier now, which makes him a little less comfortable and more willing to rush this—but he didn’t know how minute he was supposed to get). "No. I guess I can’t. Except—well—I felt kind of bad about those people who died."

"Ohh…" Professor Graber leaned back, "so you felt bad then, but now you’re fine with it?"

"No… I mean, ten minutes or so ago. It was kind of…shocking."

"Roger, Roger, Roger—are you seriously telling me you were shocked?"

"Well maybe shocked is, too strong…maybe it’s like, like, an opposite euphemism."

"A dysphemism."

"Yeah," (fucking dammit I should have used that word), "I mean, but I was shocked nonetheless."

"So the news, say, 'jarred your mind or emotions as if you were dealt an unexpected violent blow?' Roger, honestly…tell the truth, you weren’t shocked."

"Well no…but…it’s definitely bad. I mean, maybe I didn’t react—it didn’t exactly register as something terrible, you know, because plane crashes and terrorism, and war casualties and accidents, and disease, they happen all the time. And it’s horrible, and in my brain it registered as bad, but I mean—"

"I understand."

"I mean I’m not going to lie. It feels—"

"Remote?"

"Yeah."

"Roger—"

"Yes."

"Roger…what about when I told you that there was one less person on the plane: 364, instead of the original 365?"

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