Oct 20 2008
Examination Day by Henry Seslar
BY THEBOSTONBACHELOR.COM / October 20, 2008
An odd short story I read in 8th Grade English that stuck with me throughout the years…
Examination Day
The Jordans never spoke of the exam, not until their son, Dickie, was twelve years old. It was on his birthday that Mrs Jordan first mentioned the subject in his presence, and the anxious manner of her speech caused her husband to answer sharply.
‘Forget about it,’ he said. ‘He’ll do all right.’
They were at breakfast table, and the boy looked up from his plate curiously. He was an alert-eyed youngster with flat blond hair and a quick, nervous manner. He didn’t understand what the sudden tension was about, but he did know that today was his birthday, and he wanted harmony above all. Somewhere in the little apartment there were wrapped, beribboned packages waiting to be opened, and in the tiny wall-kitchen something warm and sweet was being prepared in the automatic stove. He wanted the day to be happy, and the moistness of his mother’s eyes, the scowl on his father’s face, spoiled the mood of fluttering expectation with which he had greeted the morning.
‘What exam?’ he asked.
His mother looked at the tablecloth. ‘It’s just a sort of Government Intelligence test they give children at the age of twelve. You’ll be taking it next week. It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘You mean a test like in school?’
‘Something like that,’ his father said, getting up from the table. ‘Go and read your comics, Dickie.’ The boy rose and wandered towards that part of the living room which had been ‘his’ corner since infancy. He fingered the topmost comic of the stack, but seemed uninterested in the colourful squares of fast-paced action. He wandered towards the window, and peered gloomily at the veil of mist that shrouded the glass.
‘Why did it have to rain today?’ he said. ‘Why couldn’t it rain tomorrow?’
His father, now slumped into an armchair with the Government newspaper rattled the sheets in vexation. ‘Because it just did, that’s all. Rain makes the grass grow.’
‘Why, Dad?’
‘Because it does, that’s all.’
Dickie puckered his brow. ‘What makes it green, though? The grass?’
‘Nobody knows,’ his father snapped, then immediately regretted his abruptness.
Later in the day, it was birthday time again. His mother beamed as she handed over the gaily-coloured packages, and even his father managed a grin and a rumple-of-the-hair. He kissed his mother and shook hands gravely with his father. Then the birthday cake was brought forth, and the ceremonies concluded.
An hour later, seated by the window, he watched the sun force its way between the clouds.
‘Dad,’ he said, ‘how far away is the sun?’
‘Five thousand miles,’ his father said.
Dickie sat at the breakfast table and again saw moisture in his mother’s eyes. He didn’t connect her tears with the exam until his father suddenly brought the subject to light again.
‘Well, Dickie,’ he said, with a manly frown, ‘you’ve got an appointment today.’
‘I know Dad. 1 hope –’
‘Now, it’s nothing to worry about. Thousands of children take this test every day. The Government wants to know how smart you are, Dickie. That’s all there is to it.’
‘I get good marks in school,’ he said hesitantly.
‘This is different. This is a - special kind of test. They give you this stuff to drink, you see, and then you go into a room where there’s a sort of machine –‘
‘What stuff to drink?’ Dickie said.
‘It’s nothing. It tastes like peppermint. It’s just to make sure you answer the questions truthfully. Not that the Government thinks you won’t tell the truth, but it makes sure.’
Dickie’s face showed puzzlement, and a touch of fright. He looked at his mother, and she composed her face into a misty smile.
‘Everything will be all right,’ she said.
‘Of course it will,’ his father agreed. ‘You’re a good boy, Dickie; you’ll make out fine. Then we’ll come home and celebrate. All right?’
‘Yes sir,’ Dickie said.
They entered the Government Educational Building fifteen minutes before the appointed hour. They crossed the marble floors of the great pillared lobby, passed beneath an archway and entered an automatic lift that brought them to the fourth floor.
There was a young man wearing an insignia-less tunic, seated at a polished desk in front of Room 404. He held a clipboard in his hand, and he checked the list down to the Js and permitted the Jordans to enter.
The room was as cold and official as a courtroom, with long benches flanking metal tables. There were several fathers and sons already there, and a thin-lipped woman with cropped black hair was passing out sheets of paper.
Mr Jordan filled out the form, and returned it to the clerk. Then he told Dickie: ‘It won’t be long now. When they call your name, you just go through the doorway at the end of the room.’ He indicated the portal with his finger.
A concealed loudspeaker crackled and called off the first name. Dickie saw a boy leave his father’s side reluctantly and walk slowly towards the door.
At five minutes to eleven, they called the name of Jordan.
‘Good luck, son,’ his father said, without looking at him. ‘I’ll call for you when the test is over.’
Dickie walked to the door and turned the knob. The room inside was dim, and he could barely make out the features of the grey-tunicked attendant who greeted him.
‘Sit down,’ the man said softly. He indicated a high stool beside his desk. ‘Your name’s Richard Jordan?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your classification number is 600-115. Drink this, Richard.’
He lifted a plastic cup from the desk and handed it to the boy. The liquid inside had the consistency of buttermilk, tasted only vaguely of the promised peppermint. Dickie downed it, and handed the man the empty cup.
He sat in silence, feeling drowsy, while the man wrote busily on a sheet of paper. Then the attendant looked at his watch, and rose to stand only inches from Dickie’s face. He unclipped a penlike object from the pocket of his tunic, and flashed a tiny light into the boy’s eyes.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Come with me, Richard.’
He led Dickie to the end of the room, where a single wooden armchair faced a multi-dialled computing machine. There was a microphone on the left arm of the chair, and when the boy sat down, he found its pinpoint head conveniently at his mouth.
‘Now just relax, Richard. You’ll be asked some questions, and you think them over carefully. Then give your answers into the microphone. The machine will take care of the rest.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll leave you alone now. Whenever you want to start, just say “ready” into the microphone.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The man squeezed his shoulder, and left.
Dickie said, ‘Ready.’
Lights appeared on the machine, and a mechanism whirred. A voice said: ‘Complete this sequence. One, four, seven, ten . .
Mr and Mrs Jordan were in the living room, not speaking, not even speculating.
It was almost four o’clock when the telephone rang. The woman tried to reach it first, but her husband was quicker.
‘Mr Jordan?’
The voice was clipped: a brisk, official voice.
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘This is the Government Educational Service. Your son, Richard M Jordan, Classification 600-115 has completed the Government examination. We regret to inform you that his intelligence quotient is above the Government regulation, according to Rule 84 Section 5 of the New Code.’
Across the room, the woman cried out, knowing nothing except the emotion she read on her husband’s face.
‘You may specify by telephone,’ the voice droned on, ‘whether you wish his body interred by the Government, or would you prefer a private burial place? The fee for Government burial is ten dollars.’
Equality for all kid.
part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l94MIlxZHP4
part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CnI0a9km7aQ
The classic thing is, this short story was first published in a 1958 issue of Playboy. Good thing no one actually reads the articles; talk about a potential wood-killer.
I miss shows like The Twilight Zone and The Outer Limits. There was also a short lived series before my time called Tales of the Unexpected, adapted from a collection of short stories by Roald Dahl (James and the Giant Peach there of). I never got a chance to watch it but the book was brilliant.
Floor… The Twilight Zone is a delight kid.
i cant put into word what i think of this story, i really find it interesting. in yr ten we studied it, and i regret to say i never paid much attention, now in my 12 yr im finding it so insightful, it really makes you think. thats one thing i love about such short stories, such as the destructors by Graham Greene, i first heard about that one in i movie, Donnie Darko, (gotta love it!!!)
wish i paid more attention in class… but what are you gonna do.
i truly love this story and have chosen it as the new subject of my current studying.
awesome story! makes you think!
Well. I dont excatly see the point of moral, if you will, of this story. But we have to read it in Language Arts class, and it makes you think.
I like it.
I pretty much see where the author is going.
“Harrison Bergeron” by Kurt Vonnegut addresses pretty much the same thing, and it’s a much more gripping read.
wait i dont get it…did he die?
Examination Day
The Jordans never spoke of the exam, not until their son, Dickie, was twelve years old. It was on his birthday that Mrs Jordan first mentioned the subject in his presence, and the anxious manner of her speech caused her husband to answer sharply.
‘Forget about it,’ he said. ‘He’ll do all right.’
They were at breakfast table, and the boy looked up from his plate curiously. He was an alert-eyed youngster with flat blond hair and a quick, nervous manner. He didn’t understand what the sudden tension was about, but he did know that today was his birthday, and he wanted harmony above all. Somewhere in the little apartment there were wrapped, beribboned packages waiting to be opened, and in the tiny wall-kitchen something warm and sweet was being prepared in the automatic stove. He wanted the day to be happy, and the moistness of his mother’s eyes, the scowl on his father’s face, spoiled the mood of fluttering expectation with which he had greeted the morning.
‘What exam?’ he asked.
His mother looked at the tablecloth. ‘It’s just a sort of Government Intelligence test they give children at the age of twelve. You’ll be taking it next week. It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘You mean a test like in school?’
‘Something like that,’ his father said, getting up from the table. ‘Go and read your comics, Dickie.’ The boy rose and wandered towards that part of the living room which had been ‘his’ corner since infancy. He fingered the topmost comic of the stack, but seemed uninterested in the colourful squares of fast-paced action. He wandered towards the window, and peered gloomily at the veil of mist that shrouded the glass.
‘Why did it have to rain today?’ he said. ‘Why couldn’t it rain tomorrow?’
His father, now slumped into an armchair with the Government newspaper rattled the sheets in vexation. ‘Because it just did, that’s all. Rain makes the grass grow.’
‘Why, Dad?’
‘Because it does, that’s all.’
Dickie puckered his brow. ‘What makes it green, though? The grass?’
‘Nobody knows,’ his father snapped, then immediately regretted his abruptness.
Later in the day, it was birthday time again. His mother beamed as she handed over the gaily-coloured packages, and even his father managed a grin and a rumple-of-the-hair. He kissed his mother and shook hands gravely with his father. Then the birthday cake was brought forth, and the ceremonies concluded.
An hour later, seated by the window, he watched the sun force its way between the clouds.
‘Dad,’ he said, ‘how far away is the sun?’
‘Five thousand miles,’ his father said.
Dickie sat at the breakfast table and again saw moisture in his mother’s eyes. He didn’t connect her tears with the exam until his father suddenly brought the subject to light again.
‘Well, Dickie,’ he said, with a manly frown, ‘you’ve got an appointment today.’
‘I know Dad. 1 hope –’
‘Now, it’s nothing to worry about. Thousands of children take this test every day. The Government wants to know how smart you are, Dickie. That’s all there is to it.’
‘I get good marks in school,’ he said hesitantly.
‘This is different. This is a - special kind of test. They give you this stuff to drink, you see, and then you go into a room where there’s a sort of machine –‘
‘What stuff to drink?’ Dickie said.
‘It’s nothing. It tastes like peppermint. It’s just to make sure you answer the questions truthfully. Not that the Government thinks you won’t tell the truth, but it makes sure.’
Dickie’s face showed puzzlement, and a touch of fright. He looked at his mother, and she composed her face into a misty smile.
‘Everything will be all right,’ she said.
‘Of course it will,’ his father agreed. ‘You’re a good boy, Dickie; you’ll make out fine. Then we’ll come home and celebrate. All right?’
‘Yes sir,’ Dickie said.
They entered the Government Educational Building fifteen minutes before the appointed hour. They crossed the marble floors of the great pillared lobby, passed beneath an archway and entered an automatic lift that brought them to the fourth floor.
There was a young man wearing an insignia-less tunic, seated at a polished desk in front of Room 404. He held a clipboard in his hand, and he checked the list down to the Js and permitted the Jordans to enter.
The room was as cold and official as a courtroom, with long benches flanking metal tables. There were several fathers and sons already there, and a thin-lipped woman with cropped black hair was passing out sheets of paper.
Mr Jordan filled out the form, and returned it to the clerk. Then he told Dickie: ‘It won’t be long now. When they call your name, you just go through the doorway at the end of the room.’ He indicated the portal with his finger.
A concealed loudspeaker crackled and called off the first name. Dickie saw a boy leave his father’s side reluctantly and walk slowly towards the door.
At five minutes to eleven, they called the name of Jordan.
‘Good luck, son,’ his father said, without looking at him. ‘I’ll call for you when the test is over.’
Dickie walked to the door and turned the knob. The room inside was dim, and he could barely make out the features of the grey-tunicked attendant who greeted him.
‘Sit down,’ the man said softly. He indicated a high stool beside his desk. ‘Your name’s Richard Jordan?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your classification number is 600-115. Drink this, Richard.’
He lifted a plastic cup from the desk and handed it to the boy. The liquid inside had the consistency of buttermilk, tasted only vaguely of the promised peppermint. Dickie downed it, and handed the man the empty cup.
He sat in silence, feeling drowsy, while the man wrote busily on a sheet of paper. Then the attendant looked at his watch, and rose to stand only inches from Dickie’s face. He unclipped a penlike object from the pocket of his tunic, and flashed a tiny light into the boy’s eyes.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Come with me, Richard.’
He led Dickie to the end of the room, where a single wooden armchair faced a multi-dialled computing machine. There was a microphone on the left arm of the chair, and when the boy sat down, he found its pinpoint head conveniently at his mouth.
‘Now just relax, Richard. You’ll be asked some questions, and you think them over carefully. Then give your answers into the microphone. The machine will take care of the rest.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll leave you alone now. Whenever you want to start, just say “ready” into the microphone.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The man squeezed his shoulder, and left.
Dickie said, ‘Ready.’
Lights appeared on the machine, and a mechanism whirred. A voice said: ‘Complete this sequence. One, four, seven, ten . .
Mr and Mrs Jordan were in the living room, not speaking, not even speculating.
It was almost four o’clock when the telephone rang. The woman tried to reach it first, but her husband was quicker.
‘Mr Jordan?’
The voice was clipped: a brisk, official voice.
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘This is the Government Educational Service. Your son, Richard M Jordan, Classification 600-115 has completed the Government examination. We regret to inform you that his intelligence quotient is above the Government regulation, according to Rule 84 Section 5 of the New Code.’
Across the room, the woman cried out, knowing nothing except the emotion she read on her husband’s face.
‘You may specify by telephone,’ the voice droned on, ‘whether you wish his body interred by the Government, or would you prefer a private burial place? The fee for Government burial is ten dollars.’
Can I ask what does the story telling about?
How come they killed Dickie in the end of the story?
Because he was too damn smart, and thoughtful people can’t be controlled.
wow eh
This story is all fucked up man I mean SHIT!!! This story doesn’t make sense at all!!!!! Why do you FUCKERS say it’s even good?????
Yeah, I agree with you man!!!!! THIS STORY’S ALL FUCKED UP MAN!!!!!!!!!
sorry to say but this FUCKING STORY SHOULDN’T EVEN BE CALLED A STORY!!!!! IT’S JUST A FUCKING BAD ESSAY SOMEONE MADE AT KINDERGARTEN AND CHOSE TO USE IT FOR US TO READ!!!!!!!!! FUCK MAN THIS STORY SUCKS AND ALL YOU FUCKHEADS SHOULD HAVE KNOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
GOD, I FEEL LIKE I WANNA HAVE SEX RIGHT NOW MAN I MEAN WITH ALL THE FUCK WORD I READ!!!!!!!!!!!
yeah, I’m watchin some real porn right now n it’s really turnin me on man!!!!
God yeah man HAHAHAHAHA!!!!! I feel like i wanna stick my dick in kim kardashian’s cunt and squeeze gemma atkinson’s boobs real hard!!!!!!!!
can’t you guys respect the story please!!!!!!!!!??????
i, mean what the hell’s wrong with it? i think that it’s pretty good
SHUT THE FUCK UP DICKHEAD!!!!!!!
SHUT THE FUCK UP DICKHEAD!!!!!!
YEAH, SHUT THE FUCK UP DICKHEAD!!!!!!!
whteva its a great emotional story.. this story is done in schools as in form 6 and has alot of themes.. dump ppl who dnt uderstand it will neva knw hw good it is..
he gets killed because it was said that smart people are a threat to the government
that is a technologically sophisticated society
Fuck you asshole!!! Anonymous is a fucking asshole!!! YOUR the one who doesn’t understand the story! If its so good why was it first seen in playboy???? You fucking motherfucker, go fuck yourself asshole…
its science fiction…they enter all the twelve year olds for an intelligence test, if they are too clever, they get killed by the government
he got killed off because he was too damn smart, that is bloody fucked up. no i’m not talking about the story, the story is good, the government is fucked up… its like dictatorship!
Because he has a high IQ. That’s why his parents were trying to make him seem as dumb as possible, so that he wouldn’t be killed. They are living in a society where only people who can’t think for themselves are allowed to live into adulthood.
I read it in school aswell.
the govenrment is very wierd and so worst..they’re bitch
[...] Re: Bleak future if you are smart I’m pretty sure this is Examination Day by Henry Seslar… And it’s pretty easy to tell, because it’s here: Examination Day by Henry Slesar [...]
the government sees those with a high intelligence as a threat, so they attempt to eliminate them
this story is very dark but i like it XD
The story is indeed very dark, and yes the idea that a child was outside the government regulated IQ, so was executed for it is disturbing. It begs the question of if rule 84 listed both a high and low cutoff point, literally, of IQ. for thought provocation, high end. For happy tale where patience. intelligence, and hard work make the protagonist the star of the story who lives happily ever after? abyssmal.
I think it’s a good story, it does show that if the government gets to much power then this could happen and the smarter people will be killed off so that the government can stay in power.
great little story, rememeber it vividly from when i first read it. it seems a lot of people’s comments here are indicative of the type of people that this fictional government would want in their society, i.e. idiots.
My english teacher loves THIS!
i think this story is quite good i mean like my class did it in school and then we wrote a essay on it
I would recommend Orson Scott Card’s “Unaccompanied Sonata” to anyone that is interested in this genre of short story (in addition to the Vonnegut already mentioned).
A lot of the commenters here would obviously pass the test.
My heart goes out to my American cousins who live in such a state of fear and paranoia…
I like eggs
Its called totalitarianism.
It means the government has complete control over society.
At the start Dickie is asking lots of questions and his dad gives him stupid answers.
This is probably because he is stupid himself because he is still alive.
The liquid they give him is probably something like truth serum so he cant lie in the test and fail so he can live.
If you read “The Pedestrian” by “Ray Bradbury” the story runs along similar lines.
Bacon and eggs is so good
I love this story the more i read it. We are writing an essay on a character from it at school and I find it really interesting. I choose Mr Jordan and now the more i think about it i reckon he is an amazing character and has a really interesting way of dealing with the situation
Some of you guys leaving comments obviously dont understand the meaning of the short story….
also ladiesman217 has got issues :/
I think this story is one of literary genius, though this kind of story was not alone in the era it was written.
If you’re interested in this genre read “Harrison Bergeron”
Seems a pretty harsh story for 8th graders.
it is a good but depressing story
Great story.
ur gay
no im not armendo
Good story if you understand it but i think some Fucko’s don
t
i love this story so much it makes me feel like masturbating
This story leaves you tripping balls. shame it isnt elaborated
Fap over this story in addition to granny porn
wow this story is mind opening. but it really makes you think..