domestic rehabilitation

Jeremy Smith had been the CEO of a multimillion dollar corporation for twenty-five years, and yet, he found himself in the back of a van with an eye mask obscuring his vision and his arms restrained behind his back. 

A literal eye mask. A cooling one, like the kind his wife out in the freezer but forgot about: His kidnappers had said, “Might as well tackle this puffiness while we get where we are going.” They had snapped it onto his face and it hurt a little. He scrunched his nose to make sure it wasn’t broken. Damn, it stung. 

The van (he hadn’t actually gotten a good look at it but from the movies with kidnapping he assumed it was a van) had an overall pleasant smell, almost like chocolate chip cookies. But with a metallic undertone. 

Blood? 

He fought his restraints then, really fought, and to his shock broke free. He flipped the eye mask off. Fuzzy, hot pink handcuffs? He rubbed a wrist with one hand and took in his surroundings. 

A shag interior of baby pink. A privacy screen painted with bright florals. And a girl with two low pigtails flanking each ear. She was going at a large piece of pink gum, filing her nails. A corset top, her rack spilling out. He appreciated the display. 

He looked up. Her hands kept grooming, but her eyes had found his. She kept chewing her gum, maintaining eye contact. 

“Ma’am? I mean, miss? Is there some sort of mistake? A ladies night gone wrong?” He chuckled heartily, his darting eyes betraying him. Her gaze was unsettling. And he noticed the knife in hand that was most certainly not a file. She was digging a rust-colored substance out from under her nails. He now noticed her knuckles, red and raw. 

He gulped. “What happened there?” He gestured limply toward her injured hand. 

She smiled then, mouth  closed, eyes narrowed. “Just keep your hands to yourself and you won’t find out.” Her smile deepened, then her eyes returned to the knife, the nails.

Jeremy could probably force himself out. But he was a good man. He would never hit a woman.

A sharp knock from the other side of the floral screen. “You ok in there? We need to stop, get him re-situated?” The voice was sweet with a slight twang. He imagined a blonde wearing a mini skirt and cowgirl boots. Jessica Simpson version of the Dukes of Hazzard. 

The pigtail woman had snapped her pocketknife closed. “Nah. It doesn’t matter. We are pretty much there.” She smiled a real smile then, her eyes brightening. He took one last peek at her chest.

The windows. He can check for clues. They were uncovered, as though the presence of the women alone wasn’t evidence enough that he was dealing with amateurs here. He hadn’t clawed his way up in business being a wimp. 

He squinted, not quite believing his eyes. The windows were uncovered but the only thing he could make out through the window was nondescript red columns, fused together into an arc over the van. Like a tunnel made of interlocking fuzzy handcuffs. The doom-inspiring Willy Wonka tunnel, though with an upholstered detail. 

He felt a pang then. He had no idea where he could possibly be. The van came to an abrupt halt and pigtail girl raised into a crouch, opening the door for them both to hop out. It was too dark, too strange, for his eyes to process his surroundings. He suddenly had no desire to move. His eyes glanced to where the other door should have been. 

Pigtails’s eyes rolled all the way up and around, the impatient display of someone who was done with the bullshit yesterday. 

“Puh-lease. Don’t even bother. We go you this far and participant has made it out from here.”

“Be brave! Come along!” The voice with the twang again. It was oddly reassuring, like Dolly Parton was welcoming him to Dollywood. 

He heaved himself from the seat and outside of the van. The exterior was floral as well, the inside folds of each flower prominent. They reminded him of something. He felt slightly turned on. 

Pigtails headed further into the depths of the tunnel, books clacking on the concrete. “Come ooooooooooon, Jeremy Smith!” Her voice rang loud throughout the tunnel. Clack clack clack .

His name. How did she know his name? So he listened. The tunnel gradually narrowed the further they walked, shrinking in height. The clacking stopped. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he could make out a door, a standard household door. Pigtails stood ramrod straight in front of it, relaxed demeanor no more. 

So, whatever this was, was no accident or mistake. Someone here had built this strange structure and had chosen to him to enter it. His brain scrambled for one last explanation, one last Hail Mary. Because he had a sick feeling in his stomach that this was bad news. One guy on his Board of Directors was a real eccentric. Maybe he hired these ladies, found this strange tunnel as a twisted sort of prank? He’d be waiting on the other side of the door with cigars and strippers? Or maybe pigtails would take her clothes off. He snuck another peek. 

But that doesn’t explain the blood under Pigtails’s long rainbow-colored nails, her bruised and bloody knuckles. 

“Jeremy, behind this door is your qualifier into your rehabilitation level. It’s imperative that you show what you are capable of because this will dictate the program you will complete. No do overs, no explanations. It’s simple enough.”

“My qualifier? Rehabilitation program? Capable of doing what?” Allen’s cheeks were reddening with each word, huffing heavily between questions. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been in leaderships longer than you have been alive—“

“Yeah, that won’t help you here.”

And with that, Pigtails opened the door and shoved Jeremy through.

He was standing in an all-white room: white cabinets, marble countertops, subway tile. White appliances. It smelled faintly of chemical flowers, like someone had scrubbed the floor. He breathed a sigh of relief. No musty serial killer dungeons here. 

But, sitting at the table, was his wife. 

“Debra?”

“Hello, honey.”

“You want to explain what we are doing here?”

Debra smiled and remained seated, saying nothing more. 

“Debra! Honey! What is going on!”

Debra tilted her head toward the kitchen as though saying, your job is over there, get to it.

He wanted to scream, break something. But then he remembered what Pigtails had said. It’s imperative that you show what you are capable of. 

These people had somehow gotten to his wife.

He scanned the counters for a folder, a note, any sort of instructions. Nothing. He heaved open the refrigerator, perhaps out of muscle memory, though found it empty. A Smeg coffee maker, empty as well. Slowly, a feeling of unease crept in. Was there a timer? His eyes darted around for the exit, back where he entered. It was sealed. Completely sealed, the lines of the door imperceptible. He rushed toward the windows above the sink and ripped the curtains open. 

The windows opened to concrete. 

Sweat dripped from his forehead. I can figure this out. I’m a CEO, for Chrissakes. Maybe it’s like an escape room. He scanned the kitchen again, more slowly this time. 

A faint green light on something that looked suspiciously like a dishwasher caught his eye. He ripped it open, revealing racks filled with steaming hot dishes. 

Was it a test? To put fucking dishes away? He laughed then. Of course. Women. 

“Ooook Debra. If you wanted me to do the dishes, all you had to do was ask.”

He gave his own eye roll at the racks of dishes, then picked one up. A ceramic mug. It was so hot, his hand burned. 

“This feels like unsafe working conditions!” He paused, ear cocked to the ceiling as if someone would respond, because his wife sure as shit wasn’t. Surely they were watching him, listening, ready to respond. But nothing. 

He sighed and picked the mug back up. Maybe he can just get this over with. He ripped open the closest cabinet, which was filled with bowls. He wedged the mug between them and reached back into the dishwasher. The faster he got this silly little chore done, the faster he could leave. 

Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, the racks were empty. He lifted the dishwasher door up with his foot and slammed it closed, turned to his wife with a smirk. She was smirking back.

An alarm sounded. The previously white walls flashed with red lights, and the door burst open. 

It was Pigtails and a small girl wearing a pink lab coat trailing behind.

“Fail.”

“What? I did it. With no instructions. Look! It’s empty!” He wrenched open the dishwasher, gestured wildly, looked at his wife, who was studiously watching Pigtails.

“Do mugs go with bowls? Plastic Tupperware with baking dishes?”

“Oh come on. I’ve never been here before. I have no idea what to do, no matter where to put everything!”

“Please. It’s matching like items. An elementary-level skill. I thought you were the CEO of a multimillion dollar company? You can’t match similar items?”

He groaned. None of this matters in business. He did real work. 

“You know, this is illegal. You’ve held me here involuntarily.”

“It was a simple enough task. And you could have gotten out any time. We have a voice-activated lock on that door.” Pigtails gestured toward the door she just walked through. “We were trialing a bonus exit comment for this trial. Shit, let me think. Robin?”

The girl in the pink lab coat and clipboard hustled over. 

“Yes?

“Can you remind me of the operational definitions of the exit codes for condition YY? 

The girl smiled and lifted the top page on her clipboard. 

“Any utterance that suggests genuine joy toward wife. Any utterance that calls out wife’s unique characteristics, including but not limited to compliments and acknowledgement of her effort, intellect, professional skills. Not to include any appearance-related comments. Any qualifying comment disqualified if paired with inappropriate touching such as buttocks slapping or breast grabbing. Accelerated qualification if comment accompanied by tender physical touch such as gentle hand to cheek, hugs without further touching, massaging of the shoulders. Accelerated de-qualification if complimentary statement uttered in sardonic tone. Accelerated de-qualification if wife asked to complete task.”

Pigtails walked closer, slowly, like a panther stalking its prey. 

“Also, you could have avoided this entirely. You could have asked the name of either woman who escorted you here.

“The names of my kidnappers?”

“Yes, exactly.”

Jeremy turned toward Debra, hoping she’d be reasonable.

“Debra, honey. What are you doing? Who have you gotten us mixed up with?”

Debra, still smiling, had made her way over to Pigtails and Pink Lab Coat. 

Pink Lab Coat stepped forward. “Jeremy, you qualified into domestic rehabilitation boot camp. Lucky you! You get to start from the beginning and learn everything!”

“DEBRA! Surely you didn’t realize . . . you didn’t mean . . .” Jeremy trailed off, not computing his situation, the strange white kitchen, the women before him. 

Debra spoke, finally. “Honey, who do you think gave them your calendar?”