“It was this wild experiment they did at Stanford University back in the ’80s,” he said.
“It was the early ’70s.”
Elliot waved his hand, barely pausing.
“Sure, sure, the ’70s. Like a real-life Lord of the Flies kind of deal. The subjects were all these normal guys, regular Stanford joes, and then during the study things went bad real quick.”
Corinne thought she should know better by now than to try and participate in any conversation Elliot had a hand in. Unfortunately, she had a clearly misplaced belief that people were not actually all-the-way shitty, and it had bitten her soundly once again. Her coworker and three years her junior, Elliot possessed a huge (and unearned) confidence in any and all matters. No matter that she had a Psychology degree with plans for a master’s; Elliot took AP Psych in high school, which meant he was the clear expert.
What could I, a woman, know? she thought wryly. She doodled on a sticky note, a whirling geometric pattern. He kept on talking, unaware or uncaring of her lack of attention as he carried on his rambling, fumbling one-sided conversation. Not that he was aware it was one-sided, either; for all his self-proclaimed humility and attentiveness, he was remarkably unaware of any and all social nuances. Dumbass.
She glanced up; Maria’s eyes were glazed over, looking beyond Elliot’s pasty face. When their eyes met, Maria twitched her eyebrows.
Get a load of this guy, it said.
Hell, Corinne had only mentioned the Stanford Prison Experiment in passing, as an example of statistical insignificance and questionable methodology, only for Elliot to throw himself headlong (and very much uninvited) into the conversation.
“It’s crazy that we have that kind of violence just lurking inside us,” he continued. “I think it’s neat how noble humans are; we have to resist that darkness every day, under all these pressures and biological impulses. It’s crazy. It’s beautiful, you know?”
“Of course,” Maria said.
She cut Corinne a look, and they shared a moment of exasperation. Corinne tried not to laugh and tucked the failure neatly into a fake cough.
“It was so powerful, they never tried the experiment again.” Elliot trundled on, oblivious.
“Too dangerous. Got all tangled up in the ethics of it — which is good, of course — but man. Crazy. So crazy.”
Resting her head in her hand, Corinne thought about the Stanford Prison Experiment. It was purely voluntary: all those boys signed up for a study about power and roles, signing up for school-sanctioned psychological torture either done by them or to them. Just a bunch of posturing college boys, almost all white, playing prison guard and prisoner.
She thought about Lord of the Flies, how those schoolboys marooned on an island devolved into violence and murder. How the real-life story that inspired William Golding’s classic novel didn’t have the same ending at all: those six boys marooned for over a year on ‘Ata made a pact to never argue with each other. How they took turns tending a fire that never went out. They survived through determination and brotherhood, playing music on a guitar made from a coconut shell and singing songs every morning. Those six boys — no longer boys, now men — still met with each other in the present day, connected by the lifelong bond of friendship.
Corinne offered Elliot a bland smile. “So crazy,” she said.
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