Your Fathers, Where Are They? And the Prophets, Do They Live Forever?

BUILDING 54

— Do you know why you’re here?

— No. Where am I?

— I’m not telling you that.

— How did you get me here?

— It wasn’t hard. I waited for you to bring out the recycling.

— Oh my god.

— You’re locked to that post, and you’ll stay there until we’re done.

— Don’t hurt me.

— I have no plans to do that. This is a deposition.

— A deposition.

— I think you know what it’s about.

— I don’t. Who are you?

— Maybe you could guess.

— You want me to guess?

— I want you to guess why you’re here. There’s no way the astronaut or the congressman knew why they were brought here, but you really might have an idea. I actually think you already know.

— I don’t.

— You do, though.

— Sir, I don’t know what you want.

— Sir? Wow, I like that. I like you calling me Sir. Thank you. That actually helps me see you in a more favorable light. Now do you remember me?

— No, I don’t. My head hurts so much. And I can’t see that far.

— Are these yours? I found them in my bag and I didn’t know whose they were. You didn’t wear glasses when I knew you.

— You were a student?

— Yes. I was a student in your class. Sixth grade. Ah, I just saw something in your eyes. Some flash of fear. Now do you know why I’m here and you’re here?

— No. I don’t.

— Okay, now you’re defiant again. I heard that about you. I heard you were good. You passed lie detector tests and everything. And the thing is, you really might be innocent. No one knows for sure. That’s why you’re here.

—

— Now you’re not talking. Does it feel weird to be chained to a post?

—

— You really should answer. I haven’t had to use the taser yet, but I would use it on you. You’re the first one I would not mind using it on.

— Sir, what are your plans for me?

— Again, I love the Sir. I really do. But I have to say, that penitent tone makes you seem more guilty. You should consider that.

— Please, will you tell me what your plans are for me?

— My plans are to ask you questions and for you to answer them.

— Okay. And then what?

— And then I let you go.

— You’ll let me go?

— You and the astronaut and everyone else will be let go. I have a real astronaut three buildings over. He’s an honorable man. And I have a former congressman. He gave me the idea to find you, indirectly at least. He’s an honorable man, too. You, though, I don’t know. Well, I do know. You’re not an honorable man. I know that much. At the very best, you’re just sad and twisted. Maybe just lonely. But I think you’re more than that. I think you’re a monster. Now do you know why you’re here?

— I think you should just explain it. I don’t want to guess.

— You don’t want to guess. Okay. Now you just painted yourself into a corner. That means you did other terrible things. You did so many terrible things that you don’t know which of them this is about. That’s what you just revealed to me. You said that you don’t remember what you did to me. That it could be any number of crimes.

— I didn’t say that.

— You didn’t need to.

— Please. Let’s stay specific here. I don’t remember you, but I trust now that you were a student at Miwok Middle School. Were you one of the students who filed a complaint against me?

— Ah, now suddenly you’re all business. Good. You acknowledge that complaints were lodged against you.

— There were seven complaints. Nothing was proven.

— But you left teaching.

— Yes. It was impossible to stay under those circumstances.

— Circumstances you created.

— There was no trial and there was no hearing.

— God, it’s like you have it rehearsed. I guess you have to. If you talk to a cousin or nephew and they ask you why you left teaching, you have to recite this stuff about “allegedly” and “no hearing” and all that. What did you tell your parents?

— My father is dead. But my mother knows the truth.

—“My mother knows the truth”! Wow. That is a revealing comment. What is the truth, Mr. Hansen?

— The truth about what?

— Yes! You are brilliant! You know how to turn it back to me, to make sure you don’t say anything too broad. You don’t want to say, for example, that you didn’t mean to touch that one kid in the bathroom, because maybe I don’t know about that one kid in the bathroom. This is fun, Mr. Hansen! You’re more fun than the others. I have to draw this out. I have to make sure I don’t rush it. Okay, let’s see. Do you remember the late eighties, Mr. Hansen?

— Yes, I remember the late eighties.

— Watch the attitude, Mr. Hansen. You’re tied to a post. You’re ten miles from the nearest highway. I could bludgeon you and you’d never be found. You know this?

— Yes.

— And you’re really the first one in this whole process I would actually hurt. I’m guessing you can tell I don’t have much to lose, right?

— Yes. I can sense that.

—“I can sense that.” That is great. Yes. I’m risking a lot here. Having you and the astronaut and everyone out here. But Jesus, so far, it’s been so worth it. I’ve learned so much. It’s like all the pieces are coming together. The one thing I’m kicking myself about is that I didn’t do this sooner. You should have been brought here sooner. Twenty years ago. You don’t belong with people just like I don’t belong with people.

— I trust you have someone you’re seeing? A professional?

— Don’t talk to me that way. You know I’m making sense. I’ve done an unusual thing here, but I’m not irrational. You know that. Your undergraduate degree was in psychology. But I guess that never means anything.

— No. Not in my case.

— Isn’t that funny, the undergrads who major in psychology? It’s like half of every college, these psych majors. They have no idea why they’re studying psychology. It’s like majoring in faces, or people. “I’m majoring in multiple-choice questions about people.”

— Right.

— See, still with the attitude. You have a smarmy way about you, you know that?

—

— Were you always that way? I can’t remember.

— I don’t know.

— You should be making yourself more appealing, not less, don’t you think?

— I suppose so.

— But even your phrasing is smarmy. “I suppose so.” Who talks like that?

— I can’t help the way I talk.

— Of course you can. Now stop being so smarmy.

— I will try.

— Now that: “I will try.” You really should just say “I’ll try.” Use contractions. Contractions will make you sound more like a regular human being.

— Okay.

— Are you one of those assholes who says either with the long i?

— No.

— That wasn’t convincing. I bet you are. You know who says either with the long i? Assholes.

— Sir, I want to do whatever I can to help you. Why did you bring me here?

— But how can I be surprised that you’re an asshole? I brought you here because you’re an asshole.

— So you were one of the complainants?

— No.

— But you were in my class?

— Yes. Remember me?

— I might if you give me your name.

— No, asshole. But I remember you being the fun teacher. Was that your goal, to seem like the cool one, the fun one?

— I don’t know.

— You dressed like us. Or tried to dress young at least. I remember you wearing Jordache jeans. Do you remember wearing Jordache jeans?

— I don’t know.

— You wear Jordache jeans and don’t remember? That’s not something you forget. That’s a full commitment. They were made for women, so when a man wore them, it was all-out. There was no halfway to those pants. That’s a major life decision you wouldn’t forget. Now tell me if you wore Jordache jeans.

— I believe I did.

— See, where does a worm like you come from? First you wear Jordache jeans. Then you deny it. Then, when you admit it, you say, “I believe I did.”

— Sir, what does this have to do with anything?

— It has everything to do with everything. You were trying to insinuate yourself. You were trying to garner our trust. You were trying to seem like us, our age, harmless, cool.

— I don’t know about that.

— Then you could get the babysitting jobs.

—

— Right?

—

— Do you remember babysitting for Don Banh?

— Yes.

— Good. That was good. A straight answer. You did overnights.

— Yes.

— When their parents were gone for a week or whatever, you would stay with the kids, feed everyone, tuck everyone in at night, sleep over. You remember?

— Yes.

— What were the Banh kids’ names?

— Don, John, Christina, Angelica.

— So you remember them.

— Of course I do.

— Funny how selective your memory is.

—

— Do you remember me coming over while you babysat?

— No.

— You liked to wrestle. I remember coming over one night and walking into the basement and you were there wrestling with Don and John. You were all sweating.

—

— So why the wrestling, Mr. Hansen?

— Were we clothed?

— What?

— Were we clothed?

— Yes. You were. So what?

— I just want to stick to what happened and what you saw. If we’re going to do this, I want to stick with facts, and not conjecture and insinuation.

— I can’t believe this. You’re on the offensive.

— I’m trying to keep us factual.

— Good. Good, motherfucker. I want to be factual, too. Good.

— So let me ask you a question.

— You’re going to ask me a question?

— May I?

— May you? Mother may you? Fuck yeah, go ahead.

— Did your father ever wrestle with you?

— You weren’t their father.

— But did your father wrestle with you?

— Yes. Probably. I didn’t see him much after I was six.

— And where was the Banhs’ father?

— I don’t know.

— He was gone. I was the primary male presence in their lives.

— So you thought, These poor fatherless boys need a grown-up man to take them into the basement for some sweaty wrestling.

— I did everything a parent would do. When they were in my care, I fed them, got them ready for school, made sure they brushed their teeth. And we played any number of games, including just horsing around.

— You know what? You shouldn’t say that. Horsing around implies things you don’t want to imply. You sound guilty with words like that.

— Thomas, what is it that you think I did?

— Wait. Now you know my name?

— I’ve been scanning my mind, and I found you.

— Oh shit. You are terrifying. The way you said that. “I found you.” Do you know how you sound? I don’t want you using my name.

— That’s fine. But again, what do you think I did?

— The same thing all the complainants said you did.

— Did you ever read the complaints, Thomas?

— I told you not to use my name.

— I’m sorry. Did you read the complaints?

— I read about them.

— What do you think they said?

— That you diddled kids. That you’re a molester.

— Do you really think the complaints said that?

— Yes.

— And if the complaints said that, they would just let me walk away? No charges? No prison?

— It was a different time.

— It might have been a different time, but if I’d been accused of molestation, they would not have allowed me to just retire and live in the next town over.

— So why did you quit teaching?

— I had to quit. The insinuations were distracting to everyone.

— So you quit on your own volition? To save everyone from distraction?

— That’s correct.

— No one asked you to quit?

— No one did. We all discussed it, though, and I was the first to bring up the possibility of me resigning.

— You brought it up.

— I believe so.

— You “believe so.” Hansen, your mouth keeps making mistakes. Okay though. I want to get back to all that. But let’s walk through this first. Do you remember me coming to your house?

— No.

— God. I feel like hitting you so badly.

— I don’t remember. Did you come to my house?

— I did.

— Okay.

— It’s not okay, Mr. Hansen. What the fuck is a “math party”?

—

— See. Now you’re scared. You fucking sick fuck.

— Stop. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

— Don’t get ahead of myself?

— I’m sorry for my tone. But you said we would stick to facts, and what happened, and what you personally saw.

— Right. It was 1989. I was eleven. I was with Don Banh and Peter Francis. Do you remember inviting us over to your house for a “math party”?

— Yes.

— Yes?

— Yes.

— Well shit. That is fascinating. You said yes! That is amazing. Well, that’s the first time you’ve demonstrated some spine. So you do remember it.

— I remember it. But I don’t specifically remember you being at my house.

— Okay, fine. But what the fuck is a math party, Mr. Hansen?

— I fed you kids, and we did math homework.

— Really? That was it?

— That was the primary purpose.

— Well now you’re a liar again. That was the primary purpose? That was the primary purpose? Don’t fuck with me. You’re saying that your great idea was to invite sixth-grade boys over to your house and teach us math? That this couldn’t be done after school or in a classroom or anything vaguely appropriate? That it had to be at your house, at night, and we had to sleep over? That this was a great idea? The primary purpose was math?

— Yes. I taught math, and this was a way for some students to catch up on concepts they didn’t understand.

— Why did we sleep over, Mr. Hansen?

— I don’t know. Probably because you all were having fun.

— How many beds were in that house, Mr. Hansen?

— In the house I lived in then?

— Yes.

— I don’t know.

— I’m about to kick you in the head.

— Three.

— Good. Do you remember where we all slept that night?

— No.

— Don’t make me get up.

— I’m assuming you’re upset because you slept in my bed.

— Why the fuck did we sleep in your bed, Mr. Hansen?

— I don’t know. I’m guessing we fell asleep watching a movie. That’s the real reason why you kids wanted to come over, because I’d let you watch scary movies.

— I didn’t like scary movies.

— Well, then I don’t know why you came over. Why did you come over?

— I came over because my crazy mother heard Don was going, and she thought you’d help me with my math. She thought it was some honor to come to your fucking math party. Did you rape us, you sick fuck?

— No.

— Mr. Hansen, I haven’t harmed anyone out here. But you’re making a strong case for getting your head kicked in.

— I didn’t hurt you. I didn’t even undress you, any of you.

— You didn’t undress us.

— No. I promise you. I did not.

— Okay. I want to table that for a second. We’ll come back to the clothes. First I want to get back to the beds. Don told me he came to four of your math parties. And each time he remembers being carried to your bed and then to another bed where he woke up. Why did you move him around?

— He probably remembers wrong. The kids typically fell asleep in my bed.

— Watching movies.

— Right. And then I’d carry them to the guest room.

— Well that sounds positively innocent.

— I know it doesn’t sound innocent.

— How do you think it sounds?

— I think it sounds inappropriate.

— Did you know it sounded inappropriate then?

— Yes.

— So why did you do it?

— Why did I invite you over for movies?

— Yes.

— I was lonely.

— That’s it?

— Thomas, are you planning to harm me?

— No. I don’t know. Maybe. I’m vacillating between wanting to harm you and feeling bad for you. Why?

— Thomas, if you give me your word that you won’t harm me, I can fill in the details of the night you spent at my house. I understand why you’d want to know what exactly happened. I can do that. But I won’t do it if you’re going to kill me irregardless.

— That’s not a word. You should know that. You’re a teacher.

— What’s not a word?

— Irregardless. It’s just like saying either with the long i. You think you sound smarter, but you sound stupider. You should just stick to regular words. Don’t stretch.

— Okay. Sorry.

— Don’t be sorry. Just be smarter. You want to know whether I’ll guarantee your safety. Well, let’s see. I have to say … no. I can’t guarantee anything. I don’t owe you that.

— Thomas, I didn’t harm you. I didn’t harm Don.

— I don’t believe you. And don’t say my name.

— Okay. Then why did you bring me here?

— What do you mean?

— You went to a lot of trouble to get me here. But you’re rejecting my offer to fill in the gaps in your memory. I want you to have peace with this. You’re not the first former student to come to me wanting to know about those nights.

— And what did you tell them?

— The same thing I’m telling you. That what I did was inappropriate but that nothing terrible happened. You were not raped.

— See, this is what I don’t understand. Why risk your job and going to jail and everything else to bring boys to your house if you weren’t going to rape us?

— I told you. I was lonely. And it wasn’t just boys.

— You brought girls, too?

— Thomas, I need your assurance you won’t harm me, and that you’ll let me go. I have people in my life who count on me and who need me. My mother lives with me. She’s ninety-one. I feed her. I’m guessing it’s the afternoon now, so she’ll already be wondering where I am.

— You know, Mr. Hansen, you just made a tactical mistake. You fucked up, you fucked with the minds of however many kids who were under your care, and now you’re making demands of me.

— I didn’t mean it to come off like a demand. I was just trying to give you a sense of the other people in my life. You had an experience with me twenty years ago, but much has happened since.

— Okay, I understand you were trying to humanize yourself there. I know. If I know about your ancient mother, it supposedly makes it harder for me to harm or kill you. But in this case that’s stupid. I already know you’re a human being. And I know that you’re a monster. And now I know you have a ninety-one-year-old mother, who we both know has lived a long life, and besides, she raised a twisted man. So I’m not overflowing with sympathy.

— You won’t guarantee my safety.

— No. But I will say that if you tell me everything, and if what you tell me seems credible, then I’ll be more likely to leave you alone than if you keep telling me about your ninety-one-year-old mother who raised a pederast.

— I’m not a pederast.

— You invited boys to sleep over and you’re not a pederast?

— I acted inappropriately, I know this. But there are degrees to everything.

— You’re so sick.

— Thomas. You’re a smart guy. And given you’ve chained me to a post, I know you understand moral choices that are a bit off the beaten path. So I hope you’ll understand what I mean when I say that there is a good deal of grey in the world. It’s not a popular belief, I know, but most of the world is grey. I know that if a man touches a boy’s ass once, he can be labeled a pedophile forever, but that’s not fair, either. We’ve lost all nuance.

— We’ve lost all nuance? We’ve lost all nuance? You want to talk about nuance now? What the fuck does this have to do with nuance?

— You’ve brought me here because you assume that because I invited boys to sleep over, that I raped them. But I did not do that.

— So why bring them to your house? That’s the part I don’t get.

— Thomas, tell me something. You’re a single man?

— Yes.

— Are you straight?

— Yes.

— Have you brought women back to your apartment?

— Yes.

— Did you have sex with each one?

— What? No.

— Then why bring them home?

— That’s a stupid analogy.

— Did anyone ever mistake your intentions?

— What do you mean?

— When you got them home, was there ever confusion about your intentions? Did anyone ever think you planned to force your will onto them?

— No.

— I assumed not.

— Fuck you.

— But you could have. That could have been your intention.

— No. It couldn’t have been.

— But maybe something goes wrong. Maybe you brought twenty women to your apartment, and let’s say each encounter was safe and consensual.

— Yes. They all were.

— But what if the twenty-first encounter wasn’t? What if, during that one encounter, you both were drunk and there was confusion about consensuality? And later she accused you of date rape. If you’re arrested, or tried, or even just accused, immediately there’s doubt about the other encounters, the other twenty, right? Who knows what your intentions were. Maybe you raped them all. Or maybe you tried to. To the outside world, and to all the women who had consensual relations with you, your intentions are suddenly unclear, even in hindsight. Suddenly, to everyone, you’re capable of terrible things.

— Not possible.

— But of course it is. An accusation alone puts your entire character in doubt. This is how it works. An accusation is ninety percent of it. Anyone can ruin anyone with an accusation. And people are only too happy to be able to write someone off, to throw them into the pile of the depraved and subhuman. One less person. There are too many people, the world is too crowded. We’re suffocating, right? And clearing some of them away lets us breathe. Each person we throw away fills our lungs with new air.

— You’re getting off topic.

— I don’t think so. You have to realize that you’re a victim of this thinking, too. You heard something about me, and you brought me here, fully expecting me to conform to your idea of a throwaway person. But I’m not a throwaway person, am I?

— I don’t know yet.

— But we put no value on each other, do we? There are too many people. There are too many people in any given city, any given country. Certainly there are too many people on this planet, so we’re so anxious to throw away as many of them as possible. Given any excuse at all, we can erase them.

—

— What if there were only ten of us on Earth? What if there were only ten people you had to choose from who had to help rebuild civilization after some apocalypse?

— Oh Jesus. What’s your point?

— My point is that if there were only ten people on Earth, there’s no way that you would think I was dispensable. If I had wrestled with Don and had kids over to my house, you would never think those crimes so unforgivable that you’d send me away. I would still be useful. You’d talk to me, you’d work it out. But with so many people, no one person is worth so much. We can clear away wide swaths of people like they were weeds. And usually we do it based on suspicion, innuendo, paranoia. Whole classes of people. Including anyone vaguely associated with pedophilia. They don’t get fair trials, they’re sent away, and when they try to come back, they can’t even live. They live under bridges, in tents, huddled together.

— I don’t know what this has to do with you and boys.

— I’m not a rapist. You’re presupposing that anyone I brought into my house I intended to rape. But that wasn’t the case. Just as it wasn’t the case that you intended to have sex with every woman who ever entered your home. Your argument is circumstantial.

— But why bring the kids to your house? Why not just meet them after school?

— Why don’t you meet every woman in, say, a public park?

— Because I might want some privacy.

— Am I, too, allowed privacy?

— Not with kids.

— Is any adult allowed to be alone with any child?

— Yes. Listen. You made whatever point you meant to make. And I don’t care. Now you have to tell me about the tailor game.

— The what game?

— See? Your face just tensed up. You didn’t think I’d remember. Do you remember the measuring tape?

— Yes. The tailor game was also inappropriate.

— Tell me what happened.

— I had a measuring tape and we measured each other’s arms and legs and shoulders.

— You don’t think that’s sick?

— It’s inappropriate.

— I can’t have anyone crouch near me without thinking of you holding that measuring tape against my leg. When people kneel down to tie their shoes anywhere close to me I think of you.

— That couldn’t be my fault.

— Of course it’s your fault! You think I had a problem with all that before you and your fucking tailor game?

— Okay, I’m sorry.

— That’s it? You’re sorry?

— I’m sorry, but tell me this: Did I touch you?

— I have no idea. I assume you did.

— But there you go again. Your mind is filling in what didn’t happen. You’re filling in with what you assume were my intentions. But I never touched any of you kids.

— But you wanted us to touch you.

— That’s not true either.

— You had us measure your inseam, too, you fucker. Why would you have us measure your inseam if you didn’t want us to touch your dick?

— Do you remember touching me there?

— No, but I assume we all did. I remember looking up at you and you were looking at the ceiling, like you could barely contain yourself. You were about to jizz.

— Thomas, I admit it was a little thrill when you would measure my inseam, but I didn’t actually have any of you touch me. I did not touch you and you didn’t touch me. It was all highly inappropriate, yes, no doubt about it. But I was acutely aware of the law, and I did not break any laws. It wasn’t rape. It wasn’t assault. I acted inappropriately, and that’s why they asked me to resign, which I did. And that was the correct punishment. I didn’t belong in a school, and it was decided I should leave, and I did.

— So you went on to do it elsewhere.

— No, I did not. You have to stop making these leaps. I’m not part of some larger narrative. I’m me. I am one person, and my story is absolutely unique. I don’t conform to any established modus operandi. I’m not a priest who was shuffled around from church to church or whatever narrative has been established in your mind. I was asked to resign, and I did, and I was relieved.

— You were relieved?

— I was. Being around all of you was too much of a temptation. But once I left, the temptations were removed.

— That is really hard to believe.

— But you must believe it. I’m chained to a post, and I’m telling you the truth.

— But it defies belief. It defies all known pathology. A pederast who just reforms himself? It’s not possible.

— Thomas, do you know anything about addiction psychology?

— No.

— Well, this conversation is reminiscent of my time in AA. For a while, probably while dealing with my own proclivities, I was occasionally drinking too much. And my AA friends were convinced I was an alcoholic. They brought me to meetings, and they insisted that I quit drinking for good. But I was not an alcoholic. They couldn’t accept that even though I used alcohol to cope sometimes, it didn’t mean I was out of control or that alcohol was hampering or altering my path through life.

— I don’t know what this has to do with you and your tendencies toward boys.

— The point is that it’s similarly polarized. The thinking is similarly flawed, and it makes people crazy. Tell me, do you have any friends who are alcoholics?

— Yes.

— Are they all the same?

— No.

— Do they all go on three-day benders and kill people in drunk-driving car accidents?

— No.

— Do they all lose their jobs and families because they can’t quit drinking? Because they’re drinking twenty-four hours a day?

— No.

— So are you sure they all have the same disease?

— I don’t know.

— If I walked into an AA meeting and suggested that I had a “problem” with alcohol but was not an alcoholic, they would run me out of the building. And yet maybe I do have a small problem. Maybe, twice a year, I have one more drink than I should, and I say something I regret. Maybe once or twice a year I pass out, alone, at home, after drinking too many Manhattans. Once a year I drive home when I should take a cab. Am I an alcoholic? Many would say yes. Many would say you either are or are not. They use that old chestnut, You can’t be a little pregnant. You know that one?

— Yes.

— It’s trotted out in situations where nuance is unwelcome.

— Like yours.

— Right. I’m not an alcoholic, and I’m not a rapist. I’m a flawed person who has wandered into territory that could be very dangerous, but then I wandered back to a less problematic path. You can call me a sick man. I am. You can say I did a number of things I should not have done. But I am not a rapist and not a pederast. And I have never touched any naked part of a child, nor have I asked them to touch any naked part of me.

— But you twisted the minds of many people.

— Did I?

— Of course you did.

— Can I give you a corollary?

— Can you give me a corollary?

— Yes.

— Sure. Give me a corollary, you sick fuck.

— When I was growing up there was a house on my street that was overrun with foliage. You could hardly see the house through all the trees and ivy. But this house was known by us kids as the place where you could go and get candy. You could just knock on the door and this older woman would invite you inside and you could choose candy from a bowl. Now this, today, would seem wildly inappropriate, right?

— Yes.

— And telling that story to anyone, which I’ve done over the years, has always provoked disgust. People assume that any child walking inside that place was a victim and that the woman had some ulterior motive. That there were cameras somewhere, that there was some sick purpose to her inviting us in. It all fits some narrative that’s now so well established that it’s crowded out all other possibilities. There was the green-shrouded house, the gingerbread look of it. You assume dark and terrible things are happening inside. But they weren’t.

— How do you know?

— Because they never did. I’ve talked to a dozen others who knew the house and went inside and nothing ever happened to any of them. The lady just wanted it to be Halloween every day. She was lonely. But we could never accept that now. We categorize everything with such speed and finality that there’s never any room for nuance. Let me posit that the mind-twisting you speak of comes from outside, not within. That is, those who want to name things, to sweep them into categories and label them, have swept your experience into the same category as those children who were actually raped, those who were lured into showers and thrown against the wall and had a grown man’s penis inserted into their rectum repeatedly.

— See, just your ability to talk that way …

— Thomas, this is important. Is playing tailor fully dressed the same as having a penis thrust into your twelve-year-old rectum?

— See, you are sick. Only a sick fuck could have said that.

— I’m trying to make clear the difference between what I did and what an actual rapist does. I couldn’t even undress you boys. Doesn’t that make clear that I’m not the same kind of monster?

— Maybe you’re a different kind of monster. But you’re still a monster.

— I won’t accept that. You came over to my house. Don came over to my house. We watched movies. We played tailor. Then you fell asleep on my bed. You woke up and went home. That is the work of a monster?

— Absolutely. We trusted you and you had other intentions toward us. You used us.

— And what would you call what you’re doing to me?

— I’m asking you questions. You harmed me, and this is the least amount of payback imaginable.

— How about the astronaut? You kidnapped him to ask him questions. But he did nothing to you.

— Don’t worry about the astronaut. I haven’t harmed the astronaut. You’re the only one I would even think of harming.

— You would be harming someone who harmed no one.

— That is fucking insane.

— I did nothing but imagine them.

— So you admit that you got sexual excitement from children.

— Of course I did. Don’t you ever see a woman on the street and later masturbate thinking about them?

—

— Well, I do the same thing. My fantasies might be sick, but I can’t make it work any other way. The machinery of my mind is what it is. And mine is warped; it is societally unacceptable. But I know that touching a child, that acting on these desires, is wrong, and I have done nothing illegal.

— You don’t buy child porn.

— I don’t anymore.

— You don’t anymore?

— When I was younger I did. But I realized how it impacted actual children, so I stopped. The last time I saw an image of a naked child was 1983.

— So since then you just see a boy on the street and then imagine him naked?

— Not exactly.

— Then what exactly?

— This level of detail isn’t useful, is it?

— This level of detail is exactly why you’re here.

— Okay. I think of a boy measuring my inseam.

— Oh god. Like how old is this boy?

— The same age you were. Eleven, twelve. That’s why we played the game.

— So you could store up those images for later masturbation.

— Yes.

— And all these years since, you’re still thinking of Don Banh measuring your inseam?

— Not so much him. Listen, I know it’s sick. I wish my brain worked in a different way. I know it’s wrong, that it’s considered sick. But none of this extends beyond the confines of my head, Thomas. I swear to you.

— So that’s it? For twenty years, you just think of boys measuring your inseam? No action taken?

— That’s right. Listen. I am sorry that you came to my house. And that Don came to my house, and anyone else. I can never rectify the fact that I acted inappropriately and that I scarred you kids in some way. But again, there are limits to the blame I can assume for whatever else happened in your lives after that.

— But why Don?

— Don was from a certain kind of home. You must know that those who seek to be close to boys seek out those whose parents are missing or inattentive, or who have certain blind spots.

— So Don’s mom thought this was some great honor, that you’d invite him over to your house.

— Yes. She trusted me, and she valued my mentorship.

— Your mentorship. Holy shit.

— Again, you’ll find it unacceptably complex, but I spent many hundreds of hours with Don and his brother, and most of that time was in the role of a parent. I cooked for them, I helped them with their homework, I took care of them. I was a male figure in their lives where there was no other.

— A male figure who masturbated thinking of them measuring your inseam.

— Yes.

— You’re right. It’s unacceptably complex. And so wait — was I one of these kids, too? With the parents who were absent and had blind spots?

— I don’t know.

— But you do. Don’t worry about offending my mom.

— I don’t remember your mom, but I assume that at the time, I had a sense that your home was not as strong as others.

— So I was a target. Did you make a list or something?

— A list?

— Of targets. Kids you had identified as potential sleepover participants.

— Yes.

— Yes? You said yes?

— Because this was so long ago, and because I want to be completely candid with you, and because this was part of a life I abandoned and for which I have only shame, I will continue to be honest with you. I had a list every year of the new sixth graders who I designated as potential guests at my house.

— Based on just the parental situation?

— That, and height, hair, looks.

— What kind of looks?

— Any boys who were too tall or developed weren’t part of the list. I liked long hair. There were parameters physically, and then I cross-referenced that with the parental factors.

— And this ended up being a list of how many every year?

— Maybe eight, ten kids.

— And these you would invite over.

— Yes.

— And of them how many would come over?

— Maybe three, four.

— And that was enough?

— Yes. And from the three or four, I might get closer with one.

— One like Don.

— Right.

— And when did you start babysitting for them?

— A few months later. Don’s mom was going back to Vietnam to visit her family, and she asked me to stay with the kids.

— Lucky you.

— Yes.

— And I was on your list, too.

— I assume so.

— But somehow I didn’t get to the next level.

— Well, presumably your parents …

— It was just my mom.

— Either your mom sensed something weird about the sleepovers or you did. You said you came over just once?

— Yes.

— That usually meant that there was a sense from someone that it was not right.

— Were you ever scolded? Any dad who would have found out about this would have murdered you.

— No, not always. Some dads cooperated fully.

— God.

— But yes, it was easier when there were no dads in the picture.

— But so someone would question the sleepovers, and that kid would be removed from the rotation?

— Yes. Maybe in your case your mom …

— Not my mom. She was completely out of it.

— Well, then maybe it was you.

— I don’t know. I wish I could remember.

— See? The fact that you can’t remember proves that the harm to you was minimal.

— You’re in no position to make assumptions like that.

—

— So you think there was something wrong with my mom?

— Excuse me?

— You targeted me because of my mom?

— I have no idea. I’m only saying that typically there was something missing at home that allowed me some degree of access.

— Okay. Okay.

— I’ve told you all I can.

— Your candor was helpful to your situation here.

— So you’ll free me now?

— No.