Consumerism Ch. 16-19

16. Vanholt Pharmaceuticals Division -- Dr. Welker's Office

Dr. Welker shines a flashlight inside of my mouth as she inspects its wet interior. I lift my tongue to prove I swallowed the last pill. She nods her head, smiles radiantly at me, and clicks off her small flashlight.

"Hey, uhm, I wanted to ask you something," I say, tilt my head to the right, and slightly part my lips.

She blinks. "Sure, what is it that you wanted to ask?" she questions.

"Well, I was wondering," I begin before hesitating. Maybe I should just stop here. Avoid potentially embarrassing myself. No, I put it off for too long. Things need to change. "I wanted to ask you about Project Janus."

The color drains from her face, she sweats visibly, her hands grip together, and she smiles only for it to quickly disappear. "Uhm," she stammers. "Why? Why are you asking about that?" Her breathing seems off.

I squint at her, bite the inside of my lip, and then shrug my shoulders. "Oh, I saw something about it left on the copy machine," I lie. I didn't want to tell her the truth. That I was on my knees in his office. Sucking his fat cock. I saw it pulled up in a window on his desktop monitor. "It said..." I hesitate. What was it again? "The radical new procedure to modify your identity, personality, and self-image."

Her eyes widen, she tries to slow her breathing, and she pauses. "Uhm, is that all you read about it?" she finally asks.

"Yeah," I ask and raise my right eyebrow. "Why?"

She briefly closes her eyes, swallows, and nods her head. "That's a very confidential project," she warns. "If you ever see that name again, stop reading. Let Brad or I know right away. Stuff like that is strictly for executive staff only. We can't risk it. Corporate espionage." She looks at me with my head tilted and eyebrows raised. "Uhm, that being that what did you want to ask?" That's weird. Aren't I considered executive staff?

"I'd like to try it," I respond, look down, grimace, and then plaster on a fake smile. "I tend to get anxious when interacting with other people. It's negatively impacting my life. I'd like to be more comfortable. socializing." God, I sound like such a pathetic loser.

"You want to... try it?" she asks and blinks. Her eyes carefully study me through her frames, and she pauses. Finally, she leans in, looks me in the eyes, smiles at me, and nods. "The project isn't ready to launch right now. It'll be some time. But when it's all done and over with. All the research complete. I will help you. Make you into the individual you want to be. That's what Project Janus is all about. Freedom. But right now, it needs to be confidential. Don't mention it to anyone else. Avoid reading anything you stumble across about it. And let Brad or I know if you ever encounter it again."

She didn't judge me at all. Dr. Welker is a real professional. "Thanks Doc," I say and smile at her.

17. Afternoon Commute

I drive home from work. Need to make it home, change, and shower before she arrives. Blue and red lights flash behind me. A siren blares. He must need to get by. I deploy right turn signal, wait a second, look out the passenger window quickly, and drive my car into the right lane. The police SUV behind me deploys right signal. Fuck. I do nothing wrong. There's no reason to bother me today. I pull over on the side of the road.

I squirm, fidget, adjust my dress, and my face sweats. My eyes squint confusingly at the driver's side mirror. The driver door opens from the SUV parked behind me. Lights still flash red and blue. Boots touch the ground. Leaving the car door open, you walk around it. You wear a police vest bearing the nameHoltz over a uniform, a duty belt with handgun holstered, and sunglasses. As you approach, I hit the knob and the window whirs and lowers.

"In a hurry, ma'am?" you ask, stand wide, probing eyes laser focused on me, eyebrows up, and chin jutting.

"N-no." I stammer. Sure, I wanted to get home. Dress like a man again. There's still plenty of time. No need for me to rush. I was obeying laws. Wasn't I? "Did I do something wrong?"

You pause expressionless. "License, insurance and registration," you order.

License? I swallow hard. The glove compartment opens. I hand over the insurance and registration.

"Still need the license," you insist. I can't read your face.

I retrieve my wallet from my Savette handbag. The license slides out of the sleeve. My eyes focus on the picture. A weak smile forms on my face, my breath deepens and slows down, and I feel a lump in my throat. I don't look anything like the person in the photograph right now. At least it lists the correct sex. Male. I gaze downward, sigh, shiver, and my bottom lip trembles. My quavering hand extends out the window holding the laminated card.

You stand silent, poker faced, eyes hidden by sunglasses, and gaze towards my treacherous shaking hand. Your right hand seizes my driver's license. Sunlight reflects off its glossy surface as you hold it up towards your face. Your gaze down at me, inspect the license, glimpse back at me, scan my credential, and leer at me. You exaggerate. Make a mockery of me. My eyes moisten, ribs squeeze, and stomach knots. I want to melt into my car seat. There was a time. I could drive home from work and not have to worry. Fret over humiliating myself in front of the police. "I need you to step out of your vehicle," you command.

The car clicks repeatedly until I pull out the key. My heels clack against the hot pavement. I shut the door with a thud. It smells like motor oil outside. There's no recollection in my memory of me ever being asked to get out of my car before by the police.

"Are you suffering from any health problems right now?" you ask. I can't read you. The glasses hide your eyes, and your mouth avoids expression. "Do you have any disabilities?"

"No," I respond, try not to blink, and avoid looking you in the eyes. My stomach feels empty. It's hot outside.

You run tests on me like I'm your little science experiment. Have me walk in a line. You're doing this to mock me. Try to stand on one foot. I look like an idiot like this. You flash lights in my eye and make me look at a stick. I admit I'm a weirdo, just let me go home. You stand there, pen in hand, staring at me through sunglasses, a clipboard in your left hand jealously guarded close to your body, no expression on your face, and pause. My eyes keep drawing to the flashing red and blue lights of your police SUV. "When was the last time you smoked meth?" you ask.

I lean away from you, shake my head quickly, blink rapidly and widen my eyes. "Never," I insist. "I'm just commuting home from work. I don't use drugs. Look, I know I am dressed..." I sigh. "I'm cross-dressed. I know. It's a long story. Look, I'm not a criminal."

Your arms cross over your chest, head lifts, face smirks, eyes hide behind sunglasses, and your hands rub at the two straps of your police vest hanging over your shoulders. "Your pupils are dilated," you accuse. "Those sobriety tests I performed. You failed all of them. Not as bad as a drunk. But you're impaired. It's clear. You're abusing drugs. Look, I'm going to blood test you either way. Whether you admit it or not. It won't matter. Either it's positive or negative. So, if you're on speed. This is your chance to be honest about it. I know it's popular. With some gay men and women like yourself."

My eyes tear and dull, body winces, throat scratches and it's difficult to breathe, and I'm overwhelmed with a desire to be alone. "Please," I whimper. "I just want to go home. I don't use drugs. I'm not a transwoman. My office. They make me dress this way. Give me hormones and require me to take drugs. They don't tell me what they're for." A tear runs down my cheek. "If there was something wrong with my driving. I didn't realize it. Please. I wouldn't drive if I thought it was unsafe. It's not something I'd ever do. Risk hurting other people."

You sigh, gaze downward, and scratch at your nose as your hand cups around your mouth. You hesitate before saying, "You don't have to lie to me. I wasn't going to include it in the report. How you are dressed. It's not my role to judge. I just want people to be safe on the road. You were speeding. Changing lanes far too quickly to be safe. Unfortunately, I can't let you go. I'm not a phlebotomist and can't draw your blood here. We'll go to the station and get a sample. After that, you'll be able to leave and go home."

Of course, you don't believe me. Why would you? Nobody would. I sniffle, stare at the ground with glassy eyes, and put my hands behind my back. My driving seemed fine to me.

You handcuff me, place me in the backseat of your SUV, and search my car. I watch and don't care. There's nothing in there. I see you retrieve my handbag and thumb through it. Go ahead. You pull out my lanyard attached to my Vanholt Corporate ID. My picture is on there. Not like the license. One of me in a wig, makeup, and dress. What did he say to me? I think it was,what's that trash around your neck?

I don't understand. You mean my work ID?

That picture.

It's a picture of me.

I remember he sighed loudly.Are you fucking retarded or something?

No, but I am confused.

You're hot. Now that I fixed your desk situation, your office is sleek and sexy. Why would you wear something like that? Imagine, coming in here. Seeing you. Leaned back in your chair behind that all white desk of yours. Looking hot in a dress, stockings make-up and heels. That card hanging around your neck. There's some short dork's picture on it. You make both of us look stupid with that.

That's my picture.

No, it's not. Go to HR and change the picture.

But it's me.

No, it isn't.

This is what I really look like.

Go change the picture.

Dr. Welker didn't say anything about...

Fuck off already, and change the picture! I'm not going to ask you again.

I did what he said. A sigh exits my mouth before my head looks down. I look back up and stare at you. My employer doesn't have the best reputation. The Vanholt Corporation is infamous for its scandals, intrigue and political corruption. It's been subject to all sorts of investigations for its role in environmental disasters, corporate raiding, bribery, and antitrust. Yet no Vanholt executive has ever been indicted or sentenced to a term of imprisonment.

A prominent social critic published a satirical article inThe Washington Post about how bad it had become. It was published all the way back in the 1980s.

The Vanholt family made a deal with an archdevil,

For their business to reach the megacorporation level.

They signed the contract without any hesitation,

And soon they were the talk of the nation.

Their profits soared and their wealth grew,

But they didn't know what the devil would do.

The devil took over the corporation one day,

And seized power in every single way.

He fired the workers and hired his own,

And soon the company was his and his alone.

Out pumped the products the consumers crave

While he and his devils collected their new slaves.

You stare down at my corporate ID. It says,Vanholt Psychiatric Pharmaceutical Division. You freeze, frown, draw back, visibly swallow, and slowly reach with your left hand and feel the hair on your neck. After a few moments pass, your head shakes vigorously, shoulders shrug, upper lip tucks, and you return the ID card to my purse. I don't judge you either. This mess I had gotten myself into. It was so surreal and hard to believe. Much easier to just assume I'm lying. Or perhaps just crazy.

We drive towards your police station. It's so silent in here with you. I rattle the handcuffs. You say nothing. My gaze darts around the car, I bite my lip and rock back and forth in the backseat. "You're so quiet," I finally say.

You shrug. "Just how I am," you explain. "Not a lot of small talk in this car."

"I'm the same," I respond.

"Not right now," you disagree.

"I'm anxious," I say, nod my head and shrug. "You put me under arrest."

"You're not under arrest," you dispute, tilt your head back and look towards me. "The handcuffs are just for safety. We won't have lab results for a while. You'll be free as soon as I get that blood sample."

"Are you really him?" I finally ask. "That Officer Holtz."

"Excuse me?" you ask before swallowing.

"The one who saved those people's lives during the riot," I clarify.

You hesitate, sigh, and say nothing.

I sit in silence for a few minutes. Finally, I lean towards you, nod my head, and weakly smile. "I'm sorry, the way you were treated after that." I comfort. "It was so disgusting. The things those journalists said about you. You did the only thing you could. No one has any compassion for anyone else anymore."

You say nothing the rest of the way to the station.

I exit the police station hallway into the front lobby. My right arm sore from being pricked. I look up, freeze, open my mouth, flatten my facial muscles, and feel nauseous. My wife is here. She looks furious.

"What the fuck is wrong you?" my wife swears loudly, flares her nostrils, shakes her body, and clenches her teeth. "I'm at home wondering where you are. Apparently dressing like a woman, wearing makeup, driving drunk. You know, when I got the call from the police station. I was so worried something had happened to you. But now I look like a fool. What do I get for trusting you, waiting for you, worrying about you? You humiliate me, cheat on me, do whatever the fuck it is you're apparently doing behind my back."

I flush, swallow, and cave my chest in. My eyes moisten, stomach knots, and my throat lumps. "I-I'm so sorry," I stammer. "I promise I'm not drunk. Look, I wanted to tell you but it's embarrassing. It all started at the office..."

"God, enough with the excuses," she dismisses, tenses her muscles, narrows her eyes at me, and holds in a breath. "Are you wearing fake breasts? You look disgusting dressed like that. I'm sorry. I can't handle this right now. You can only push someone so far. I deserve so much better than this. You whining like you're the victim here. It's totally pathetic."

"I really meant it," I whimper as tears flow down my cheeks and my makeup runs. "When I said I'm sorry." She'll never forgive me for this. She's right though. I am totally pathetic.

She turns her back to me and sniffles. "I'm going to go pick up my girlfriend and get our car out of the impound lot," she explained. "You're not coming with me. I don't want to talk to you right now. Tonight, I want to be alone. Please don't call me and don't bother me." She walks out the front door of the station while I stand there and sob.

You approach me. The whole time you've been watching. "Hey, are you ok?" you ask.

"You said I was free to go, and now I'm leaving," I declare, voice cracking in emotion, eyes glassy and wet, shoulders slumped, with a grimace on my face. "Thanks for destroying my life." I begin walking towards the station exit.

"Why did you call her?" you ask the police aide.

My heels clack against the tiled floor.

"She was the registered owner," the police aide replies.

I pull the door open and it creaks.

You begin, "In the future, you need to be more considerate about--"

The door shuts behind me with a thud.

It's dark outside now. I retrieve my handheld mirror from my purse. My makeup is all messed up. There's an inward, pained look on my face. I shuffle my feet, hang my arms limply, stare down at the ground, rub my right forearm with my left hand, and I cry as I walk. My throat aches and there's no sign of relief. I'm such a gross person. What's the point of things. She'll probably divorce me after this. What about him. Stop with the fantasies. He'll never love you. He's all about the sex and violence. I'd have to commit to the transition. To even have a shot. Give up any possibility. Of ever being a man again.

I retrieve my phone from my purse. My contact list pulls up. The phone dials. My hands tremble. It rings. A noise clicks.

"Hello?" asks the voice of Dr. Welker through the phone.

"I-I'm so sorry to interrupt whatever you're doing," I apologize in a creaking voice before sniffling into the phone's receiver.

"What's wrong?" Dr. Welker asks. "It sounds like you've been crying."

"Y-you told me," I stammer. "To call you right away even on your personal phone if it ever happens... Suicidal ideation."

There's silence on the other side of the line for several moments. Finally, she responds, "Where are you at?"

"I'm standing outside the police station," I whimper. "The one downtown."

"Okay, are you currently holding anything that could hurt you. A knife, a gun, rope?" she asks.

"No," I deny truthfully.

"Stay where you're at," she orders. "Try to remain calm. I can help you get through this. I'm going to come to pick you up. Think of everything you have to live for. Your job, your wife..."

I sob.

"Remember, I promised to help you," she pleads. "There are people who care about you. Don't forget that. I care about you. Things may seem bleak now. But the future. You'll have all the freedom in the world to be who you want to be. Please, stay where you are and don't do anything you'll regret. If you feel overwhelmed, go inside the station and ask for help. I'm sure they've delt with it before. People who are suicidal."

It wouldn't hurt. Seeing her and hearing what she has to say. I wallow in misery for twenty minutes until I see her Tesla Model Y pull up. I get into her passenger seat before closing the door and clicking my seatbelt. I notice Mr. Bentley sitting in the backseat, raise my right eyebrow, tilt my head at Dr. Welker, and wrinkle my nose. "Why is he here?" I ask.

She looks at me through her glasses, observes my dried tears, running makeup, and she leans over and hugs me. I can see a tear of her own in her right eye. "It's going to be ok," she says in a voice that cracks. "Brad is here because he cares about you. We both do. I'm going to take us some place where you'll be safe. You can tell us what happened on the way."

While Dr. Welker drives, I fill her and my boss in on the details of your DUI investigation as well as the confrontation between my wife and I at the police station.

18. The Pinnacle Highrise Luxury Tower

I sit on the edge of his ultrawide yellow leather sofa. Dr. Welker is standing next to the floor to ceiling glass panels as she stares at the city skyline, skyscrapers checkered with various illuminated windows, orange and yellow glowing streets. Mr. Bentley stands across the room leaning against a wall and sips red wine from a glass. Dr. Welker sighs before she walks over towards the kitchen counter and opens a briefcase she had set there. She returns holding a form. "Here, sign this and we'll begin," she says.

"What's this?" I ask as I take the form from her, my right eyebrow raised.

"It acknowledges that you're about to be the subject of a suicide risk assessment, agrees that you will provide truthful answers to my questions, and waives any liability to Vanholt related to suicide." she explains.

I stare blankly at her and say nothing.

"I'm ethically obligated to do something when a patient threatens suicide," she says. "Either we can do the risk assessment here right now or I must have you committed to a mental hospital for evaluation. I can't just let you go home without ensuring your safe."

Mr. Bentley sups red wine.

I sign the form.

She goes through a long series of questions pertaining to suicide. Frequently she reaches out and touches my hands or arms and her eyes are often sympathetic.

"Alright, based on the lack of prior self-harm or suicide attempts, the lack of a clear suicide plan, and your fear of distressing your parents, I am marking you as low-risk of suicide," she diagnoses. "I don't believe that its necessary to put you on suicide watch. But I don't think it's a good idea for you to be by yourself right now. Also, you shouldn't return home while things are still so volatile." She looks over at him. "Brad, what are your thoughts?"