by Paul Dueweke
* * *
Martha was seated in the TV room with her “family” when Elliott got home. He stood in the doorway and watched, unseen by Martha. Over the years, she’d dubbed her favorite TV series as “my family” because Elliott was usually not around, and when he was, he would rarely watch TV with her. They became a substitute for her own missing family after their kids left home. This particular show was simply a tool for entertainment and marketing with few political overtones. This evening’s two-hour episode was being broadcast in interactive holovision.
Martha sat away from the center of the room and two holographic images sat before her. The images were poor quality, lacking the contrast and the vivid color of real people. There was also a noticeable lag between Martha’s part of the dialogue and the response of her family. Elliott imagined the massive computers and data translators back at the network processing mind-boggling volumes of data to analyze Martha’s comments and then formulate and transmit her family’s responses. All this was done according to a phenomenally complex set of personal-interaction rules and algorithms customized for the episode.
Joel and Jan were average looking Hollywood family folks. They were well on the young side of middle age and exuded good looks, confidence, polish, charm, wit, and wealth. They represented the American ideal of what everyone over fifty wished they could be. If you could not identify with Joel or Jan, you fell outside of the range of average Americana that sought nightly relief from the lunacy of life in the hyper lunacy of TV.
“You know, Jan, I don’t think Martha has ever been to our beach home with us,” Joel said. “It really embodies the magic of the sea. We always come away totally rejuvenated, don’t we?”
“Yes, it would be marvelous if Martha would come along next time. We have such nice neighbors, too. There’s that handsome gentleman, Nicholas, who seems to always be trying to get me into the bedroom. He says he always feels so aroused after a nude romp in the surf, and he immediately thinks of me. What a silly boy.” Jan looked at Joel and winked mischievously. “I believe Marty would really enjoy him. He has such energy, and he’s so clever. Do you know he can name every player on the all star team and exactly how much each one makes?”
“He sounds very fascinating,” Martha said. “Is he conversant in the arts?
The holographic images paused awkwardly as the massive computer power at a far off TV studio churned and processed volumes of data that would stagger the mind of even the most savvy computer engineer. These computers were carrying on millions of independent conversations with multi-media players all over the country of over a half billion people. But it was the complexity of the holographic image generation and the conversation logic and the rate at which the network could transmit the processed and formatted data out to the users that slowed the response noticeably. But disciples had come to accept this small credibility gap in a totally fictitious adventure.
“It’s funny you should ask that particular question, Marty. Jan and I were just talking about it this morning at breakfast.” Joel crossed his legs and smiled at Martha. His smile displayed some of the flaws that the infant technology of holographic animation exhibited.
Jan continued, “Nicky and I took a video tour of the Shorter Collection of Contemporary Graphic Icons last week and he was quite amazing. He follows all the auctions and can tell you who bought what and how much they paid for it—”
“And who the artist’s lovers have been,” interrupted Joel. “And he’s really quite liberal. He doesn’t care whether the artist is gay or Lesbian or even straight. ‘It’s all the same art no matter who they do it to in bed,’ he says.”
“He even dabbles in art himself. It’s his own variation of misrepresentation greaser art. He feels the artist shouldn’t be bounded by any media. His works are often filled with invisible spots that he says relate to all the repression of his youth. His latest piece is the cardboard side of a toilet paper box, and he has this knife slice right through the middle of it, and here’s the heavy part. He called it Mommy … just Mommy. When I saw that, it was like my first exposure to real art. It made me think a lot about my mother and how I relate to her. It’s one of those things that goes way beyond art.”
“That’s right, Jan. I think he’s a real Renaissance man,” Joel said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if his stuff ends up at The Shorter some day. He’s so deep and has so many facets, and his art has such therapeutic value. I told my mother about that piece, and she wanted to buy it, but Nicky said he just couldn’t sell it yet. There’s too much of himself in it, and it reveals so much about him. He’s quite shy and a very private person.”
“When I see really sensitive art like that,” Martha replied, “It makes me curious about how the artist is able to achieve such meaning and emotion with such simplicity of expression. I’m actually jealous that I can’t be so creative.”
“You know, Marty,” said Joel after a pause. “A lot of people feel the same way. That’s why we’re thrilled to share people like Nicky with people like you who can really appreciate such talent. And you know who makes it all possible? It’s the friendly people at InterCon Airlines. Did you know they have a special package to take you from City Airport right to Los Angeles International. It includes overnight accommodations just a block from The Shorter Museum.”
The wall TV behind Jan and Joel filled with the best exhibits of twenty-first-century icon art. The famous Clouds J filled the center of the collage with its marijuana smoke plumes. “I’m sure you already know about all the other cultural activities in that area. There’s the High Rollers Hall of Fame, which is a tribute to the top moneymakers in the entire entertainment industry, and of course, you can’t miss the brand new Music Showcase. It traces the evolution of music since the turn of the century. Their most recent addition shows how the long-running battle between drug rap and DC crap for the top of the charts has provided such a wealth of benefits for our country. Even the President has endorsed this exhibit, saying it demonstrates once more how much we have to gain by a healthy coalition of government and the private sector.”
This was accompanied by more promotion filling the wall. Jugs Gypsy danced across the screen in synch with some room-shaking beats wearing nothing more than a single pink kneepad and the sweat streaming from her tanned body. She was accompanied by a chorus of male dancers called The Danglers who were similarly dressed but with blue kneepads and each with a nose ring. Jugs and the Danglers were the hottest entertainers in Hollywood. Most of their incomprehensible wealth came from the endless commercials they did. Every Madison Avenue agency understood their drawing power.
“There’s so much to experience in the cultural center of LA that you could spend a week there. Now that Ted is retired, he might want to come with you on one of your trips. By the way, you and Ted could combine that with a trip to see Luke and Marie while they’re in Japan.”
The screen filled with a picture of their son, Luke, and his SO, Marie. Luke winked and said, “Come on and see us, Mom.” Marie smiled. A long pause occurred, during which Luke and Marie continued their waving, winking, and smiling. Martha sat motionless, a smile tattooed across her misty face. “InterCon’s Suborbital Service can put you in Tokyo in just two hours.”
Joel interrupted the trance gently. “We can put together a package of the two trips at about a forty percent saving from our normal ‘terrific traveler’ fare. But this package is good for only a short time this summer.” Joel picked up the pace until he was pitching at full hype with Jugs and the Danglers pulsating their usual background. “Let me know ASAP, Marty. We’re holding two spots open for you and Ted. It would be a dream come true for Luke!” As he concluded, an electronic paper composer silently spun a colorful brochure highlighting the InterCon special that had just been offered by Joel and the rest of his Madison Avenue family.
“Well, Marty, we’ve come to the end of another …”
Elliot
t stood in the foyer and stared through Jan, through the wall TV screen. His stare was fixed on infinity, finally intercepted by some distant galaxy. That far-off galaxy was his real home. It harmonized with Elliott and he with it. Whatever the galaxy where his mind came to rest, it was less alien than his earthly home. The heavens begot him for that distant home, and he sought solace there. But the waves of earthly gravity forced him back, no matter how many light-dreams away he’d strayed.
He shifted his stare to the kitchen and followed it with dazed steps. Standing before the refrigerator, he gradually awoke, as if being stirred from a dream by a distant bell.
His day emerged, a day filled with discovery and no discovery, and with Guinda. COPE buzzed through him and questions about murder and why they feared Halvorsen—and him. Guinda returned. And there were Joel and Jan seated in his TV room, and yet not there. Jugs and the Danglers danced in front of him. He closed his eyes, but they still danced. Luke blossomed but seemed like just another part of the invasion. Susie replaced Luke.
Finally, there was Martha, paying daily homage to her holographic family’s trivial existence. But was Elliott Townsend real, he wondered? He was real once, when they used to go on Friday night dates to the super market and when they painted every room in their first house together. But sometime he lost his reality. Maybe when Martha discovered Joel and Jan. No, before that. And it didn’t even happen in an instant. It happened like a tide overcomes one rock, then another, and another. You don’t know it’s happened until one day you look at a picture and then you look in a mirror. How could Marty have been so efficiently kidnapped that not even she knew she was being stolen?
The refrigerator once more began to bring him back. He pulled the door open, picked up a Pete’s, and suddenly the entire episode with Joel and Jan roared at him like a freight train. He dropped the bottle, his eyes fixed on the two-liter bottle of Fantasy Cola facing him. Jugs and the Danglers danced across the label in an effort to kidnap him, to condemn him.
The sound of the bottle of ale crashing startled Martha. “Ted, is that you? … Ted?”
Elliott did not hear her. He was not even aware of the golden ale oozing around his feet, seeping under each shoe, making unseen Rorschach patterns. Martha entered the room. “Ted, it is you. Why didn’t you answer me? Elliott? … Look at the mess you’ve made. You have beer all over the floor. … I just had the nicest visit with Joel and Jan. We talked for nearly two hours. They’re the nicest people. Do you know, they have one of those big houses on the beach at Malibu that you see in all the magazines? They said I can go there with them sometime. Wouldn’t that be nice? … Ted? … Ted!”
“What?”
“Look at that mess! Why are you just standing there? I was just visiting with Joel and—”
“They aren’t real, Martha.”
“Don’t you start on that again, Elliott. They’re just as real as any of your friends. You try to belittle all my friends. Well, they are real. They’re as real as you!”
“They aren’t real. They’re some computer in Hollywood. They’re just silicon and wire and plastic, all stuffed into boxes and plugged into the wall. They don’t have blood or brains or bones. They don’t care about you. It’s all just bullshit.”
“You think everything is bullshit if you don’t agree with it. Well, you’re not as smart as you think, Dr. Townsend. Where are your friends? Can you just call your friends any time you want? Are your friends honest with you? I think you’re jealous because you don’t have friends like mine. If I wanted to, I could call Joel and Jan right now, and they would be back here in an instant. Tell me about one friend of yours who would do that. Go ahead, tell me. Who would care? If I got sick or something and ended up in the hospital, they’d send me flowers and even visit me if the hospital was properly equipped.”
“And they’d bill your account. All they want is to get money out of you and get you to buy all the stupid stuff they advertise,” Elliott responded as he began to clean up the spill. “And you call them your friends. What a joke!”
“And how about all your friends at the lab? How often do they come and visit you? All they ever cared about was getting your help to solve their problems. And how many times have they called you since you retired? Your best friends are those equations you fiddle with and those particles you keep looking for but can’t find. Talk about my fantasy world.”
“You know, Martha, I just don’t understand your world. Everything is just hype and gimmicks, hype and gimmicks. None of those singers and dancers has any more talent than I do. Years ago their gimmick was to take their clothes off. Then everybody did it. Now that Jugs woman has a chorus of synchronized peckers behind her, and then she adds that last bit of gimmickry, the kneepads. She’s just a hack, a billionaire hack. She can’t dance, she can’t act, and she sure as hell can’t sing. She has a great body, but so do millions of other women. So what does she bring to entertainment that’s quality, that’s unique? Why does she make a billion dollars just for taking off her clothes, singing some obscene lyrics off key, and carrying a bottle of cola all over the world? I guess the real question is, why do you keep buying that crap and keep stuffing money in her pockets … if she had pockets.
“Entertainment is all anybody cares about anymore. If you’ve got a catchy gimmick and drown out everything else with bouncing ponytails and tits and peckers, all synchronized to that thumping they call music, you can become a billionaire. No talent, just tits and peckers and thumps … and money, truckloads of money pouring in every day from all those adoring fans who live their lives in the entertainers, whose very existences are personified by the rudeness of their idols, and their arrogance and bad manners, and childish craving for attention, and most of all their incredible wealth. They use that money to mock their fans, to chastise them for their gullibility and for being such an easy sting.”
“You’re just jealous, Elliott. That’s all you are is jealous. They’ve got it, and you don’t, and it just eats at you. Well, I don’t think you have anything to be jealous about. You’ve been living off your fans your whole life, too. Your sting has been an intellectual one, so in your community it’s been as acceptable as the bouncing tits and peckers that you find so repulsive. But it’s the same thing. What did you ever do that’s done anybody any good. You sit in you fancy lab spending all that stolen tax money. And what’s your product? Just paper and promises and big words that nobody understands—and Nobel prizes. What’s any of that ever done for anybody?
“And it’s not just high-energy physics. It’s everybody in that whole intellectual, academic community. How about those three queer ecology professors who got that grant to spend two years at all those beaches observing birds and counting the times they had to run away from people. And that was supposed to tell us something about man’s impact on bird life. And those results were so valuable, they got another grant to do the same thing in the Southern Hemisphere. Remember, they said it was an incomplete database? They had to see if the birds ran clockwise or counterclockwise. Talk about bullshit!
“And most of the sociology department at the University,” continued Martha, “has been on the dole for years studying the relationship between cricket chirping and welfare rates, and now they have a program to bring millions of crickets into the inner city. They say the crickets will pay for themselves in just one month if the welfare payments decline to what they are out in the country. You know that kind of thing is rampant throughout the colleges. At least the money going to Jugs and the Danglers is freely contributed by their fans, not doled out by the politicians like in your world.”
Elliott could not lift his eyes from the last remains of his Pete’s. “I know. That’s one of the things I can’t figure out. I can understand money being stolen from people and them feeling powerless to stop it. But I can’t figure why they would voluntarily line the pockets of so many worthless people
. It just doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Maybe we don’t consider Jugs and The Fungi and Hard-Ons to be worthless. Maybe they bring us something we need. Maybe our lives and their gimmicks are so intertwined that we need them just as much as they need our bucks. They represent reality for us in a world that seems to have lost all reality. But they have as much value to us as your equations have to you. Isn’t my TV family just like your science? It doesn’t mean anything to anybody else, but that’s enough for me. Now you’ve lost your fantasy world, but don’t blame me for that. It’s time you grab onto what’s available and quit griping about it.”
Martha turned and walked back to the TV room where she fumbled with controls and menus and icons to reestablish her own reality. Elliott finished cleaning up Pete’s and paused for a long time before the trash receptacle. How easy it was to discard what you didn’t want. Pick it up, open the little door, throw it in, and it’s gone. And if they wanted to, it could be even easier. They could get one of those little handmaiden robots that follows you up and takes care of all those details like spills and dirt. Elliott looked at the trash door. I wonder if COPE has a robot to clean up little messes like Halvorsen or Townsend … or Burns.
