Behavioural Modification - Part One
I stayed glued to my seat. I'd just seen the last guy leave the room and I was still having difficulty in coming to terms with the prospect of going the same way.
"That's you, Mr Baxter," called out the receptionist helpfully, smiling her professionally welcoming smile at me.
I looked around briefly in the forlorn hope that there might be another Baxter waiting, but the other four occupants sat rigidly unmoving, mesmerised by the unutterable fascination of the floor tiles. A pretty typical consignment under the Social Modification Act: a couple of thirty somethings - motoring offences I should think; an unsavoury looking individual in his early twenties - petty theft or football hooligan?; and a business type in his fifties - fare dodging probably, the older generation have a weakness for that. Oh, and me.
"Mr Baxter, get a move on, please," called out the receptionist, bringing me back from my escapist thoughts.
I almost moved that time, but couldn't quite bring myself to launch the inevitable.
“Do, come along, Mr Baxter, other people are waiting, you know.” - the receptionist was adopting a gently chiding tone now - “And I don’t want to have to call anyone down to assist you.” And that was a thinly veiled threat.
I slowly dragged myself to my feet and walked over to the reception desk.
That jolly smile beamed at me again as she handed me a package. “ Just pop into the cubicle and get undressed, please. Someone will be along for you in a minute.”
The cubicle was a curtained off area in the corner of the room, and I sidled over to it. As I slipped inside I looked furtively at the others still waiting, but they weren’t looking at me.
Once inside I looked at the package she’d given me. It contained a lightweight nylon holdall and a pair of cheap slip on sneakers. I would have slumped down on the chair, only there wasn’t one. I fiddled with the buttons on my jacket to pass a moment or two.
“Mr Baxter....” The receptionist’s voice came floating through the curtains. Perhaps my lack of activity was visible or perhaps she just expected to have to hurry me along. I took off my shoes and put them in the holdall. Then my jacket. Then I fiddled with a few more buttons.
The receptionist stuck her head around the front curtain and tut tutted briskly. “Get finished, NOW, please, Mr Baxter.” and retreated.
I stripped down to my briefs and slipped on the shoes. Taking a deep breath I walked out as calmly as I could and handed the holdall to the receptionist, who regarded me pityingly before sighing and saying in that tone reserved for imbeciles “Everything, Mr Baxter, you have to take off everything.”
I reluctantly pulled off my remaining garment and added it to the contents of the holdall and watched as the receptionist sealed it and placed it on a side table.
"Stand there, please." The receptionist indicated a single black tile in the middle of the floor and there I stood, hands clasped in front of me, waiting to be collected.
Despite the receptionist's earlier insistence that I needed to hurry up, I was left standing there, shivering in a slight draft, for a good five minutes before someone turned up for me. That someone was an attractive woman, dark haired and about my height, in her early twenties, but the circumstances didn't lend themselves to any attempt at a chat up line. In any event she ignored me and went straight to the reception desk.
"Where's this one to go?"
The receptionist looked down her list. "Room 35."
The newcomer picked up the piece of paper the receptionist slid across the desk to her, peeled off the backing and stuck it on the my forehead. I might have been puzzled if I hadn't seen the previous person pass through this process. I had been bar coded.
She addressed me for the first time "Follow me." And she marched briskly out through a side door into a corridor.
"Turn around." She pushed me against the corridor wall, pulled my arms behind me and secured them with the handcuffs from her belt.
I protested mildly at this, to me, unnecessary precaution.
"It said on your notes that you are un-co-operative. I suppose you were too chicken to get undressed. Now you get treated as a security risk."
She took a set of shackles from a rack on the wall and secured them around my ankles.
"Oh, this is just ridiculous," I began to protest, before she cut me short.
"Naked men in handcuffs are in no position to complain about anything else being ridiculous," she snorted." And talking is forbidden. It looks like I'll have to gag you as well."
I backed away as she produced a red rubber ball with a strap threaded through it.
She regarded me calmly. "You can either open your mouth and let me put this in, or I can force it on you with as much assistance as I need to call for. Which do you prefer?"
After a moment's hesitation I slowly opened my mouth and stood there while she pushed the ball into my mouth and secured the strap behind my head.
"Now you can walk upstairs. Lifts are for the co-operative."
The stair well was cold and draughty and it seemed to take an age to shuffle up three flights one step at a time, hobbled by my ankle chains, but at last we reached the third floor and room 35.
She pushed me inside and took me to the middle of the room to clip the chain between my ankle cuffs to an eye bolt in the floor, leaving afterwards without a word.
To be continued
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