Pat
Pat
April 26, 2024
“These will be your final three weeks of training. Pass or fail, you will be deployed. Whether you succeed or not, will be up to you. Patricia, do you understand?”
“My name is Pat. Call me Pat or I will fail, intentionally.”
My trainer expected this level of resistance. He grabbed my arm and injected me with a dose of some type of drug that makes one pass out.
“Patricia, here you are not a young man. So stop acting like one.”
When I awoke, he had dressed me for the role I was to play.
I was wearing a corset and petticoats, heels, a gown, and makeup.
Actually, I was locked into the former, which squeezed me tightly, barely permitting movement, let alone breathing. The latter reinforced what little control I had at my disposal.
“Patricia, as of now, you are on a severely restricted diet. You must have a 19 inch waist soon. You must learn to act as a lady of the court immediately. Please arise, Patricia and make the most of what you still have.”
“My name is Pat.”
I never finished my remarks.
Men always have the ability to hit you in the face exactly where it hurts the most. My trainer struck me hard enough to send me to the floor. I covered my face with my hand as he approached, grabbed my arm, and pulled me up. He took me into his arms and told me to follow his steps. The music began (from where?) and he began to teach me to dance.
“This is the waltz. Patricia, pay attention.”
“My name is not . . .”
He threw me against the wall for the outburst. This time he picked me up across his knees, hiked my petticoats, and began spanking me.
I could not resist. When I screamed, he only hit me harder. When I whimpered, his force subsided. When I stopped, he stopped.
Then we began dancing again.
He told me to smile, or else.
He asked me. “What is your name?”
Instinctively, I replied, “Pat”.
I have not eaten in two days. My bruises may heal in twice that time.
By Friday, I learned the waltz, how to curtsey, and some polite phrases in both French and German. That night, his helpers removed my corset and heels while they bathed me and I ate.
By midnight, I was back to dancing. By 3 am, I was to learn how to write a proper letter. Ironically, morning began my attendance in code school.
My trainer asked my name while holding a tray of real food. I wanted to say, Pat. I wanted to escape the indignities I have been put through.
However, I wanted to eat more than anything else.
So, I acquiesced. I said, “Patricia.”
For this, my trainer hit me harder than ever. His fist found its mark against my lower abdomen. If not for the corset, he would have ruptured both my kidneys and liver.
“Tell me your name. Make me believe you are who you say you are. Say it like the woman you are meant to be. Do this or never leave here alive.”
So many people had worked so hard to transform me to a proper lady. My trainer spent all of his time enforcing my change. I had no other choice.
I introduced myself as Patricia, here to make your acquaintance.” It was all an act, what I thought he wanted to hear. It was good enough.
My trainer placed the food tray on the bed, turned, and departed. I never encountered him or his attacks again.
I slept soundly on a bed for the first time since being brought here. I feasted on a simple breakfast. I still had two “servants” forcing me back in a corset, petticoat, and gown.
I did not complain.
But I did wonder.
Every question began with a “Why”. Every answer led to more questions.
By noon, I was formally invited to the laboratory (this place had a lab?). Remaining in character, I accepted and was escorted accordingly.
Upon entering, my escort departed and I witnessed the machine energize. The prompts told me of the expectations and why I was here alone. I was to travel back in time to New York City, 1895. I would be escorted by no one. My goal would be obvious soon after my arrival.
The last prompt was hand written on a sheet of paper. It read, “Do what you must.”
There was no name attached, but I knew the author.
By this time the lights of the machine shone brightly and I was part of my own past.
The UPS driver arrived earlier than usual. The package he carried made him rethink his decision not to use a dolly to move its girth and weight.
The employees at Richmond Research saw the name of Henry Miller and directed the package to his office.
It sat there collecting dust for the next three weeks. Mr. Miller, arriving for a full day’s work with a boxer’s wrap around each of hands, found it difficult to unwrap the package with the injury a fighter participating in a bare knuckles brawl frequently encountered. It was his birthday, November 5, and he had high expectations. By 10:30am, his expectations exceeded even his wildest dreams.
The NY Times from this day in 1895 spoke of Patricia Sullivan, adventuress who halted the bombing of City Hall. Her actions preceded the election of Secretary of State, Attorney General, State Comptroller, State Engineer, a Court of Appeals Judge, members of the NY State Assembly and the State Senate, and saving her newly engaged finance, Mr. Walter Miller of Miller Woodworks in Queens. Miss Patricia took action defeating the ruffians planting the explosive device, impervious to their fisticuffs upon her midsection. Miss Patricia saved the lives of scores of people this day and was personally married the next by the Mayor of the City himself.
Various photographs of the future Mrs. Miller with her four children and six grandchildren adorned his desktop. While each one had a monetary value to the discerning collector, only one held a sentimental value for him. In it, a doting grandmother, wearing a corset of years past, carries her small grandson, sporting a clearly visible skunk patch of hair, while walking across 5th Avenue, in 1965.
The trainer instinctively ran his hand through his not so clearly visible skunk patch of hair that he used to show as a child. Old age removed the coloration of his remaining browns to match his always present whites.
A single tear ran from his eyes.
Then a small smile arose.
He then knew his real work had just begun.