Writing for Fun
December 2016
High Voltage - Anne Wilson
The name Professor Milgram meant nothing to him, but the strategically placed advert somehow resonated. Milgram and his team in the Department of Psychology at Yale were recruiting five hundred men, based in New Haven, to assist them in completing a scientific study of memory and learning.
Having fought in two wars in rapid succession Harry Sheldon, a man average in stature and non-descript in appearance, regarded himself as a ‘forgotten man’ – forever consigned to being one of life’s also-rans. Mundane life, mundane marriage. It was a life lived in continuing mediocrity from which he sought to escape and achieve the recognition he so richly craved. The four dollars he would receive for his participation was neither here nor there but the prospect of a day off work embarking on the unknown intrigued him.
To his surprise he was one of the five hundred selected and on arrival at the Unversity he was eventually ushered into a laboratory where he was greeted by a tall, gaunt-faced man in a white coat. Wisps of hair clung tenaciously to his balding head as if to give the illusion that youth was still within recent memory. Sheldon’s crestfallen face could not help but betray his disappointment that this was not Professor Milgram himself but a senior assistant, who was to be styled as ‘The Experimenter’ for the purposes of the study. Recovering his equilibrium he caught sight of a figure seated at a table, as rotund as The Experimenter was slender – cherubic faced and ruddy cheeked as the other man was pale and aesthetic. It was as if the casting department of a film studio had chosen a stereotypical psychologist first and then contrasted him with his diametric opposite as a co-star.
‘Mr. Sheldon, this is Mr. O’Brien,’ the white-coated figure explained. ‘You will both be drawing slips of paper to determine which of you will be The Teacher and which will play the role of The Learner.’ Sheldon was dubious. If he drew the slip of paper bearing the title of The Learner then he would surely be playing a subordinate role to the other man. To his relief the slip of paper confirmed him as The Teacher. His optimism was short-lived, however, as The Experimenter took both of them into an adjoining room where his companion was placed in what appeared to be an electric chair. He proceeded to explain to both Teacher and Learner what would be taking place.
‘Mr. Sheldon, you will be given a list of word pairs which you are to teach to Mr. O’Brien, who will then memorise them. You will then return to the laboratory whilst he remains in the adjoining room and ask him to select the correct word from a first word ‘prompt’ which you will give him. There are four choices of button in the response and Mr. O’Brien will press one of them to indicate his answer. If the answer is correct you will move onto the next ‘prompt word’. For each incorrect answer you will administer an electric shock of 15 volts, increasing in increments of a further 15 for each further incorrect answer.’
A feeling of unease swept over Sheldon.
‘Is it safe?’ he asked in a faltering voice.
‘Perfectly. A normal, healthy individual should be able to withstand shocks of up to 450 volts without experiencing any difficulties whatsoever.’
At this point his fellow-participant coughed nervously.
‘I think I must tell you that I’ve had a problem with my heart,’ he spluttered to no-one in particular. He seemed to regret the admission almost instantly as he added, ‘But my doctor has told me that I’ve made a complete recovery.’
This reassurance did little to quell Sheldon’s unease but he followed The Experimenter back meekly into the laboratory once the ‘teaching’ was completed.
At first the Learner gave several correct answers in succession and Sheldon relaxed palpably, a wave of relief sweeping over him. Then, for the first time came an incorrect one. Sheldon froze.
He hesitated for a few seconds and then administered a shock of 15 volts. The electroshock generator in the next room registered a low, but audible sound. There was no escape now.
A pattern emerged, with a correct answer virtually always followed by an incorrect one, until the volts reached 195. With each increase in voltage the noise of the generator increased. Beads of sweat began to appear on Sheldon’s brow, which he mopped away with a copious sized handkerchief.
He steeled himself to go on, casting a sideways glance at The Experimenter who was writing assiduously at his desk.
A further incorrect answer resulted in administered voltage of 210. This time there was another noise in addition to the generator. It was a human voice.
‘I don’t feel well. It’s my heart!’
Sheldon glanced enquiringly at the impassive figure at the desk. ‘Please continue.’
Gulping nervously Sheldon proceeded with the next question, praying the next answer would be a correct one. It wasn’t. He stopped.
‘The experiment requires that you continue.’ There was an audible squeak from the pen as The Experimenter continued to write.
The voltage increased to 225. Again, the generator was accompanied by a human voice. ‘I feel ill. Please let me out!’
Sheldon hesitated. The figure at the desk remained impassive and spoke in even tones. ‘It is absolutely essential that you continue. Please ask another question.’
Sheldon did as he was bid and another incorrect answer followed. A further 15 volts was administered and this time there was a heavy banging on the wall to accompany the voice. ‘Please, please stop!’
‘I must see if he’s alright.’ Sheldon’s voice sounded unnatural to his ears.
‘You have no other choice. You must go on.’
Sheldon sat motionless for what seemed to him to be an eternity – the banging on the wall continuing even though no questions were being asked, but becoming more and more muffled.
Once again he mopped his brow. His lips started to feel dry and he moistened them in order to restore some calm to counter the ever-rising panic. He knew that if the next question were wrong he would be administering voltage of 255. It was absurd. A man could die – a stranger who had done him no harm. But he felt inexplicably compelled to continue – trapped in a sterile laboratory with an impassive, uncaring figure oblivious to what was obviously happening in the next room.
‘I don’t understand,’ bleated Sheldon. ‘What is the purpose of this? A man may be dying.’
The figure at the desk continued to write and repeated his previous exhortations to continue in the same even tones.
Sheldon started to laugh. It was an hysterical one – likely to turn to tears at any given moment. His face reddened with a mixture of panic and embarrassment.
‘I can’t go on,’ he said in a tremulous voice. ‘I just can’t go on. Please don’t make me.’
It seemed that to Sheldon that everything then happened in dream-like motion – hazily and slowly. The writing stopped and out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the white coat rising from the desk and starting to advance behind him. A hand gently touched his shoulder. ‘Come with me,’ said the voice from behind.
Uncomfortably clammy from his ordeal, Sheldon followed obediently like a chastened child, shrinking back when The Experimenter turned the handle of the room next door.
The door opened to reveal a cherubic faced figure, seemingly in the picture of health advancing with hand outstretched – the absurdity of the formality at odds with the seemingly dramatic backdrop of the situation.
Sheldon’s knees buckled underneath him and a seat was hastily found to accommodate his faltering body.
‘As you can see,’ smiled the man in the white coat, ‘Mr. O’Brien is none the worse for his experience.’ Not usually at a loss for words, Sheldon found himself bereft of them – by turns opening and closing his mouth in stupefaction like a bemused goldfish.
‘Mr O’Brien is not a fellow-volunteer, but in the employ of the University,’ explained The Experimenter slowly as if talking to a child. ‘You see, you have not been participating in a study of memory and learning, but an experiment on obedience. Professor Milgram has been exploring the key as to what could have prompted the Nazis to commit unspeakable atrocities during World War II. Was it due to innate evil, or was it because they were following orders given by an authority figure?’ He smiled – humour and irony not far from the surface.
‘You see, I was that authority figure.’
The goldfish mouth continued on its unchartered journey.
‘But I’m not an evil man,’ Sheldon protested.
‘Indeed you’re not,’ reassured The Experimenter, ‘but you were prepared to conduct a potentially dangerous experiment on a man who claimed he had been ill with heart trouble – merely because I assured you it was safe to do so. When you realised it was not safe you still continued, despite it going against the dictates of your conscience – again, merely because I continued to instruct you to do so.’
Sheldon’s woebegone face heralded a further reassurance.
‘Mr. Sheldon, some volunteers were prepared to continue to the maximum voltage of 450 and most exceeded the point at which you were not prepared to continue. In some experiments I was replaced by a man wearing a suit – either from the outset or midway through and in each instance the voltage administered by the volunteers was at the lower end of the scale. The perception of an authority figure being present throughout the experiment increased the lengths to which the volunteers were willing to go.’
This particular volunteer was not comforted by the statistics and relief started to give way to annoyance followed by anger – both at having been duped in the first place and, as a consequence, having behaved in a possibly over-wrought fashion beneath his dignity.
He rose majestically to his feet, waving away the proffered hand of each man present. Marching into the office to collect his outside coat he refused the offer of a paltry fifty cents in reimbursement for his car fare and strode purposefully into the car park, locating his car with some difficulty amongst a myriad of others. Two cars along a fat, well fed face was about to turn the key in the lock of his own transportation. Cheshire-cat like in its smugness the face beamed at Sheldon, sensing the other man was suppressing an irresistible urge to speak to him but losing the battle. He was correct.
Sheldon rounded on him.
‘Look here,’ he said petulantly. ‘There’s just one thing I don’t understand.’
‘I think I know what you’re about to ask me,’ countered O’Brien.
Momentarily floored, Sheldon hesitated for a moment before resuming.
‘How could you possibly know that I would draw the piece of paper which would make me The Teacher?’
‘Ah,’ O’Brien smiled as if in the confessional and about to reveal a heinous sin. He reached into his pocket and brought out two pieces of well-worn paper bearing a familiar look. On each one was printed the word ‘Teacher’. ‘No-one ever asks to see mine.’ With that he turned the key, grinned broadly and drove away.