Take the Asch Conformity Study: College students thought they were participating in a simple perceptual task with other students when, in actuality, they were placed one at a time in a group along with actors. The students were shown a card with a vertical line on it, then another card with three more lines. When asked to say out loud which lines matched in length, the students consistently provided the same answer as the actors, even when the actors picked one of the clearly incorrect lines. The student subjects believed they were being tested on perception, but what was actually being assessed was adherence to conformity.
You assume you are visiting the Met Breuer to look at photographs. But your opinion of the exhibit is of no concern.
It is 11:17 A.M.
That particular exhibit will be uncrowded at this time of day; only a few people should be viewing the artwork.
You will have seen Thomas by now. And he, you.
Sitting down is an impossibility.
A hand is run along the row of books filling the white wood built-in shelf, even though the spines are already perfectly aligned.
The single legal-size folder on the desk is moved slightly to the right, centering it more precisely.
The tissues on the table beside the couch are replenished.
The clock is checked again and again.
Finally, 11:30. It is over.
The length of the office is sixteen steps, back and forth.
11:39.
The far window affords a view over the entranceway; it is checked with every pass by that corner.
11:43.
You should be here by now.
A check in the mirror, a reapplication of lipstick. The edges of the sink are cold and hard. The reflection in the mirror confirms the facade is in place. You will suspect nothing.
11:47.
The buzzer sounds.
You are finally here.
A slow, measured breath. Then another.
You smile as the inner door to the office is opened. Your cheeks are flushed from the cold, and your hair is windblown. You radiate the full bloom of youth. Your presence serves as a reminder of time’s inexorable cruelty. Someday you, too, will be pulled toward its cusp.
What did he think when he encountered you instead of me?
“It’s like we’re twins,” you say.
You touch your cashmere wrap by way of explanation.
My laugh is forced. “I see . . . it’s perfect for such a blustery day.”
You settle into the love seat, now your preferred spot.
“Jessica, tell me about your experience at the museum.”
The prompt is delivered matter-of-factly. There can be no research bias. Your report needs to be unpolluted.
You begin: “Well, I have to tell you I was a few minutes late.”
You glance down, avoiding my eyes. “There was a woman who was hit by a cab and I stopped to help her. But I called an ambulance and these other people took over and I rushed to the exhibit. For a second I wondered if she was part of the test.” You give an awkward little laugh, then blunder on: “It was hard to tell where I was supposed to start, so I just went to the first picture that caught my eye.”
You are speaking too quickly; you are summarizing.
“Take it more slowly, Jessica.”
Your posture slumps.
“I’m sorry, it just threw me. I didn’t see the accident, but I saw her lying on the street right after . . .”
Your anxiety must be indulged. “How upsetting,” you are told. “It was good of you to help.”
You nod; some of the tension eases from your rigid posture.
“Why don’t you just take a deep breath, then we can proceed.”
You unwind the wrap and place it on the seat next to you.
“I’m okay,” you say. Your tone is tempered now.
“Describe what happened in chronological order after you entered the exhibit. Don’t leave out any detail, no matter how inconsequential it may seem,” you are told.
You speak of the French couple, the docent and her tourists, and your impression of Alexander’s decision to photograph in black-and-white to emphasize the form of the vehicles.
You pause.
“To be honest, I really didn’t understand what made the photographs special. So I asked this guy who seemed really into them why he liked them.”
A hitch in the pulse. An almost uncontrollable surge of queries.
“I see. And what did he say?”
You recount the exchange.
It is as though Thomas’s deep voice is reverberating through the office, mingling with your higher tones. When you spoke, did he notice the rounded cupid’s bow on your upper lip? The smoky sweep of your eyelashes?
A slight ache forms in my hand. My grasp on the pen is eased.