A Successful Experiment

Day 0

Greg was unpacking his fourth box of books when someone knocked on the front door of his apartment. "Just a minute!" he called, then set down his copy of The Impending Crisis on an empty bit of bookshelf.

He had no idea who this could be. After all, he'd just moved in, and he didn't know anyone here to begin with. Still, it was best not to be impolite. Making his way through his piles of crap, he finally reached the door and opened it.

"Hi, neighbor!" said a cheerful young blond woman. "I just moved in next door, and I wanted to just get to know you a little bit." She looked past Greg and saw the clutter inside. "Or, you know, if you're busy, I can come back later."

"No, no, I'm not that busy," Greg said. "I just overpacked, that's all. Do you want to come in?" He stepped aside and looked back for any clear areas. "Um, I can clear off a chair for you."

"Oh, you don't need to do that. Here, I can help you unpack," the young woman said. "My name's Cecilia Parsons, by the way." She held out a hand. Greg shook it. "I'm a sophomore, probably majoring in pre-med."

"Greg Wilson," he replied. "I'm a history grad student. Hopefully, I'll be able to turn a doctorate into a job as a professor."

"Okay," Cecilia replied. "Have fun with trying. My mom's a professor here, and she says the job market's always bad. And she's a biochem professor, so there's a bit more of a market for that. But if you're a grad student, why rent an apartment here? Most of the people around here are undergrads."

"They offered me a nice discount for being a graduate student," Greg said. He made his way back over to the bookshelf and continued shelving books. Cecilia looked down at some of the trash on the floor, and started gathering up. "That's always something I have to consider. My parents are helping me move and get settled, but I'll have to pay for this myself in a few months."

"Oh, so you need a job?" Something in Cecilia's voice made Greg look over his shoulder at her. She gave an awkward smile. "My mom is working on a new drug, and she's just gotten approval for clinical trials. She said that if I asked around for people who've been treated for depression in the last six months, and referred them to her, she might get me a new laptop." She shrugged, and added, "And you get some money for doing the trial, but I can't remember how much."

Greg rubbed his chin, considering what she'd said. He actually had been treated for depression in the last six months. The fact that his therapist had given him a clean bill of mental health four months ago was a little awkward, but the prospect of getting paid for it...

Cecilia seemed to take his silence for something else. "Sorry if I offended you, or if I was too... um, upfront about it," she said. "I'm just really bad at social things, and... I'm sorry."

"No, there's no need to worry," Greg said, shelving This Republic of Suffering. "I think I might be the man for the job. I have been treated for depression in the last six months. How do I get in contact with your mother?"

"I've got a leaflet back in my room," she replied. "Let me go get it." She disappeared through the door, and, less than a minute later, came back. "Here you go," she said, working her way through the clutter. She handed him a piece of paper. "Heck, she'll probably be in the office tomorrow, even though she theoretically has Saturdays off."

He must've looked a little odd at that, because Cecilia waved her hands dismissively. "Sorry, I think my sour grapes are showing. Mother isn't always terribly good at being a mom, as opposed to a Very Important professor and researcher. And without Dad, I haven't had anyone around recently." She blinked a bit, then smiled apologetically. "I shouldn't be talking about this, it's all personal stuff that you don't care about."

"There's no need to apologize," Greg said. He hesitated, then confessed, "My twin sister died in a car crash a couple years ago. That's why I was in therapy. It's not a bad thing to be open about problems."

"Oh," Cecilia said. She blushed. "The thing is, I think part of why I'm so annoyed at Mother is that Dad left me a big pile of money, but it's in a trust fund. And she's the trustee. So, technically I'm a multimillionaire, but every time my computer craps out, or I need a car, Mother has a say over whether or not I can get what I need."

"Hey, I don't know a person in the world who doesn't resent their parents at least once in a while," Greg said. He finished shelving the fourth box of books with Battle Cry of Freedom, and opened up his fifth box. "My parents have a good bit of money, but they're barely helping me with anything here. I think they could be a little more generous, but they decided that I need to get out on my own. I mean, she's still your Mother, right? You'll get through this, and as long as you still love her, it should all be fine."

"Thanks," Cecilia said, smiling. She looked very nice when she smiled, even if she wasn't exactly a bombshell, all in all. Not really Greg's type of girl, but he could appreciate her looks. She opened a box of dishes and started taking them out. "I needed that," she added.

Day 1

"Hi, are you Greg Wilson?" a dumpy Japanese girl asked him. She squinted at him through thick glasses, then scratched something on the back of her head.

"Yes, I am," Greg replied.

"Dr. Parsons will see you now," she told him. She looked at his unkempt hair and unshaven face and sniffed censoriously. She seriously stuck her nose in the air! The only response Greg could think of was, "Well, you're not exactly a prize either, lady," but he kept his mouth shut. It wasn't his business, and he didn't want to jeopardize his chance at being in the trial.

They entered a laboratory area, skirting along the edge, until they reached a door. The girl knocked, and a female voice said, "Come in," from beyond.

The girl pushed the door open, and Greg stepped inside. "Hello, you must be Greg," said Dr. Parsons, standing up behind a large, cluttered desk. He could see an older version of Cecilia in her face. "Thank you, Michelle. That will be all." Michelle gave him a hard look and left the room.

"That girl," Dr. Parsons said, chuckling and shaking her head. "She's far too concerned about my welfare. So, Greg, you're here to sign up for the trial? If my offspring was correct?"

"Yes, I am." Greg wasn't sure he liked Dr. Parsons. She seemed all too willing to put down anyone who might be close to her, and she just generally seemed indifferent to what the consequences of that might be. Even the good mood she was in now seemed a bit too mean-spirited.

"Well, before I determine your eligibility for the trial, I need you to fill out some papers." She pulled out a few pieces of paper and handed them across the desk. "You can use that table over there. I'll find you a pen." She pointed at a table that was mostly covered by piles of journals, but there were a few bare spots. Greg pulled out the chair, which turned out to also hold a stack of journals.

"Here's your pen," Dr. Parsons said, as he moved the stack of journals. The physical exertion, particular after all the work he'd done yesterday, was almost painful. He set the stack of journals down on the floor, took the offered pen, and sat down on the chair.

"Make sure you fill out everything," she told him. "If there's something you don't feel comfortable sharing, you can leave without participating. All of your data will be anonymous, and no one but myself or Michelle will handle the raw data." Greg wondered what exactly she was asking for, if she had to give that kind of a disclaimer.

Not that far into it, he figured it out. The questionnaire had started off asking fairly simple personal questions. Name, address, age, hair color, skin color, that kind of thing. But just after asking for his height (5'10"), it asked for the length of his penis. Both erect and flaccid.

"Um, Dr. Parsons," he said, looking over his shoulder. "There's a question that's, um... it seems a bit intrusive, that's all."

"Ah, yes, I know what you're referring to," she said. "Trust me, it's absolutely essential to the experimental design. As I said, all raw data will be strictly confidential. You'll find everything in the paper on the bottom. Remember, you're not required to participate in this experiment, and you will be compensated for your troubles. If you can't bring yourself to finish the questionnaire, you can leave at any time."

"But I don't even know what to put down," Greg protested. "Should I whip it out and measure it right now? Or just put in a best estimate?"

"Best estimate, please." Dr. Parsons was drier than the Atacama Desert. "I might not be able to stand the temptation."

Greg sighed and turned back to the papers. He spread his hands to what he thought was about a foot apart from each other. Maybe five or five and a half inches, fully erect? Flaccid, it was probably two inches, at most. It was hard for him to be sure. Measuring his dick was not something Greg had ever been interested in doing.

The rest of the questionnaire turned out to be far less intimate. Most of it was about his depression. List at least two primary causes for your depression? Describe your worst feelings ever? Compared to questions about the size of his dick, these questions were practically reticent.

No, he wasn't currently taking medication to manage his depression. Dr. Khan had been opposed to referring him to a psychiatrist, and Greg had agreed. Anti-depressants hadn't ever seemed like they'd be useful for his depression.

Yes, he had seen a mental health professional for treatment of depression within the last six months. After that, it asked for the name, address, and phone number of the person treating him. Greg couldn't remember Dr. Khan's phone number, and he barely remembered the address. So he just scribbled down "Dr. Suhail Khan, Duluth, GA". Dr. Parsons (or, more likely, Michelle) could look that up herself.

He finished the questionnaire and set it aside. The piece of paper on the bottom was printed in tiny letters, and it was hard to read some of it. Perhaps Dr. Parsons could've sprung for a few more pages of paper, so that the information about her trials would actually be readable.

There was at least one thing that was clear enough when he read it. "500 dollars a day?" he said out loud. For fourteen days of a trial, that came out to... "7000 dollars?"

"I felt that, due to the intimate nature of some of the questions, a larger amount of compensation was due," Dr. Parsons informed him. He looked back at her, and she shrugged. "Besides, these are initial trials. They're intended to be small. When we ramp up the size of the trials, we won't pay that much as compensation."

"Okay," Greg said dubiously. He wasn't a scientist, but he had minored in psychology. And part of that had been learning how you set up an experiment with other humans. He wasn't exactly an expert, even so, but compensation this high didn't seem normal. On the other hand, he'd never done a drug trial before. Maybe the rules were different for those.

He tried to read everything on the paper, but there was probably a lot of things he'd missed. Still, when he came to the end, he thought he had a good idea of how the trial was supposed to work. He'd take a pill a day for fourteen days. Each day, he had to record the time he'd taken the pills, and how he felt. That seemed pretty reasonable, particularly if taking each pill would earn him $500. Unless, of course, the pills made him desperately ill or left him with a lifelong, chronic disability.

What the hell, Greg decided. This could earn him enough money to live for the rest of the semester without a job, if he spent it right. He signed on the line at the bottom of the paper and stood up.

"So, you've decided?" Dr. Parsons said, looking up from her desk. Greg just handed her the completed paperwork. She took it and looked it over while he stood there silently.

"Excellent," she said, after she'd read through all the papers. "Well, now that you've given all your answers, let's start the trial." She walked back over behind her desk and opened up a safe. "Right now, this is the only supply of trimizapam in pill form, anywhere. I don't want just anyone getting their hands on it."

"Oh, I nearly forgot," Dr. Parsons added, shutting the safe abruptly, and Greg looked over at her. "I assume you're not afraid of needles. Because you signed the consent form, after reading the part about the blood samples I'll need."

"That must've been one of the parts that was too small to read," Greg said, frowning. "I'm not afraid of needles, but I don't understand why you need a sample of my blood."

"If you show any unusual side effects, we might be able to understand that by sending a sample to the lab," Dr. Parsons explained. "To do that, we'll need several base samples of your blood before you take your first pill. And I was planning to put one sample through a full workup immediately, so that we can see the results in the end. Don't worry, I'm a certified phlebotomist. I can draw the samples perfectly safely."

"Well, okay," Greg said, rolling up his sleeves. He'd given blood before, so he knew the process, roughly speaking. And it wasn't much different, except that he didn't have to fill up a whole bag with his blood. It was over fairly quickly.

"Now that that's done," Dr. Parsons said, stowing the six vials of blood she'd taken in an insulated box, "we can actually get on with this." She went back over to the safe and reopened it.

She took out a pill bottle and shut the safe. "You'll have to sign for this, first," she told him, and handed over a clipboard. He scribbled down his signature, and exchanged it with her for the pill bottle. "Go ahead and take the first one right now," she said. "I'll get you a trial journal."

"Do I need to take it with water?" Greg asked, and Dr. Parsons nodded absently, as she sifted through a pile of paper on her desk. He picked up the water bottle he carried everywhere, and took out a pill. It looked pretty sizable. But he could handle it.

He took a mouthful of water, tossed in the pill, and swallowed the lot. Then he washed it down with a good bit of water.

"Here's your journal," Dr. Parsons said, coming up behind him. She handed him a large booklet. "The time now is 2:27 PM. Go ahead and write that down, and put in how you feel right now. Put in as much detail as you think necessary. But do try and be descriptive. Anything that might be pertinent."

"Alright, thanks, Dr. Parsons," Greg said, taking the booklet. She'd included a pen, so he opened it up to the first page. He started scribbling down a few general sentences about how he felt. This was going to be an experience, one way or another.

Day 4

Classes hadn't started yet, and it was beginning to wear on Greg just a bit. He didn't have Internet at his apartment, so his options for entertainment were drastically diminished. He tried reading some of his favorite books, but after a while, it had gotten a little stale.

So he went out for a walk. Before going out, he made sure to take his daily pill, and record his feelings in his journal. Aside from restlessness, he'd been feeling a bit more... direct than before. At the grocery store yesterday, he'd cussed out an old lady who'd been blocking the aisle, when before he might've waited or gone around. That was something that definitely went in the journal.

It was nice to be out and about. He was in a lovely college town, and his apartment was placed far enough away from campus that it would be a good bit of exercise to go there and back. That would take the edge off of his restlessness. And while he was walking, he could get a sense of the town.

As it transpired, the area between his apartment and the university campus was very boring. The historic district was on the other side of campus, so he spent most of his time walking through the sorts of 1960s-vintage neighborhoods he could've found in any ordinary American suburb. It was so boring, he began thinking fond thoughts of his tiny, Internet deprived apartment.

He came to a crosswalk over a big road just as it started flashing a red hand and counting down. If he didn't cross now, he would be stuck here for a mindnumbingly long time, watching cars whoosh by with an enviable amount of speed. But it was a really wide road, and he couldn't walk across it in time.

So he picked up the pace. First he jogged, then he broke into an outright run. Greg had never been a very good athlete, but he usually had enough in him to dash across a crosswalk. This time, though, he had way more than enough. In fact, running seemed natural all of a sudden. When he reached the other side of the road, he kept up the pace.

He kept running as he hit campus. Initially, he'd thought he might find a computer in the library and take it over. But, on second thought, running seemed like a better idea. It was a nice, sunny day. The Internet could wait.

Greg had reached the sparkly new Chemistry building, when a young woman fell in next to him on the sidewalk. She had short black hair, held back by a hair band, and her caramel skin glistened with sweat. "Wanna race?" she asked, flashing white teeth at him.

"Sure," Greg replied shortly, and kept running. The girl kept pace with him, but she never managed to get past him. Given the few glances Greg had gotten of her body, it was the toned, fit body of a real runner. This had to be so frustrating for her.

At last, they reached the football stadium, having taken a roundabout, meandering way. Partly, it was because Greg actually wanted to explore the town. But it was also partly because he'd gotten lost. The effect was that the racing pair had probably gone on together for five miles or so, in addition to what they'd put in before that.

The girl staggered to a halt in front of an empty ticket booth. "Damn, man," she wheezed. "I didn't know you were that good." Greg slowed himself down carefully, doing a loping circle back towards the girl.

"Are you all right?" he asked. She snorted, then drew a deep breath.

"Well, I'd say you managed to beat me," the girl said, taking off her soaked sweatband. "And I nearly qualified for the Olympics, so that's quite something." She stuck out her hand, and Greg shook it. "Rosita Flores. You?"

"Greg Wilson," Greg said. Rosita seemed to wince at his handshake, which was surprising. He hadn't squeezed her hand, or anything. It was just a regular handshake.

"Damn," Rosita said. "I don't recognize you, and with a race like that, you've got to have made your team. Where'd you race? Were you maybe at Nationals in 2012?"

"In 2012, I was graduating from college," Greg replied dryly. He was a bit worn out, but not by too much. Maybe he would take the bus back to his apartment complex, but he could live with a long walk.

"Huh. Don't look that old," Rosita replied, looking him up and down. Greg couldn't remember any woman being that interested in his body before. It almost made him want to blush.

"So I definitely don't know you," Rosita muttered. Then she looked back up at Greg. "But you've definitely run, right? You ran in high school?" She almost seemed to be pleading for him to say yes.

"Uh, no," Greg replied. "I was a big nerd at the newspaper for all four years, and I did some debate team. No track, and no cross-country. Sorry."

"Damn!" Rosita said, looking crestfallen. "You can't actually be saying that you're not a runner? And you beat me? Fuck!"

"I dunnoh, I just started running, and it felt good, so I kept on running." Greg was starting to realize how strange it sounded. "Normally, I don't run, but I think I just had too much pent-up energy."

Rosita shook her head. "No, energy isn't enough to be a runner. You've gotta have the muscles for it, obviously, but you also gotta have the lungs, and you gotta have the head for it. My old coach used to say that if energy was all a runner needed, toddlers would be running one-minute miles. So either you're lying about not being a runner, or you suddenly developed all the things you need to beat a very good runner, like yours truly. Which do you think I think is most likely?"