Seize The Moment

A Real Person Fiction story based on a prompt — “The Prison Stanford Prison Experiment.”

A scene between a “guard” and a “prisoner” who meet unexpectedly after the experiment.

I creep past Mrs. Yuen’s door, glitter heels in hand. My landlady is like an annoying wasp, buzzing in your ear even on a good day. Best to avoid her sting when your wallet’s empty and rent’s due.

Even though I’m careful to skip those creaky steps on the staircase, the door to her apartment opens. I whirl around and wave.

Clad in pajamas, hair twisted around big curlers, and a cigarette dangling from the corner of her downturned mouth, she says, “So late! Where you been?”

“Robbing a bank.”

Her expression changes from petulant to disgusted. “I tell you no joke. One day, the police come looking, and I happy to assist.”

“Jesus, I’ve been working, all right?” Please don’t bring up the rent. Please don’t bring up the rent.

She flaps her hand dismissively. “You got visitor.”

My voodoo thought-waves crash to shore. A visitor? No one knows me in this neck of the woods. Not a soul has visited in the last ten years, and I’m careful never to reveal my address to a stranger. I don’t talk about my past with Mrs. Yuen. She scurries after nuggets of information, hoping to feast on them at a suitable occasion with nosy neighbors. Who can it be? “Male? Female?”

“Man. Old, like you.”

“I’m not old. The World Health Organization says I’m in the youth or young people category.”

She laughs. “Sixty? Young in heart. Old in face.”

Truth be told, the cheap foundation isn’t helping. I’ve only mentioned my age once — considering she must be in her eighties, she’s got a good memory, I’ll grant her that. She probably keeps a dossier.

“He waiting upstairs.”

My brows furrow. Something doesn’t add up. “You mean, you were nice to him?”

“He well-dressed. Got money. He pay you if you good to him, yes?”

“Don’t count on it.”

She holds out her palm. “You owe me one buck.”

“For what?”

“Your fridge empty. I gave visitor drink.”

Can’t argue. At least she doesn’t ask for the rent. I fetch a dollar from my wallet, hand it over, and make my way up the stairs.

“I fed Tweety!” she calls out behind me.

“Thanks,” I mumble. Do I have any birdseed left? I suppose I can just set Ricky free, but the geriatric parrot was a birthday gift from my father five decades ago. In my free time, my only form of entertainment is Ricky’s singing. He can survive on kitchen scraps for a week or two until my next gig.

In the hallway, the air is heavy with menace. The door to my apartment is unlocked. Mrs. Yuen has taken the liberty of allowing a stranger into my place with her spare keys. I step inside, and there he is, decked out in a gray suit and tie, seated on my sagging couch. A wave of nostalgia washes over me.

There are faces I can never forget — guys like Ben, or Prisoner 416. His blond curls are longer, his skin tanned as though he’s been soaking up the California sunshine, and he’s put on weight. But it’s him, all right. I dare say the years have been kind to him. The question is, what’s he doing here? How did he trace me?

The table fan is on, but he’s wiping sweat from his forehead. He springs to his feet when he notices me. “Oh, boy, Harry Winters, or should I say John Wayne? When they sent me your photo, I had to see for myself.”

I don’t blame him. They say sarcasm makes for good therapy. Disguises self-loathing. “Who’s they? Why did they send you my picture?” I set my heels on the table and remove my Shirley Temple wig.

“Please, let me explain.” Ben pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offers me one.

“No smoking. My landlady would kill both of us.”

“Ah, that Chinese harpy downstairs?”

I nod and ease into a chair next to him. Ricky’s cage is on a sideboard beside me. He’s preening himself in delight, rubbing his beak across his feathers. First time we have a guest in the house. An unwanted guest, that is. Best cut to the chase.

“Why are you here, Ben?”

He pockets the pack and sips his can of Sprite. “No need for animosity. I looked you up. Sought the services of the best PI in town. I hear things are tough.”

As if he didn’t know. After the scandal in the basement at Stanford, I managed to fool a bunch of people with my Cool Hand Luke persona and escape the world’s scrutiny for a while. Then I decided to try Hollywood. Unfortunately, actors are a dime a dozen. For the past forty years, I’ve been waiting for my “moment” to arrive. Still am. Until then, it’s Costco sales assistant by day and drag queen by night.

“I’m producing a film. The project’s been delayed for twelve years.” He hands me a stack of papers and a glossy business card — Ben Gibson, CEO of Abandon Pictures. At least one of us made it. “I came to offer you a deal.”

“Really?” I bat my fake eyelashes at him. These things are itchy. “What kind of movie?”

“A thriller, maybe.”

That sounds right up my alley. “Do you have a script?”

He grins smugly. Something’s fishy. “We’re calling it The Stanford Prison Experiment.”

Heat surges through me. My throat dries up. “You gotta be kidding. You know very well what the fucking press called me. A murderer!”

“Murderer. Murderer. Murderer,” the dumb bird sings.

I slam the cage.

Ricky squawks and flaps his wings.

“I’m serious. I’d love to have you join our team,” Ben says. “As a consultant.”

“So I can be publicly executed? No way.” The abuse I suffered after Charlie’s suicide — I don’t need that drama again. Given all the haters on the Internet these days, it’ll be a hundred times worse.

“You don’t have to be credited. We need your … expertise.”

“Why? You were there.”

There’s that smirk again. “Opposing sides. Different perspectives. You were the poster boy for the guards.”

Poster boy? More like a scapegoat. “Everything I have to say on the subject matter was said in that bullshit interview.”

“About how you were setting the tone for the experiment by portraying a psychopath?”

“Yeah — no, well, see …” The room is getting a little stuffy. I arrange the table fan so it faces me. “That’s the thing. People labeled me a psychopath when I was only trying to help.”

“Let’s just say you were such a natural.”

He’s right. They asked if I wanted to be a guard or prisoner. Charlie and I chose the latter, assuming it needed less effort, and really, nobody likes guards. In the end, they made me a guard. Stripping away my routine student life was as easy as removing my polyester shirt and bell-bottoms, then donning the cheesy khaki uniform and sunglasses they handed me. A whistle and a billy club completed my new identity.

Charlie’s uniform was practically a dress with his prison ID number: 2193 stamped on the front and back. They bolted his right ankle with a heavy chain and handed him a pair of rubber sandals. He had to wrap his hair in a nylon stocking cap, the ones bank robbers tend to use to cover their faces. The prisoners weren’t allowed to wear underclothes. They placed Charlie in a cramped cell along with two inmates, one of them Ben Gibson.

By then, I was sure as hell glad not to have been made a prisoner. It had to be uncomfortable to have your balls hanging out of your skirt. I’ve since discovered this isn’t the case. Wearing a gorgeous dress can work wonders for your confidence.

“So, what’s the verdict, Harry?” Ben steeples his fingers. “Look, we had some disagreements in the past, but that’s water under the bridge now.”

Under the bridge. That’s where they found Charlie, his broken body sprawled across the bloodied rocks, skull cracked open, eyes staring blankly. I stiffen at the memory. “If you promise to leave Charlie out of this, I’ll consider your offer.”

“Charles Ross?” Ben frowns and twists a gleaming ring on his pinky finger. “The film is based on a true account of what happened. Let’s share our stories, so history won’t repeat itself.”

“Our stories? Charlie’s fucking dead. Who’s going to tell his story?” I lean back in my chair, vision darkening. “You know what? Twist it all you want. I don’t give a damn.” No way in hell will I be part of this cruel reenactment.

“Shame. I’ve got a big, fat advance check ready here.” Ben taps his briefcase. “Can you imagine living in this shithole for the rest of your life? This could be your big break, Harry.”

Big break at the age of sixty? Saddest joke of the millennium. Still, Ben has a point. Being gay, Charlie and I could never express our true selves. The seventies were harsh to us. Part of the reason why I got so into my guard character back then was the opportunity to reverse my role in society, playing the oppressor instead of the oppressed.

I was lucky to discover drag later on, but Charlie? He came out to his parents. His dad was a preacher. They sent Charlie to a nutty religious camp, to “pray the gay away.” By the time he came home, he was pretty messed up. Not sure what happened. We stopped talking after that prison ordeal. I never had a chance to set things straight with him. He killed himself a week later.

Sometimes, I can’t help wondering if I had something to do with it. I called him “sissy.” I pushed him to clean the toilet bowls with his bare hands. I barked at the rest to chant, “Jump! Jump! Jump!” while Charlie performed jumping jacks until he collapsed. People said I tormented the prisoners. The power I had over them gave me so much thrill I forgot these guys were my peers. I saw Charlie as Prisoner 2193, not the friend I’d known since junior school.

When he took that final leap, I wasn’t there to stop him. His parents didn’t want me at his funeral. I grimace and swallow hard.

Ben must have noticed. “It’s late,” he says, adjusting his tie. He grabs his briefcase and stands. “Think about my offer. Call me if you change your mind.” He waves to Ricky and heads to the door.

Come on. I clench my fist and grit my teeth. Charlie was weak. It wasn’t my fault I played my villainous role to perfection. Everyone knew it was only an experiment. The other prisoners turned out fine. Look at Ben.

I chug the soda he didn’t finish. My eyes dart to the contract he left on the table. God knows I love my queen persona — Nellie Belle. She’s fun and sassy. As Nellie, I sing at a seedy joint and entertain people. They dance out of their seats. But I do miss the macho Southern drawl and my Strother Martin act. Perhaps I can make a cameo appearance. Hell, it may even be my “moment.”

I race out the door. Ben’s halfway down the stairs.

“Wait,” I utter. “How much did you say the check was worth?”

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.