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The Apparatus
The Apparatus
The Apparatus
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The Apparatus

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The Apparatus is an insightful satire on government bureaucracy, personal identity and confused human relationships. Set in World War II America, the novel transcends geographical borders and is timeless. The characters in The Apparatus remain nameless, defined by their functions rather than their individuality.

LoCicero's narrator, a young man with an extraordinary ability, recounts his bewildering dealings with the Apparatus, a nebulous organization that is simultaneously frightening and laughable, omnipotent and powerless, omnipresent and invisible, omniscient and unknowing. Its world is a chaotic conglomeration of committees and cubicles, its function unintelligible even to those who are in its most powerful positions. Directing the important Apparatus School, for example, is the "Head Administrator", a sadistic, femme-fatal whose sexual services are enjoyed by the leaders of many governments. What role does the Apparatus play in our lives? One must read LoCicero's work to learn the answer, if indeed, there is an answer.

LanguageEnglish
PublisheriUniverse
Release dateSep 15, 2003
ISBN9781469726649
The Apparatus
Author

Don LoCicero LoCicero

Recently retired after a distinguished career as professor of languages, comparative literature, and creative writing, Dr. LoCicero is an acclaimed author whose novels have been published here and abroad. He continues to write and lecture before national and international audiences. He and his wife, Cecelia, live in Allentown, Pennsylvania.

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    The Apparatus - Don LoCicero LoCicero

    Contents

    THE BEGINNING

    DISCOVERY

    ENLISTMENT

    ATTACK

    THE ADMIRAL’S JACKET

    WASHINGTON

    A NARROW ESCAPE

    THE CHASE

    PLAN

    CONTACT

    TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER

    SECRET JOURNEY

    THE QUESTIONER-ANALYZER

    INTERLUDE

    THE SCIENTIFIC EXAMINER

    THE APPARATUS SCHOOL

    The Guide-Explainer

    THE TOUR

    The Tour

    THE SEX CUBICLE

    DISGRACE

    THE HEAD ADMINISTRATOR’S ASSISTANT

    BON VOYAGE

    ASSIGNMENT

    ARCADIA

    THE LADY OF THE HOUSE

    WITNESS

    FAREWELL MY LADY

    OFFICE SPACE

    A HUT IN THE WOODS

    VIOLENT ENCOUNTER

    THE CLINIC

    EXPLANATION AND DECISION

    To my wife and best friend, Cecelia, and my children, Darius and Mandy, With love

    If you want the world to change, you must first change yourself.

    THE BEGINNING

    I always knew that I was different, even though I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I discovered the extraordinary ability that would keep me an outsider for my entire life. My early, fumbling attempts to deal with the bizarre situation are still vivid in my memory. At first, I suffered from feelings of guilt and shame, but as time passed these emotions paled beside the pervasive sense of danger that dominated my waking hours. I instinctively knew that I had to keep my secret at all costs, even from friends and family, that if anyone inadvertently found me out there could be disastrous consequences. Fortunately, after some initial failures I developed a degree of mastery over it. That is not to say that I realized all of my potential; on the contrary, in retrospect I have to admit that my performance was rather limited considering the myriad possibilities inherent in such a unique talent. But my successes far overshadowed my failures, so on the whole I was well pleased with myself. A bit puzzled, perhaps, but pleased nonetheless.

    As time passed, it became more and more difficult for me to maintain secrecy, and it would have been impossible if my sense of danger hadn’t increased proportionately to my desire to declare myself. It is only now in the twilight of my life, worn down by the stress of having had to carry this burden silenty for so long, that I have decided to make a full, public disclosure. I know that many in public and private life will condemn me for what I am about to say, call me a traitor and call for severe punishment. There will probably be an even greater number of you who will call me either a charlatan or a madman. So be it! My mind is made up, and I won’t be deterred by the probability that certain high officials will seek to discredit me, even go so far as to order my elimination. Let the bastards do their worst! It gives me great pleasure to know that they will squirm like lobsters in boiling water when they read the following pages. I only hope that they feel a fraction of the pain I have had to endure for so many years, pain at times so unbearable that I contemplated putting an end to my troubled existence. But enough of that. It is time to reveal my secret and let the chips fall where they may. My fingers are trembling as I punch the letter keys, but it is too late to back down…. The fact is that I am a changer! Yes, a changer, which simply means that I have the ability to transform myself into virtually any object of my choosing, including furniture and clothing. Moreover, although I haven’t done it very often because of the effort involved, I can become a home appliance or a piece of light machinery. I’ll pause here to give you some time to think about the implications of my revelation….

    I’m sure there are some who immediately want to point out the obscene ways a talent like mine might be used, and I must admit that during my early youth I did things that are unthinkable to me now. After all, I’m only human, and since it’s human nature to be curious, I don’t feel guilty. I was young and curious. Tell me, is that a crime? On the positive side, by doing what I did I was able to learn a great deal more about the human condition than any of my normal contemporaries—particularly the male-female relationship. Let’s face it, to a young boy with active hormones life can be summed up in a three-letter word beginning with s and ending with x. Actually, it was on one such educational outing, my first, that I came closest to being discovered. The mere recollection of it still significantly increases my heartbeat and makes me break out into a cold sweat.

    It was summertime, the kind of hot sultry evening that would entice even the most cautious among us to leave the bedroom window open a crack in the hope of capturing a cool evening breeze. Little did my neighbors realize that one of those breezes would be a twelve-year-old boy with a healthy libido and a bizarre talent.

    I had planned my action much earlier, but until that fateful night I didn’t have either the courage or the opportunity to follow through. As I said goodnight to my parents at about ten o’clock, pretending to be unable to stay awake any longer, I was certain the time had come; I would finally go through with it. Some ten minutes later, my mother opened my door to check on me, and, satisfied by my feigned snoring that I was sound asleep, tiptoed away quietly. I was becoming more excited by the minute. To my delight, the first phase of my plan had gone exactly according to schedule. Next I waited for my parents to retire, which they did promptly after having their customary glass of warm milk at ten-thirty. I waited another fifteen minutes to be certain they were asleep, and then very quietly crept down the stairs, through the door and out into the dark night. I felt dizzy with anticipation as I visualized my goal, thoroughly enjoying the intrigue. I didn’t realize that what I was about to do would serve as valuable training for the more serious challenges my skills would face in the years ahead.

    The dark streets were deserted, with the exception of an occasional cat in search of combat or companionship. I walked along the quiet residential sidewalk like a shadow, ready for any eventuality. After several minutes I arrived at my destination, a simple ranch house much like those surrounding it. The lights were still on as I had hoped they would be. The young couple who lived there, customers on my paper route, had apparently not gone to bed yet. My breath was coming faster by then; rivulets of perspiration dripped from my armpits, tickling my sides.

    While I realize now that my reason for having chosen that particular house was idiotic, at the time it seemed perfectly reasonable. You see, I was convinced that I was in love with its beautiful mistress. My life at the time revolved around collection day, when I would get to see her. On most of these occasions she would invite me in for a glass of soda or a piece of cake and then give me my fee with a nickel tip included. But it was not for a nickel, which was not a meaningless sum in those days, that I yearned. Not at all. What I longed for was to see her smile…hear her voice…breathe in her fragrance—in short, she was my first love, the woman who fired up my fantasy as no one had ever done before or has ever done since…

    I quietly made my way around to the back yard, where the bedroom window was located. I was ecstatic to discover that it was open a few inches. Without hesitating, I stepped over to it, pushed it open further and climbed through, holding my breath so as not to make a sound. My confidence had risen tremendously, and by the time I plopped down onto the soft shag rug below I felt almost omnipotent.

    As could be expected, I was very nervous, but at the same time I felt supremely confident. Without wasting a second, I skipped over to the corner and positioned myself about three feet from the little night table that was next to the bed. Then, concentrating all my thoughts on the task at hand, I transformed myself into a folding chair, an exact copy of one that we had at home, down to the scratches on one of the legs. In retrospect, I can see that it wasn’t the best choice, but my youth and inexperience blinded me to the fact that such an item would be very conspicuous under the circumstances.

    There I stood, waiting, yearning to know whether the stories I had heard in the schoolyard were true. Bright moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, illuminating the other objects in the room. I studied each of them carefully as I waited for what seemed an eternity. My entire being ached with expectation.

    Before I go on with the account of this episode, I’d like to explain a few things. I realize that anyone who is reading this account must have many questions about my gift, and I am only too happy to answer a few of them in advance. Yes, I am able to see and hear when I am in a transformed state, whether my temporary form is a chair, table, lamp or any other object. Yes, I can feel pain and other sensations, although in a quite different way than I do when I am in my normal human form. The one sense that disappears completely is the sense of smell. Why this is so I have never been able to figure out, although on at least one occasion, which I will describe in a later chapter of this work, I was grateful for that particular loss. No, I do not feel any pain during the moment of transformation. The fact is, I feel nothing at all, perhaps because it happens instantaneously. These are the facts, and I offer them in the hope that they will be accepted without skepticism. After all, what reason would I have for lying? It should be obvious that if I were interested in material gain or personal aggrandizement I could gain these in a much easier way than writing this book. For instance, more than one major television network would undoubtedly offer me a considerable sum of money to grant an interview during which I would demonstrate the validity of my claim to the viewing audience. Moreover, there are secret files in the Pentagon and elsewhere which confirm every word I put down here, and while it is doubtful that the government will make them public in the near future, I’m sure that one day it will happen. Until then, the officials involved will continue to deny everything, just as they have done in the past. But I digress…

    I waited. With every passing minute my nerves became more strained as I wondered whether I had made a terrible mistake in being there. Several times I was on the verge of changing back to myself and scampering out through the window, but my curiosity was stronger than my apprehension and so I stayed there in my assumed shape. Then, when I had almost given up, I heard her light footsteps approaching the room. My joy was almost complete as she appeared in the doorway, more beautiful than she had ever seemed before. Her presence exuded an enchanting aura which totally enveloped me…Even today, my heart begins to flutter when I think of that magic moment.

    I had all I could do to retain my assumed form as she walked gracefully over to the night table, scarcely a yard from me, and switched on the small lamp. It was a pretty lamp, in the shape of a smiling cherub holding the multi-colored tiffany lampshade in its hands. I can still see that lamp in my mind’s eye, although my feelings are not nearly as intense as they were at the time. This is understandable, in that when I am in the guise of a piece of furniture I naturally feel a close kinship with other furniture in my vicinity. Don’t get me wrong, though, I never forget for a moment who I really am in my transformed condition. God forbid! I don’t know why this is so, although I’m sure a psychologist would be able to come up with a plausible theory, when I am a particular object, a table for instance, I experience longing to be with other tables. And this feeling is not always a Platonic one.

    My heart almost stopped completely as she stepped in front of me and began to unbutton her blouse. I shivered in expectation as she next began to unzip her skirt. For a few seconds I thought I was going to collapse in a heap. But I held on. I held on, to all the world an ordinary folding chair with no emotions or feelings.

    She paused as she folded her skirt and stepped over to the closet at one side of the room; she had noticed me for the first time. The expression on her face was one of mixed puzzlement and annoyance. For several tension-filled seconds she stared down at me.

    Fred, what is this chair doing in the bedroom? she finally called out, startling me. Fred, she called out again, more loudly this time. Where did this chair come from? To my joy, she continued to undress as she awaited her husband’s reply. By then she was standing less than a foot away from me, clad only in her seductive, silk panties and bra. A previously unknown excitement mingled with the simultaneous fear that I would be unmasked and the growing hope that she would become aware that the folding chair in front of her was actually her loyal paperboy, totally, madly in love with her. How I wished she would come over to me and seat her lovely, soft buttocks upon me. I think that I would have died from sheer excitement and joy.

    Fortunately, however, this did not happen. I say fortunately because I realize now that had she done so I would have been unable to maintain the shape of a chair. It has taken me many years to gain enough self-control to remain in an assumed form when I am under an unusual amount of stress.

    She continued to stand in front of me, delicately outlined by the soft glow of the cherub lamp.

    What chair? came a voice from the hallway, snapping me out of my trance. Her husband entered the room. He looked at his wife for a brief moment and then followed her eyes over to me.

    Where the hell did that come from? he asked, his forehead furrowing. I didn’t notice it here before.

    Something in his tone made me feel extremely self-conscious. Doubts began to plague me, so much so that I wasn’t able to enjoy the beautiful sight in front of me any longer. Had he noticed something? I was, after all, a mere amateur at the time, uncertain of my abilities. Perhaps, I thought, I had done a poor job of duplicating a folding chair; perhaps I had left something out or misinterpreted something. I had practiced many times in front of a mirror, using the chair in my room as a model, but as any performer knows, there is a world of difference between rehearsal and the actual performance. My doubts disappeared, however, when I heard his next words.

    It’s a nice chair, all right, but where the hell did it come from? I never saw it before.

    Neither did I, she answered softly, her hands on her full hips in a questioning, yet suggestive attitude. Maybe my mother brought it over when she came to visit. But I don’t remember her saying anything about it.

    And why would she put it into our bedroom? her husband added, scratching his head.

    Oh well, I’ll ask her about it when I visit her tomorrow, the young bride replied. Anyway, it doesn’t belong here and we have other things to think about right now, don’t we dear? The enticing way she rolled her hips as she spoke sent a shiver down my spine, and when she took two quick steps over to me, grasped me in her small, smooth hand and gently folded me, I thought I would lose consciousness. All the same, I was pleased and proud at the ease with which I folded. My strenuous practice had paid off.

    As her husband nodded approvingly, she carried me over to the closet at the other end of the room. To my great delight she accidentally rubbed me against her shapely leg once or twice during the short, but memorable journey. My thoughts were blurred by passion as she placed me against the wall of the closet. Fortunately, she left the door open a crack so that while I couldn’t see anything, I was able to hear what was going on. For almost two hours I listened to her high pitched moans, punctuated now and then by a lower male response. How I longed to change back to myself and take her husband’s place, or at least to sneak out of the closet to see if the picture I had conjured up in my adolescent imagination was an accurate one. I resisted the impulse, however, and continued to listen.

    At last it became quiet. I waited several minutes until, certain that they were asleep, I reassumed my normal form, bumping my head on the wall of the cramped closet in the process. I pushed the surrounding suits and dresses to the side and got down on all fours. Then, slowly and stealthily I crawled out of the closet toward the hall. I didn’t dare exit from the window for fear that I might wake them. Once in the hall, I stood up and made my way to the door and out. My mission was accomplished. No general who has led his troops to a crushing victory over an enemy army could have felt prouder.

    Minutes later I was home again, back in my comfortable, familiar bed. I quickly drifted off into the most pleasant and exciting dreams I had ever had, dreams of silk and softness and things I hesitate to describe in detail.

    I never did learn how my young couple solved the riddle of the chair, but I suppose they managed to work out some rational explanation when they failed to find it in the closet on the following day. Or maybe they simply forgot about it. While my ego wouldn’t have been able to accept such a possibility in my younger years, age has taught me that I am not the center of the universe. I’ve also learned that some questions will probably always remain unanswered, and have come to terms with the fact that mystery is a part of our short span on this planet. At any rate, I learned a great deal from that experience, and was able to put my gained knowledge to good use during the trying times that followed. Eventually, I did go back to that original training ground, much better prepared for what I intended to do. The novelty had already worn off by that time, however, and so even if I had succeeded it wouldn’t have been the same.

    When I entered the familiar bedroom the second time my plan was much better conceived. Rather than become an unfamiliar object doomed to be shut into a dark closet, I stepped over to the night table, picked up the cherub lamp and placed it under the bed. Then, in the wink of an eye I replicated the lamp, positioning on the end table where I could have a ringside seat to any amorous activity. Again, I waited.

    As is often said, timing is everything. Unfortunately, I had picked an evening when the young lovers were in the middle of a disagreement that they had carried over from earlier in the day. Instead of taking off her clothes as she had during my first visit, the young woman changed into her pajamas in the bathroom and immediately climbed into bed, turned her back on her partner, and covered herself up to the neck with the sheet. I can think of very few times in my life that I felt so let down. To punish her for having caused my disappointment, I left the cherub lamp under the bed when I reassumed my normal shape and departed in disgust some thirty minutes later.

    * * * *

    DISCOVERY

    I know that it sounds incredible, but there was actually a period in my teens during which I allowed my gift to lie relatively dormant. It wasn’t that I felt insecure in my ability, more likely it was my need to feel normal during those difficult teenage years, an age the psychologists say is characterized by acquiescence to peer-pressure. Even young Superman felt the need to fit in or he would never have assumed his middle class Clark Kent alter ego. From time to time, though, I did have the urge to test myself, and was always both pleased and troubled to find that my abilities were as strong as ever. Talk about a crazy species. Humans just can’t seem to be satisfied no matter what they do. Strangely enough, one of my greatest thrills during that segment of my life was the first time I successfully transformed into a fully operative machine. I had always wanted to succeed in doing something like that, but except for the cherub lamp mentioned earlier, I had never seriously concentrated on becoming anything functional. For the record, the cherub lamp, as authentic as it appeared, was just a clever outward copy, not an operational appliance.

    The model for my challenging project was the typewriter my parents had given me for my sixteenth birthday. I worked day and night, studying it down to the smallest detail. Hard work pays off. Within two weeks I had achieved my goal, and as I looked into the mirror set before the true typewriter and myself, even I was unable to determine which one was which. How do I know, you ask, that the typewriter I became actually worked? The truth is, I can’t prove it, but since I was an exact duplicate, down to the slightly worn ribbon, I am confident that if I had been put to the test I would have passed with flying colors.

    Soon after that I graduated to more complex challenges. It became routine for me to fool my mother by posing as the toaster or waffle iron while she went about her kitchen chores. She never guessed. Nor could my father tell that several times it was his son, and not an electric drill hanging from the wall of his workshop. There was only one time that I was put to work during that period, on a morning when I was impersonating the toaster. I am proud to say that when I popped up the two slices of bread my mother had inserted in my slots, they were evenly browned on both sides. However, the experience was not totally positive. Due to the difficulty of that complex transformation, for at least a week afterward I found it impossible to do even the slightest task without feeling exhausted. Since then, I have maintained a heightened respect for electricity, and although I eventually learned how to function more efficiently as a simple electrical appliance, I never succeeded to the degree I would have liked.

    In spite of my many triumphs, like everyone else I had my limits. I’m only human. For example, my efforts to become a useful motorcycle never did succeed. Although I looked exactly like any other Harley Davidson as I stood there parked, with my gleaming kickstand down, for some reason I stalled out within seconds whenever anyone started me up. I think it has something to do with my inability to fully understand a carburetor…But I haven’t given up. As soon as I finish writing this account of my experiences, I intend to accomplish all of those tasks I’ve laid aside during the years. Yes, one day that bike you see speeding down the highway may very well be yours truly. Don’t ask me why I would want to do something so dangerous—I guess what is involved is the same mystical force that motivates an otherwise rational individual to reach the summit of a mountain.

    The day my parents discovered my secret is one which I have tried, although very unsuccessfully, to push back into the furthest

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