Atlas & Alice | Issue 2 Winter 2014
Roanoke I. Roger Sampson stood in front of a crowd at the First Unitarian Church, pulling the mic closer to his face. “All of you are here because you have a reasonable fear that government intrusion will result in your arrest. We’re not here to judge one another or suspect what may be the source of this fear. Maybe you’ve committed a crime in the past. Maybe you’re actively committing a crime. Maybe you don’t know if what you’re doing on your computer or out on the streets is actually illegal or if it’s just frowned upon. I’m here to tell you that you should not be afraid. We’re all going to die—and some of us will even be arrested—but we have to keep living in the moment and take nothing for granted. The future will always harm you. You’ll get fat and old and everyone will forget about you. The only thing that can’t harm you is the present. Enjoy it, please.” Roger stepped down from the podium and the all-male members of the Southern Connecticut chapter of We Dare Not Say (WDNS), a non-profit coalition/support group for self-actualized future convicts, started a light round of applause. Meeting once a month in different church basements throughout southern CT, the members of WDNS discussed their ongoing journey towards emotional stability. They also planned and staged protests outside the filming locations of New York-based TV shows that had a reputation for eliciting confessions out of suspects—a practice that was less common in real life than TV would have you believe, the main offender being the Law & Order franchise. Brian McJeffries, WDNS chapter secretary, had offered to drive Roger to New Haven, where he was catching a train to his next speech in Chicago. “I really loved your sex addiction talk,” Brian said from behind the wheel of an early 90’s SUV, trapped between exits 39A and 39B. Both he and Roger could glimpse the edge of a jack-knifed trailer up ahead. “Yeah.” Roger scratched his thin stubble. “Thanks for driving.” “I had found myself in a situation where every fuck led to another fuck and I couldn’t bear the idea of taking a moment to look away from the shape of the next woman’s ass or breast, or even something as innocent as her smile, during that break between condoms. What I really wanted was to try and take a look at changing something else entirely, like my priorities, my point of view, or—if I could even stand to look for it anymore—my heart.” Brian finished his recitation of Roger’s sex addiction talk—the first talk—from an actual sex addiction group of which Roger had been a member. He’d posted the video online, where it received twenty-one thousand views. “I’m not one of them,” Brian said as traffic picked up. Roger nodded. “I’m trying to curb a potential problem. But mine isn’t illegal yet.” The SUV was at the end of a long line of vehicles about a thousand feet from Union Station.
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