FOCUS

The why of it all could be explained simply: participating in a focus group was a way to trade a few short hours of your time and opinions for some cold, hard cash. The money—that was the initial incentive, of course, but over time, you began to enjoy it for the feeling. For the rush of being studied and observed, your thoughts and reactions held and measured with the utmost care and consideration. Like a preacher—like a prophet.

It had been easy enough to game the system. You discovered early on that the key was diversifying—keeping up with several agencies and always presenting yourself as the ideal candidate. You drink every name-brand soda and eat every mascot-represented cereal. You’re an enthusiast of both Red Dye 40 and Yellow 5. If it tastes like the real deal, of course, you’ll consider switching from inhumane factory-farmed meat to carcinogenic, engineered heme patties. You like what you like, but you’re open-minded. You consider the facts presented but would never dare seek out your own. You are the feckless everyman. You are Joe Shmoe. You are the perfect consumer.

That’s what they always wanted getting in the door—that’s what they believed would yield them the best results, but you knew the truth. What they needed was a maverick—a shepherd to steer the flock in the right direction.

Walking into that room, your eloquence and conviction always set you apart from the other demographic representatives—from the mouth-breathing NPCs who followed in the wake of your every opinion like a gaggle of goslings trailing their honking mother goose. You had it all down to a science—a formula.

“I like the red logo,” they’d all drone in unison like bleating sheep when presented with the rebrand mock-up options for some aspartame-laden soft drink.

“The red is too—abrupt,” you would boldly disagree, watching as all eyes snapped toward you. “The gold, on the other hand—the gold is warm. Like the taste of ripe mangos in the summertime. Like swimming in the ocean, drinking in the salty tang through every pore of your skin—a perfect day made better only by the addition of a refreshing, effervescent beverage.”

You were careful to pace your words so as not to let on that every piece of feedback had been rehearsed like a Shakespearean monologue. The product itself was inconsequential—words were easily rearranged and readjusted in real time to suit the current need.

“Mmm—mhm.” The moderator would nod, hanging on your every word and somehow oblivious to the deafening sound of your near arousal-level heartbeat. “Now, when you say ‘abrupt’—”

“I mean jarring—unnerving,” you’d clarify, continuing the performance. “Like—the feeling when you take a sip from an opaque cup thinking it contains a sweet iced tea, but are met instead with the dry, passionless taste of plain tap water. Like coming home to find an intruder fixing themselves a nightcap in your kitchen. That’s what the red is—it’s betrayal, a lack of safety. It’s—violence.”

A murmur would pass through the circle as they all came to understand that you were the alpha.

“I—I don’t like the red much either,” some balding man beside you would stammer in agreement as you shot him a wolfish smile, watching with satisfaction as he averted his eyes from the light of your growing power.

One after another, the others would echo the same as the heat coursed through you in waves of gratification. You got high on it. Their compliance was your drug, and there was no short supply of the feeling.

Of course, the ultimate reward was always the on-camera segment. It was never a guarantee, but the participant who best articulated their ideas would sometimes be selected for a private interview, for which they would be awarded an extra fifty dollars. To no one’s surprise, you were always the winner.

That was how it always went—until the day it didn’t. Until the day she walked through the door. 

That particular afternoon, you’d been selected for a feminine hygiene study. It was being held at your favorite office—a modern loft flanked by a towering bamboo fence that always made you feel as if you were entering a pristine private residence. You enjoyed the homey feeling of it all and the ease of street parking in the un-permitted residential neighborhood.

Check-in was a breeze, though you never were quite certain if you should show any indication that you recognized the now entirely familiar staff members. Technically, when the recruiter called and asked whether or not you’d participated in a focus group in the past six months, your slow, considered response of, “No—not that I can think of” wasn’t entirely forthright. In truth, it was your second one that week.

You felt like Princess Diana as you smiled and waved at everyone in greeting, eventually taking a seat on the rounded conversation pit sectional beside an athleisure-clad woman with mousey-brown hair and adult acne.

She’ll do, you thought to yourself, noting her inability to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds. She’d be your right hand—the first convert who would, in turn, influence the rest of the group.

The door opened, announcing the entrance of yet another participant, and it was then, as you turned, that you first saw her. The resemblance between you was striking—not in the length of her dark, wavy hair or the pale sheen of her skin, but in her eyes—in the keen, hawk-like look of them as they scanned the room.

One of these things is not like the others, you thought to yourself as her ice-blue stare met the green-flecked hue of your own gaze. There was a feeling there in that look—a mutual recognition of the twin hunger residing in each of you. You knew it then, but you tried to push it aside—the intuition that she would be a problem for you.

The woman cleared check-in and took a moment to surveil the seating options before her heat-seeking gaze locked onto a bespectacled woman anxiously gnawing at her nails. You watched as your prospective rival took a seat beside her own chosen submissive for the afternoon, noting the name “Isabel” scrawled neatly over the tag affixed to her chest. The letters were written in blaring all caps—an assertion of dominance even at a glance.

The session began shortly thereafter when the moderator took her place at the head of the room, pen and clipboard in hand, and began some version of a tired introduction you had heard a thousand times before. You tuned in and out during this portion, though your interest was piqued when she announced the bonus prize: that time permitting, she would likely select someone at the end to participate in a “voluntary video recorded study segment for additional compensation.”

You grinned broadly at these words, taking care to showcase your fifty-dollar smile—as if there were any chance at all that you wouldn’t be selected for the on-camera interview. Still, you stole a casual look at the others, counting eight total, including yourself—and Isabel, whose face was fixed with an insincerely contemplative expression.

She was pretty, you supposed—in fact, she was rather striking, but every movement of her body, every nod of her head so clearly exemplified a person who knows their beauty and seeks to command all the more attention for it at every turn. A cheap trick, you thought to yourself, pulling at the hem of your shirt slightly in an effort to subtly accentuate your cleavage.

“So, who here would say they’re content with the way tampons are traditionally packaged?” The moderator’s voice cut through your mental assessment as tentative hands around the room went up.

“Almost everyone,” she continued, taking visual inventory and nodding until she reached you. “Okay, let’s start here.” She tipped her pen cap in your direction. “Tell me why you didn’t raise your hand.”

“It comes down to a matter of principle, really,” you began, resisting the urge to stand for your sermon. “Earl Haas invented the first iteration of the tampon in 1931, and sure, there have been minor updates and adjustments, like the introduction of the plastic applicator back in ’71, but while the innovative tides have continued to turn in fields of science and medicine, technology and convenience—the tampon has been largely neglected.”

You paused for dramatic effect, turning to Mousy-Brown, your right hand, and watching with satisfaction as she uttered some soft-spoken murmur of agreement before continuing with renewed confidence.

“What would our modern world be without ceaseless innovation? If no one looked to a vacuum and considered its unrealized ability to be cordless, if no one imagined the portable potential of the telephone or if—if um…”

You searched for another example, but before you could reference the advent of the microwave, the moderator interjected.

“Great, great, thank you, yes,” she muttered, scribbling away on her clipboard. “Now, there was one other hand that didn’t go up—yes, you there—”

You followed the moderator’s gaze even though you didn’t need to. You knew who the other dissenter was even before she spoke.

“Isabel,” she said, tossing the long lock of hair behind her shoulder that had moved to obscure her name tag. “Truthfully, I never even use tampons—I’ve had a menstrual cup for years. It’s kind of a hassle sometimes, especially in a public bathroom or on an airplane, but carrying tampons around can just be so—cumbersome.”

Your blood ran cold as Isabel shrugged, but the moderator’s eyes lit up. “Mmm—mhm. Now, when you say ‘cumbersome’—”

“I mean onerous—an infernal nuisance,” Isabel clarified, continuing the performance. “Like—being forced to participate in a marathon for charity. Like being shackled to an iron fence, put on display for any passerby to see. That’s what carrying around a tampon is—it’s punitive, a lack of agency. It’s—enslavement.”

Cold turned to ice within your veins as the last word left Isabel’s lips, and her eyes came to rest upon yours. She knew how to play the opinionated, calculated consumer—how to paint an age-old problem so the product in question could become the long-awaited solution. She could sense that the throne was yours, that it always had been, but she was vying for your crown anyway.

“En-slave-ment,” the moderator intoned along with her note-taking. “Excellent. Any other thoughts—?”

“I—I agree,” Isabel’s four-eyed underling bleated suddenly. “Carrying tampons is—um, it’s like, really annoying sometimes.”

“Yeah, I feel the same way—I guess,” came the voice of your own minion from beside you.

Judas, your mind hissed as you shot her a subtly menacing look.

“Yes, I agree—as well,” you joined in out of necessity.

“Mmm—mhm,” the moderator resumed. “So what I’m hearing is, ‘tampon packaging is unsightly and embarrassing. The idea of any other human being catching a glimpse of that standard conical device and suspecting even for a moment that you may contain a uterus somewhere within your person is a humiliation that feels deserving of the Japanese ritual self-disembowelment known as seppuku or hara-kiri—yes?”

Hesitant nods and grumbles of muddled agreement filled the room as our leader then moved to turn over a large poster board mounted on a stand at the head of the room.

“Well then, I’d like to introduce the prototype for our revolutionary new lightweight tampon carrying canister, designed to be completely concealable and fashion forward.”

She winked as you and all the others studied the marketing display—a flowery, pink and white mock-up advert depicting a tampon encased within a fluted, golden lipstick tube.

“Imagine it, ladies—no more worrying about whether or not your date has an inkling about your reproductive activities. Now, you can slip away to the restroom in style, announcing proudly that you just need a moment to ‘reapply.’”

Heads cocked and tilted, to and fro, examining and assessing. You racked your brain for an angle—a way to commandeer the ship and steer yourself to self-satisfied glory. You pondered your choices, everything from exuberant flattery to measured disagreement. Glancing over at Isabel, her darting eyes and furrowed brow served as the unmistakable tell that she was attempting to determine the same thing.

“I like it, but—what about some options?” You said as the moderator’s head whipped to you, and she lifted the clipboard once more.

“Options, yes—what kind of options?”

“The lipstick is—genius.” You shook your head as if the idea was truly, staggeringly brilliant. “But what about something for a different type of woman? One who wants all of her accessories to represent the strong, red-blooded American she is? A woman whose values are sacred and whose colors don’t run.”

You had them—all of them. The rush began to overwhelm you as you proceeded in a trance-like state, moved by the spirit to speak your next words.

“What about—”

“A tampon bullet cartridge,” Isabel interjected suddenly as a stillness fell over the room.

It couldn’t be—she’d stolen the exact words right out of your mouth. She’d followed, hot on your trail to victory, and claimed that revelatory prize all for herself.

“Mmm—mhm, interesting, yes—I see.” The moderator scribbled away furiously. “Not sure how it would go over on the West Coast, but for our more southern demographic—”

“‘For the woman who’s always carrying,’” your challenger continued. “That’s your tagline.”

Your mind went dark as you surveyed the scene—Mousy-Brown and Four Eyes nodding excitedly, swept up in a wave of synchronized agreement with Isabel at its origin. Isabel—more like Jezebel. A detractor encouraging the worship of false prophets. A propagandist of blasphemy. She would not steal your spotlight. She would not be your undoing.

“‘For the woman who’s always prepared,'” you corrected, doing everything in your power to even your voice. “Great idea—a bullet cartridge. I love that.”

You beamed a plastic smile at Isabel, who returned the same insincerity in kind.

The session continued as the moderator carried on through the standard questions, comparing and contrasting product variations and assessing the why’s and why nots of brand competitors. You warred with Isabel at every turn, carefully disguising your disagreements as casual morsels of “food for thought,” and in reprisal, she poked thoughtful holes in your every position. As you volleyed back and forth, it became clear that determining your victory on the basis of allegiance would be difficult. While you may have earned praise for your thoughtful, Socratic inquiries, Isabel had also been commended for many of her bold, assertive statements, and as it stood, the room was still very clearly divided.

Now that Isabel was in the world, the game could not be judged as it had been before, but there was one remaining prize to be awarded: the on-camera interview. Yes, it was the only way—whoever was selected to receive that honor would be the winner.

“I want to thank y’all so much for participatin’ in this study.”

The moderator’s voice permeated your internal deliberation suddenly as you returned your attention to the room. Had she always had that country twang? It seemed unlikely, but there was no time to ponder.

“Y’all just sit tight—I’m gonna confer with my team over there for a moment, then I’ll be back to grab someone for the on-camera interview portion, alrighty then? Alright.”

You hadn’t noticed the line of men seated a few paces behind the sofa. They had presumably been watching the entire session in silent stillness, but with that subtle word of acknowledgment, they seemed to activate from their state of dormancy, rising with blank faces in near-perfect unison and marching together toward a small back room with the moderator in toe.

You tried to still your fidgeting limbs as you sat waiting for the verdict. Glancing around the room at the participants, the background extras you hadn’t nicknamed or even totally identified as sentient beings, a slow realization overtook you. What started as bitter hatred for your raven-haired opponent had transformed into something else: a new drug—an unexpected high. There had been a sense of exhilaration as you matched wits—you’d felt your pulse quicken in a different rhythm, your heart dancing in triple time. Manipulating those weaker minds with your conviction until their mouths moved by the pull of your fingers on their marionette strings was enough to sustain you—but at the end of the day, you were shooting fish in a barrel. With the introduction of this rival predator, you were on the open ocean, casting your line into the blue abyss. Now, the catch would be a true victory—a symbol of your mental prowess. Maybe Isabel was exactly what you needed—a worthy adversary who would only serve to sweeten the kill.

The door to the back room burst open suddenly, revealing the stone-faced men all seated around a long table as the moderator appeared in the entryway.

“Thanks for waitin’ y’all. My team and I have decided that we will not be movin’ forward with the video portion, so you can grab your compensation at the door and scoot on outta here!”

Your heart sank like a stone. You felt numb as you stood along with everyone else and shuffled slowly for the exit. It took everything inside of you to force a smile as a cheery employee handed you your payment, and you crossed the threshold into the blazing sunlight.

You moved in a trance past the towering bamboo, ignoring a squeaking farewell from Mousy Brown as you stepped out onto the street. You spotted your car easily, cloaked in the dust of ages and marred with bird shit, but as you neared, you also notcied the familiar figure standing parallel to your parking spot and cursing angrily under her breath.

“Isabel?”

Her face whipped to yours at the sound of her name, and you watched as she forced a look of pleasant surprise.

“Hey! Fancy seeing you here.” She let out a high laugh like a dolphin, and you echoed the eerie sound in kind, stepping closer to examine the red and white paper slip tucked beneath her windshield wiper.

“Oh no.” You dragged the word with saccharine sweetness like a razor blade over her skin. “You got a parking ticket?”

“Yeah, kind of bummer.”

Ugh, that is just the worst.” You reply, your performance of empathy belied only by the jumping of your joyous heartbeat. “You gotta read the signs, babe—street sweeping on Thursdays.”

She played a good game, but the champion was clear now—out in the real world, you were in control, blessed with a shrewd sense of your environment that Isabel simply did not possess. It wasn’t the victory you’d hungered for, but it was better than nothing.

You didn’t wait for a reply as you turned and headed for your car, but as you opened the door and lowered yourself into the driver’s seat, her voice rang out from behind you.

“Thanks—I’ll be sure to remember that next time.”

Joan Crawford and Bette Davis on the set of What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? - (1962)