The Destination Decision

A bigot sees a glimpse of the horrors his views might cause some day.

“You, to the left! You…yeah, you, to the right. Move it!” 

Charles Bennet snapped his head toward the voice. The guttural shout was so out of place amid the typically calm and cheery facades plastered on the employees' faces at the car rental agency. He looked around--sure others were doing the same--trying to find the culprit, and curious to see the offended party give some sass-back. It's probably some immigrant who doesn't belong here in the first place, or a mental retard who should have been aborted with the rest of those losers out there, he figured. Pretty much anywhere I go, I'm stuck with those losers. But the blank stares and casual conversations around him remained unchanged.  

A little girl's voice shouted, “Mommy, when we get there, it’s gonna be so much better! That's what the nice lady said.” 

Charles jumped. Who was that? The voice sounded close, yet as though from a tunnel. 

“Uh, sure baby. Better.” Then a sigh that made Charles cringe. Then: “Oh God, why?!” 

Charles looked around. Still, nobody stirred. What in the...?    

The sound of a train--whistle piping, wheels churning--deafened him. He swallowed, staring into a void. He didn’t recall trains being in the area. 

“Mr. Bennet. Mr. Bennet. So sorry for the delay. Please come right this way.” And there, waving him on, was a large black woman. 

“Oh brother,” he mumbled, “get a load of this one.” 

“Yes sir, we have  just the car for you.” 

“Yeah, well, I already know what car….” 

“Oh, believe you me, this car is made with you in mind. And because you're so special to us, we’re even paying the charges. Now please, come.” She went to put her hand on his back to guide him, but he jerked away. 

“Hey, don’t touch me. You just do your job and we’ll be fine.” 

“Why, yes suh, we is here to please. You can be sure my kinda people gots a mighty special understanding of how to serve gents like yuhself. Uh, huh, dats right!” 

He sneered. “Whatever. Just get me to the car.” They walked out to the lot. 

She pointed to a deluxe, large-sized car. "It’s got all the goodies the other cars got…and maybe a few they don’t.” She giggled. 

“Sure. Fine. The keys?” 

“Right here. My, my, it’s been such a pleasure serving you. Make sure you buckle up now. You always gots to prepare for the unexpected.” 

Charles snatched the keys, opened the door, and sat down. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman waving; then, it appeared that as she walked away her body was shaking. Was she laughing? Crying? Whatever, he thought.  

He started the car and scanned the interior. Yes, it did have all the gadgets. He looked in the rear-view mirror, preparing to back up.  

And then he gasped. 

For, apart from the plush seat and dashboard with all of its gadgets, which remained, it was no longer the interior of a car he was in. It was a train. He looked up and saw that in front of him was not the inside of a car lot. It was a train track. He looked outside. The train chugged toward a large area with shacks shattered amid the ground. And then it jolted to a stop. Charles opened a window and stuck his head out. 

"Well, well, Charles Bennet," boomed a deep voice. "Good to see you've arrived."  

Charles clinched his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them and looked around again, shaking his head and grinning stupidly. Nope, he was still standing on a train, in a courtyard surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. Four towers with armed guards overlooked the grounds. 

 He stumbled off the train. It was then he noticed he wasn’t even in his own clothes anymore. It was some kind of uniform. Military, perhaps? 

“Hey, soldier!” 

“Huh?” Charles responded, still looking at the black uniform that now enveloped him. 

“About time you woke up." 

Charles looked at the man standing in his face. “Capt. Sonny Morris” read the name tag. Sharp creased on his uniform, spit-shined shoes. “Uh, I d-don’t think I should be here,” Charles told him. Then, keeping his gaze fixed to oblivion, he started walking off, muttering as he went. Seeing nowhere to go, he squatted and buried his face in his hands. "I’m not a soldier. Don’t you understand?” he yelled. He looked at his hands, usually so steady, now trembling. 

“Don't worry, Charles, we'll get you there.” 

A loud noise jolted him. He turned back toward the train. Black people, heavy women, and the mentally incompetent, just like those he despised in real life, were among the several dozen people that had been crammed into the train but who were now being rounded up by the track. “Nah, it can’t be real,” Charles said, half to Captain Morris. “Must be a dream.” 

As if on cue, an emaciated man hobbled toward the fence. He reached out, but a guard smashed his arm with a club. Another prisoner tried to protect the injured man, but a jab in the ribs was his reward. Charles could only squeeze out a groan as his eyes took in that scene, the guard grinning, the prisoner writhing in pain as his arm wobbled where it shouldn’t have.  

Captain Morris smirked. “We like to give our guests the opportunity to entertain us, Mr. Bennet. They are so, ah, happy to oblige.” 

"You seem to know me," Charles said, his voice strained. "So you must realize this is so not me.” 

“Oh, but it is in more ways than you know, Charles Bennet. In fact, we look to you to be our future.” 

“Wha-? Look, I'm not looking to run anything like this place, you know? I just wake up, do my job, complain about it, and go home. Maybe a beer here, a girl there. Do I make fun of people? Yeah. Ogle? Sure. But imprison? Beat? What else, man, I can only wonder.”  

Morris's hand on his shoulder startled Charles. “Now, Charles, think about what you just said. Don't you attempt to imprison people into lesser categories, and beat them with your words? Isn't that just preparation for what we're doing here? How about you follow me into my office so we can discuss how it all ties together.” 

Charles shuffled behind Morris. As he did, he looked back toward the train. Guards pulled men from their wives, ripped babies from their mothers’ arms, and clubbed elderly men for failing to keep up with the workload. Then, a retarded girl of about 6 years old stepped off the train. Charles stopped, curious to see what would happen. 

“To the left,” said a guard. The girl, confused, just stood there. The guard picked her up and threw her to her designated spot. She landed in a heap, crying. The prisoners, whom Charles noticed had been tenderly holding the abused , howled in tears at the girl’s plight. 

Why should they care for her? Charles wondered. She'll be worthless to society. Yet he shuddered when he saw the girl’s scrapes and bruises. He swallowed hard. “Where are the ones on that side going?” he asked Morris, pointing toward the group that included the girl. 

Captain Morris sighed and smiled. “Oh, they’ll be dealt with in the manner deserving of their kind.” He frowned. “Haven’t you kept up with your history, Charles? We're just making sure such scum as this ‘Never forget,’  if you get my meaning." Something stirred deep down in Charles’s gut, something that just didn’t jibe with what this man was saying. He looked behind him, scanning the grounds for a familiar face, even hoping to see that obese woman he had ridiculed at the rental agency. Instead, what crossed his line of sight was a prisoner cradling the injured girl. 

Captain Morris opened the door to his office, and beckoned Charles to come in. Charles, however, stood transfixed, his eyes glued to that girl and the man caring for her. 

“Come, Mr. Bennet.”  

Charles stepped inside. Though horrified at what he just saw, he was strangely enticed by the images that kept pounding his mind of a “cleansed” society, a society where the best and brightest helped move the country forward with nobody holding them back.  

“Have a seat, Charles.” 

The clean, cool air and comfortable chair seemed almost as much of a contradiction to what he had just seen as was his “trip” from the car to the train that brought him to this place.  Though he often thought of flowers as so "girly," here they were a refreshing contradiction. 

Charles leaned forward and looked into Morris's eyes. “I just don't get it. I mean, this is so not me,” he moaned. 

“But Charles, the seeds of who you are to become have been planted and are starting to sprout. Sure, some might say that your disparaging thoughts and remarks about the ‘retards, fatsos, cripples,' etcetera, etcetera might be taken as wrong, but we know better. That’s why you’re here.” 

“I don’t even know where ‘here’ is, or why I’m not where I was.” 

“Hold on, Charles. You’re missing the potential. Don’t dwell on what you don’t understand. Look, rather, at the possibilities that lie ahead. Why, it would be such a shame for you to return to your old way of life after seeing the beginnings of a better future.” 

“So what’s wrong with my way of life?” 

“Think about it. You know your griping and insulting doesn't really change anything. Except maybe you'll gripe about and insult different people one day to the next. But this…” Morris pointed out the window. “This is what we, what you, can do to start bringing our vision to reality.” 

“Captain, what I’ve been seeing here is not at all how I would make that happen.” 

Captain Morris shook his head and chuckled. “Think with me for a moment. What were you angry about before that rental car changed to...?” 

So I was in a car. 

“Yes, you were. Now please, let’s not rehash your"let’s call it miraculous"saga. You are here. This is reality for you. So again, tell me what makes you angry. Is it the ugly women, the...?” 

“Well, ugly women, fat people, stuff like that,” he said, almost under his breath, his head down. He looked out the window, the image of that bruised girl haunting him. A girl who, if he had seen her on the street, he probably would have aped her movements and speech. But beat her? Kill her? 

“Charles, Charles. Look, I can understand your discomfort. Like I said, this is the start of what can be our future, and you and others like you are our hope. We’re about what you’re about.” 

“Look, I’ve already told you I’m not about...this.” 

“Let's look at it another way. You know what they say about making sausage. You like the finished product, but the process....” 

Charles stared blankly. 

Morris laughed. “It’s all a matter of degrees, you know. As you can see, we’re gradually putting into action what you have strained to hold under your breath every time a black person was promoted over you, or a cripple cost you money by demanding a wheelchair ramp be installed. Or...well, you know the rest. Now I will admit, mind you, it’s not pleasant , this weeding out. But once you start focusing on the end result"beauty and happiness, all being right with the world "then it becomes more bearable. Just think about it for....” 

Let My people go! 

“What’s that?” asked Charles."No, I mean.... Ah, forget it." 

“Mr. Bennet, what are you talking about?” 

Whoever even looks at another in hatred has already committed murder. 

"Great, now I'm hallucinating in my hallucination.” 

My child, this is more real than anything you’ve previously allowed into your heart. What you see is who you are in danger of becoming. 

“Mr. Bennet. Please, Mr. Bennet. Calm down. I can understand you’ve been through a lot, but please...get a hold of yourself." He poured him a drink. Charles noticed that Morris's hand was shaking. "OK, um, now. Good. So you’ve already got the heart. We just have to build it up a bit.” 

“And just how do you go about doing that?” Charles looked beyond the Captain, waiting"almost hoping"for the voice that called him “My child,” words his parents had only used in condescension, but which this mysterious voice seemed to speak as a mother longing for her wayward son. 

“Mr. Bennet.” 

“Uh, sorry. Go ahead.” 

“We use what we like to call ‘Descent, duplication, and destination.’” 

“How’s that again?” 

“Descent, duplication, and destination. First, let's start with destination. The end purpose. To the degree that you can keep focused on this, getting there becomes much easier more sure. And our purpose is?” 

“To make things happy and beautiful.” 

The joy of the Lord will be your strength. 

One thing I have asked from the LORD, that I shall seek: That I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, To behold the beauty of the LORD. 

“Now keep that in mind as I continue. This way, Charles. There’s nothing over there. OK, next is descent. Not the best term, perhaps, because it's only on the surface that things are getting worse. You know, hoarding them all into flea-infested shacks, beating them down. Things like that seem brutal, right? But that’s where duplication comes in. You do something enough times and it becomes second nature. You know how it is. You remember how appalled you were when you first heard your parents mock people like this. Now, well, now you'd make them look like candidates for the Mother Theresa goodness award. Keep this in mind: Duplication of the unpleasant for the right ends has its own beauty.  

I will take from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. 

Charles sighed as he looked up toward the ceiling. He shook his head and mouthed "no," but weakly. He then turned to Morris. "So, descent, duplication, and destination. Happy and beautiful society.” He took a deep breath. “You know, I think I’m beginning to see what such a society could look like.” 

“Well, good. Tell me what you see.” 

“No undesirables.” 

“Good, good. Go on.” 

“A strong police presence, like they’re keeping tabs on all we do. I mean, after all, they have to be sure we aren’t secretly siding with, uh, them." He pointed outside as he said that last word, a word he typically said with such disdain. But now it was almost like it wasn’t him speaking, at least not the him that had first come here when "they" were  the worst of enemies. 

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. 

Charles looked  up again and trembled, a pleading look in his eyes. 

“Charles, get yourself together. Mine is the only voice that really matters, er, I mean the only real voice.” Charles gulped. So Morris had heard the voice. “Um, anyway, again, you are accurate. I mean about the police. But surely you know how those subversive elements can creep in and try to open the doors once again to what we’re trying to shut out. Don't be so disturbed, Charles. How else do you propose we reach our goal aside from such restrictions?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Captain Morris chuckled and leaned back, his hands clasped behind his head. “Look, it’s not like we’re going to hover over everybody’s shoulder. Sure there will be a police presence, quote-unquote, but over time it will become less noticeable and . . .” 

“So just as present as ever, just that we won’t be aware of it?” 

Captain Morris swallowed, then choked out a laugh. “Uh, well, ah . . . You know, if you’ve got nothing to hide . . ..” 

Charles stared off again. “Captain, have you seen the faces of the prisoners? I mean, really looked at them?” 

“Ugh! Please, I try to avoid that.” 

“Yeah, me  too. Believe me. But somehow…I can’t quite explain…Let me see.” Charles paused for a moment. “It’s like the ugliness is transcended by a deeper…They…My vision of the society we have both longed for…The faces of these prisoners, their interactions with each other….” 

“Get to the point, man.” 

“There’s a warmth, a freedom. Dare I say, a love? And…I can’t believe I’m saying this… but the ugliness I’ve seen in them is muted the more they respond to abuse.” Charles sighed. “It didn’t hit me before. I don’t know why I’m seeing it so differently. Is there something to that voice I’ve been..?” 

“What voice?" The Captain turned pale, his eyes wide. He shuffled papers on his desk, looking down as he spoke. "I don’t know about you, Charles. Anyway, who cares what they feel towards anybody, eh?” 

“Well, Captain, these prisoners, I’ve noticed, don’t seem to hate their abusers. They don’t hate me, from what I can tell. Or you. And I’m still trying to figure out if indeed it's us, not them, that should be pitied.” 

Charles pictured the man caring for the bruised and beaten girl. He swallowed hard. He stood up and looked out the window. For a moment, he saw a car on the train tracks, the car he had started to drive from the rental agency. But then it was a train again. And then a car. And then a train. 

"Charles, you seem confused. Maybe that voice you've  been, ah, imagining, is trying to keep you from your destiny, the destiny of so many like us who strive toward a better future. But let me tell you--you walk out of here and you'll lose your last hope of truly revolutionizing this world."

Charles stood up. "I thank you for your time, Captain. However, I think there are certain things I need to think over." He then walked out of the office and toward the train track, ignoring the insults coming from behind.

As he walked, he remembered what the voice said before: What you see is who you are in danger of becoming. No longer was there a train on the tracks. It was the rental car again. He didn't choose to see that. It chose him? Maybe I'm no longer in danger of becoming...that. He looked up, waiting for the voice to call to him again, to touch him where he needed to be touched.

Author's Note

Not quite sure about the ending. And I'm sure some of the wording could be tightened. Please let me know how I can improve it. I appreciate your suggestions.

Reviews

[Mary]

I love it. You held my attention all the way through and kept me going for more.

[mmrom517]

Thank you, Mary. Much appreciated.