by David Raffin
Really? He never spoke to her? It seems strange. But he could not think of a moment he spoke to her. She was always a comrade from a distance. A vibration in the air. An indelible occurrence. At a picnic, he had taken a photograph of her winning a bubble-blowing contest. Her face obscured by a round pink encapsulation of air expelled from her lungs and covering all but the side of her face and her hair. One arm outstretched to express the magnificence of victory over the boys. It occurs to him that he held onto this photo for years. Kept it in a scrapbook. Till possibly he was nine years old. Three years at that life stage is practically three generations. An eternity. To keep something so long was surely an act of love. It could be nothing else.
He was going through something. The rift between the sexes. The division of humanity into gender sets. He had already been chastised for using the wrong bathroom the previous year, at the start of mandatory indoctrination. Instead of words they had used triangular representations of people to signify sex occupancy for the purpose of excretion. It was madness. To be expected to know iconography as if by genetic code. If words are so important why do they fear use them? Why expect all things will just be as they always have and that no one will question? Plus, in people’s homes everyone used the same toilets. Arbitrary social standards. Madness.
His first best friend had stopped speaking to him the prior year, for she was a girl. She had also taken with her the girl who lived across the street for it was a matter of sisterhood now for which he was not invited for he was a boy. So this was adulthood. Regimentation of expectations. Indoctrination.
He never saw Jennifer Gullstein again after the end of that year. His mother and father took him on a train trip and he was told someone in his class was in the back of the car with her parents. And it was her. So the last time he was with her he was not with her which seems fitting somehow as an epitaph to a love one has never met. To cross together on the same train and never meet. He was told that her father had taken a job in a new city and they were moving. It is a thing which happens. Reality parts. Sometimes splinters. And there are shards. Echoes. It is a thing which happens.
The photo was kept in a scrapbook with mostly cartoons clipped from newspapers. With punchlines like a boy saying, “Tomorrow that majestic old sun shall rise again!” And his dog replying, “Maybe.” It is funny because dogs do not speak human language. There was another photo. Same year. It was his only photo of his second best friend. His face obscured by sunlight but his multicolored jacket vest shown in dull color against the dreary grayness of the room.
He spoke with his second best friend often, for they were boys and therefore it was part of the social construct that they could congregate together. Dick does not recall what they spoke of. Nor jokes relayed. Nor general commonalities which signify the best of friends. But he was quite definitely his best friend. Proximity has a lot to do with this and that relationship is far less complex than love.
Dick doesn’t even remember his name. His best friend. That year. History forgets most people.
But not Jennifer Gullstein. Though she is notable in that he will never see her again. And rarely later will consider her at all. But she’s in there. An echo. Forever. Because she is the first person he ever really loved, though she never knew. And it isn’t important.
The great theologian Brother Theodore said, more than once, “Only that which we have lost forever do we ever truly possess.” We carry it always. Somewhere.
Mitch Danger
Richard sat in his office when Mitch Danger dropped by. Mitch was a physicist. Spent most of his time thinking about the buildup and dispersal of energy. Richard was still ogling his triangle pad thinking of pizza. A food cut into triangular shapes. That is why people like it, It is a geometric treat. A circle split naturally into triangles. There was a future for this in an America gone mathematically inclined. A food for thinkers, not simpletons.
“Still working on sex robots?” asked Mitch.
“Artificial intelligence. Yes. There are many uses for artificial intelligence. Robots being the natural conclusion. Eventually these relationships will be close. Think of the planetary colonists, sent to far worlds. They will need companionship.”
“Some might think you ought to wait for man to land on the moon.”
“We have to be better than that, Mitch. We have to think ahead.”
“Speaking of, what about the fact that these robots will ultimately be used by the military. A sort of sexbot sexpot agent. They could be assassins. They could be programmed to kill as well as love, could they not?”
“No. Programmed. That’s wrong. Created, not programmed. If you program something you must anticipate every need. Must key in endless if/then equations which a machine would interpret strictly and awkwardly. That’s why we need real artificial intelligence. Once created it learns. It can be conditioned but not programmed. It would make its own choices based on the complexity of past experiences, logic, and current conditions.”
“And it’s nowhere near reality.”
“No, Mitch. Not yet. But it’s inevitable. There will be AIs. We will create them and they will be autonomous. We’ll give them a past life. Memories of a younger self, no use having a childhood when one can be implanted. But they will make choices like you or me. And I am convinced that the key to intelligence is existential dread. You get a machine to worry and we are there. Worry. Be disappointed. Unsatisfied. Everything will fall in place. And they won’t be killers, Mitch. They’ll be lovers. Echoes of us. That core, that they come from us, our own thoughts, will always constrain them by echo. It’s like suggesting our own thoughts would harm us. They won’t follow evil orders any better than a man would.”
“Men follow orders all right,” Mitch said.
“OK,” said Richard. “AIs will be better than people. More logical. Make better choices.”
“If you say so, Dick.” Mitch had noticed a pattern when dealing with colleagues. Often other scientists were so eager to make discoveries they never thought about the consequences. It was not unusual to see a scientist realize, too late, that their latest work would only aid in the age old desire to advance the art of killing. Just last week Dr. John Thomas had exploded into the face of a colleague who had brought him the news of the latest application of his last discovery. “What do you mean they’re calling it the sub-atomic death ray? It may have military applications but that’s not what it’s for. It’s certainly not what I made it for. All night sessions with the equations, excited. I tell you, this sort of thing sets me off. I didn’t create that for military purposes. Do you know what this is? This is salt on a fucking wound, that’s what this is. Salt—on—a—fucking—wound.” But nothing can stop science. Science is pure.
“You know what was wrong with the Rosenbergs?” asked Mitch. “I mean with the method.”
“The soviet nuclear spies?”
“Yeah. They talked too much. Ideas get around. People talk. If they didn’t talk so much… Or leave a paper trail…”
“No one would ever know anything,” said Richard.
“No talking,” said Mitch. “No writing. Pure communication. Morse code.”
“Lots of people know Morse code,” said Richard.
“No. Person to person Morse code. Whenever possible. An agent, an informant, they meet. One is maybe a sex robot. They communicate via morse code. While fucking. Dash dot dash. Dash dash dot. A robot can take this to its ultimate conclusion. I was thinking about this today. I have an enquiring mind.”
“You’re a scientist.”
“I’m a futurist, like you. You know what I saw the other day? A nudist camp film. Been playing at a place downtown all week. No cops. It’s educational.”
“Educational?”
“I learnt a lot. I learn by observation. A voyeur always knows what’s going down where. It was called ‘The Garden of Eden: in color.’”
“I ate pizza last night with Miss Dumbrowski.”
“Dumbrowski? She’s hot. And pizza is
a very sexual food.”
“You think?”
“Oh, yes. It’s a triangular food,” said Mitch. “Cut from a circle.”
“What you are saying,” said Richard, “is very reasonable.”
“Get anywhere with her?” asked Mitch.
“Oh, she’s not that kind of girl.”
As he was saying this, Heather Dumbrowski was in her office across the hall. The lights turned low. She was making good use of a small pink vibrator her grandmother had left her. Ran on double A batteries. Three. “Odd number,” Heather thought. “Weird.” And a weird thing to hand down, as well. But it did the job and no one asked a lot of questions. It wasn’t the era where it was a likely subject of public conversation. Miss Dumbrowski took breaks such as this throughout the workday. Kept her stimulated. She liked to stay stimulated. Mike liked it too. Even if there was no network to brag to. Yet. But as long as there is life there is hope.
Books are good for a Rainy Day
Rainy browsed the ebook. Flipping through what were called magazines. A popular form of entertainment in the past. Like books, but not made to last. But all printed matter was transferred to microfiche, then miniaturized, and finally loaded onto computer data tape, where it became ubiquitous. Now it is easy to visit ages past, such as 1979 or 1967. Via computer tapes.
There were many types of magazines. They were also called periodicals because they were produced and distributed periodically. They covered a broad range of interests. Film, General Interest, Gossip, Fictions of various types, Professional Journals, Photo booklets. Under the counter matter was also produced, from the borderline pinup rags featuring not so revealing (or so so very revealing) photos of models with appendages resembling rockets, single or in pairs, to nudist magazines describing the healthful lifestyle and positive results of the all natural lifestyle. Also Science Fiction. Fabulous tales of the inevitable progress of humans in future times. Times without want or shame. It was this historical matter RainyDay browsed through.
When magazines were made of paper it was common to slide a more risqué publication inside a more pedestrian one. A pinup or nudist mag slid into the middle of a general interest mag. Reading on the sly. Private browsing. This was even done with science fiction, which at the time was looked at in shame.
The nudist magazines were interesting, as they detailed the desire of all humans to be in a natural state. That state being without safety garments, frolicking freely in groups. Unashamed. They had stories which were illustrated with photos of people living and enjoying the lifestyle. Pictures! Sometimes of people touching! Lightly, lovingly touching. But not in a sexual way, for it was forbidden publicly in that era, though it was possible. “How bizarre,” thought Rain, “To forbid that which was possible. To make something possible artificial. To alienate without cogent reason.” Rainy read a story about some people, a human pair, who were out on a beach and, by providence, had to undress in front of each other. They discovered, as the shame fell aside, that they enjoyed this. They agreed to do it again and again and recruit new members to their club until they populated this ‘Nude Beach.’ It was healthful. The sun shining on one’s skin surface. It triggered a chemical reaction producing a vitamin designated as D. Similar to the familiar action of plant photosynthesis, which is a fungal evolutionary legacy.
There was also a cartoon page in every issue of one nudist publication of a comic named Evie. The titular character being a young lady of the same name who was a nudist and each cartoon down the page had a punchline involving the fact that she was naked. Also there was an advertisement for a beach towel. Sexy.
Her favorite above all titles was not a magazine, though she loved them, but an old book titled “Cuddle Party” by an author named Jacqueline Haze. Because in this book two people fell asleep touching. It was not what the book was about, for it was sold as a dirty book. But it was her favorite for her own reasons. Even more so than the film about the woman whose clitoris was situated, for some reason unclear, within her throat. Cinema and literature of the human variety was filled with allegorical stories not necessarily meant to be taken literally. It is an advanced art form and some of the more literal minded have trouble understanding. In extreme cases people not just forbade art of which they disapproved but actively tried to destroy it or even discourage or prevent it from being produced in the first place. It was both a wondrous and a dark time. She thumbed through another favorite, A Guide for Lonesome Travelers, City and Forest. A very dark book, but not without humor.
In the digital realm all was permitted. Nothing forbidden. To think that in the old times one would sneak in the back door of an establishment selling under the counter excitement whereas today anyone can get, if not whatever they desire, the sort of material which was once forbidden and hidden from human sight.
“Reading is Keen,” said RainyDay Tranquility.
“Peachy Keen.”
But there was work to be done.
Locker Room Talk
“Hey, Dick, You ever read Popular Mechanics magazine?” asked Mitch.
“Who doesn’t?”
“Every issue. They have the two pages with the lady mechanic in a bikini. Hubba Hubba.”
“I know the one. Mimi. I like the way she puts things together.”
“I’m having her over for dinner this evening.”
“No!”
“YES!” Mitch grinned like an idiot. “I tell you it is getting to be ever more so a popular profession, science. It impresses the ladies.”
“If you say so, Mitch.” Was he really dating Mimi in a bikini from Popular Mechanics magazine?
“I am really dating Mimi from Popular Mechanics,” said Mitch. “I can hardly believe it. Do you believe in parallel realities?”
“I don’t even fully understand this reality,” said Richard. Which was true. That is why he had become a scientist. The desire to know. “Wouldn’t multiple realities cause instabilities?”
“I think it’s more of a release valve. There must be multiple realities. If not, reality would rupture and explode from unfulfilled potential. Like a ball point pen leaking ink all over a shirt.” He pointed at the stain growing from Richard’s pocket.
“Dammit,” said Richard. He threw the pen in the trash. It was a defective pen. It was more a transmitter, a bug, its true purpose. A pen Heather Dumbrowski has slipped him at the pizza restaurant. Soviet technology. Invented by professor Theremin, the same man who invented the electronic musical instrument which shares his name. It had been born with the modern age and was all the rage for a decade before falling into obscurity and then reemerging as a method to make eerie sounds in cheap horror movies. A good bug but not a good pen. Prone to leaks. A pen must be, above all else, a pen. For however good a bug it may be it will end up in the trash if it leaks ink.
“This reality suits me fine, buddy boy. I’m seeing Mimi from Popular Mechanics and she loves me for my mind. And my clean shirts. Pencils. I use pencils. They erase. Leave no trace.” Mitch left Richard there with his stain. Too many things on his mind. Such joy. Such bullet shaped breasts. Strangely motivating.
Later that evening Mitch said to Mimi, off-handedly, after dinner, “You know, If you were a Soviet spy I’d tell you everything.”
“I am a soviet spy,” Mimi said.
Mitch’s smile broadened. “I have a great idea. Do you know Morse code?”
She did. All Soviet agents do. Come prepared. And as the expression goes, just showing up is half of coming.
The Emptiness of Existence
RainyDay had an itch. Not a prurient itch, but a nose itch. She didn’t want to be a complainer about it, but the spacesuit was the pits. It made her look like a bird. A beak with a filter. Like designing buildings in the shape of something else, like a coffee shop the shape of a coffeepot or a banana stand that looked like a banana. And now space people have to look like birds. An extinct form that could fly free. In Middle English slang a bird was also a pretty lady. But all the spacesuits were un
isex. It was impossible for one to be a sexual being when wearing them. Not that it was easy when not wearing them.
She walked with Dick through the jungle. There was nothing there. Just crumbling ruins. This was the world from the story book. The collection of Dtales. Ned the Space Ranger. The classical and modern oeuvre. Tales of worldly love, 1001 well used. So familiar for their derivative uses.
“Yuck Yuck Yuck Yuck. Nothing. Nothing like the book,” said RainyDay. “This is totally not naughty.”
“These are the coordinates where the tales were last told on this planet,” said Dick.
“It was awful what they did,” said RainyDay.
“The tales were revered throughout worlds,” said Dick.
“Not the tales, dummy. Taking them from these people. So they could never use them again. Buying them cheap and using them for corporate profit. These people didn’t expect they would have to pay an unaffordable licensing fee to access their own culture.”
“It is sad,” said Dick. “But it created a lot of profit. And enjoyment for people.”
“Not these people,” said Rainy. “These people are gone. I think we took their culture and they just faded away.”
“Sad,” said Dick.
“Sad,” said Rain.
Where’s the Fun, Gus?
Fin walked into the disintegration chamber. It had just opened. She walked in and turned around, like someone walking into an elevator. People turned around for some reason. She smiled and waved at a small group of friends who stood to the side. She was still waving as the chamber closed. Fifteen minutes later the door slid open again and Fin was gone. The chamber was empty. By that time her friends had departed. Not long after, what looked like a little old man entered the open chamber and the doors slid shut. He also turned around. There was no one to wave at. But the sky was a pleasing shade. Yes, a nice day. As nice as any he’d ever seen. And. Well. The disintegration process is not something I would like to describe here. It is lucky it cannot be seen. That is why the chambers are not transparent. We don’t need to go into details on everything. We are a civil society.
