“Next!”
I FILL OUT THE forms—checking the box “Romantic Future,” the only option, though one day, as Madge explained, Americans of the future will all be day traders. And soon I’m asked back to one of the seven examination rooms. I change into a paper dressing gown, which seems unnecessary and humiliating, but what part of this whole thing hasn’t been? And I sit on the edge of the examination table, the gown crinkling each time I shift my weight.
There’s a television in one corner, sitting on a shelving unit on wheels. It reminds me of the ancient AV equipment from high school and the small arthritic nun in charge of it. There’s a cable box on one of the shelves, too. I haven’t seen a cable box since I was a kid. None of this inspires confidence, but what’s truly unnerving is the metal helmet overhead. It’s attached to hinged legs that spring outward, spiderlike, and then rejoin at a dome on the ceiling. Red and blue wires reach from the dome to a metal box on the counter and then the wires swoop up to the back of the television. It’s all old-world cartoon—the kind of thing used to transfer brain waves from the hero to the villain.
I try not to dwell on it. Instead, I pick up the information sheet and start to read. I’m most curious about the first paragraph: Addictions to envisioning are rare but have been known to happen. In case of addiction, you will be denied further treatment and asked to seek professional help. A list of providers is available upon request. Please respect our personnel, premises, and equipment. Breaching our policies may result in a restraining order, legal action, and imprisonment. If Chin can produce the future—which I highly doubt—could someone get addicted to it?
Farther down, there is an offer to try alternating alternate futures—Rotation Service: See price list. There is no price list attached. My visit is only thirty dollars with my insurance copay. Evidently, my insurance company has never seen Chin’s flaky storefront take-out paint job.
One clause states that if you don’t actually believe you have a shot at being with someone in the future, romantically, your brain won’t either. It’s a sad bastard who tries to envision a future he can’t even envision. There’s mention of friend and family envisioning sessions, which I glide right past, but my eyes catch on the final sentence. Look, if your pet is dead, it’s dead.
Madge had been right on one point, no. 6: Because of the highly supportive and biased work of an envisionist—who is working toward the best possible future for you—we suggest that couples go to separate envisionists to avoid a conflict of interest. I like that someone would be on my side, for once.
No. 8 is easily the most interesting: If a couple is not headed for a bright future, we will only allow three sessions of future envisionings—between which they can try to influence the future. Three is the MAXIMUM. Studies show that more sessions have proven futile. It is better to move on. We offer follow-up counseling to assist you toward a better future.
And no. 10 is the shortest: In the case of true love, there can be system failures.
I’m in a supposed doctor’s office where there’s a mention of true love? This strikes me as simply embarrassing, an affront to science, really.
And then there’s a long paragraph of disclaimers as well. We do not guarantee clear pictures of your future. In fact, images of lovers in the future are often blocked and/or blurred, as are brand-name items. Usually patients report that they can see themselves clearly, however. And: If you are having problems with listlessness, blurry vision, recurring unwanted guests in your dream life, or nausea, please report it to a health care professional. If you are prone to seizures, envisioning may not be the right choice for you. Consult your doctor. But Chin is a doctor, right?
I’ve always believed that the future was ultimately my own. I haven’t really taken advantage of this way of thinking, of course. I’ve been pretty passive. I mean, I found out that Madge had been the one to pursue me. She’d found me through Amy, had heard Bart talking about me and requested the coffee shop set up. I had gone grudgingly to get Bart and Amy off my back, but when I met Madge I understood that she could save me. Save me from what? A life of lonesomeness. A life where I’d have a one-night stand and feel really awful about it. Bad, Thigpen. Bad. But Madge, with her glowing smile and her upward mobility and her affirmed childhood, well, I could glom onto that and ride—for a lifetime. She’s prettier than I am handsome by more than just simple gradations. She even tells me I could be really good-looking if I owned my curly hair and awkward height and bulky shoulders. And sometimes, when I’m with Madge, I have moments when I do almost own it all, almost. Bart and Amy know Madge saved me. And they’ve been smug about introducing us ever since. I’m uncomfortable with the idea that there are set futures all locked up in front of me, a maze with multiple endings, a video game I can never beat.
Sometimes I just want to pause myself.
There’s a brief knock on the door before it swings open.
“I’m Dr. Chin,” the man says, but I’m not sure I believe him. Briefly, I wonder if someone is playing a joke on me.
A. He isn’t Asian. He has graying blond hair, a small sporty build, and a slight tan. He looks windblown and smart but not too smart—like an Ivy League football player.
B. He isn’t earthy or herb-y. There’s even a chance he’s churchgoing—albeit something liberal, maybe Unitarian.
C. He’s wearing slippers and has a newspaper folded up under one arm, as if he’s just done his morning business on the can. This casualness gives him an air of confidence I find disturbing. Still, I can’t help but like the guy. It’s as if Chin was designed to be liked—not loved, not hated, just liked. But thoroughly liked, someone you’d be pleasantly surprised to run into at the supermarket.
I glance around for hidden pranksters, a camera in the corner of the room.
“And you’re”—he looks at his chart—“Godfrey Burkes.” He says my name with such authority that I have to assume, at least for now, that this is the real Dr. Chin.
He shakes my hand. He smells old-school medical—like tongue depressors and rubbing alcohol. I don’t want to give into him too easily. “You don’t look like a Dr. Chin.”
“You know,” he says with a laugh, “a lot of people say that.” He’s staring at my chart. “I was adopted.”
This answer doesn’t quite satisfy me, however, so I continue to press him. “Didn’t this place used to be a Chinese takeout by the name of Chin’s?”
“I lease this place from my brother, Earl Chin. It’s too bad the restaurant went under. Best damn egg rolls I’ve ever tasted.”
“Really,” I say. I can still smell the egg rolls.
“You’re here to look into your romantic future. Correct?”
I nod. “Are you also a lawyer and a CPA with a PhD in something?”
“I’ve packed many lives into one life,” Dr. Chin says, and suddenly he seems wise in a particularly Asian way. “It’s a nice way to go through, if you ask me. I recommend it. But you’re here to make a choice of some kind. Correct? Have you ever done this before?”
I shake my head and stare at Dr. Chin’s slippers.
“Okay, then. I see you’ve chosen the Single Future Glimpse. You’ve written in the name Madge Hedgeworth. You want to see your future with her. Correct?”
I nod and point at his slippers. “Did you just wake up?”
“I have corns. Listen,” he says, and then he takes a deep sigh and, with ultimate patience, says, “I’m adopted. I lease the place from my brother. I’ve worked in a number of fields and I have painful corns. Is all of that okay with you? You seem nervous. Are there any other questions I can answer?”
I glance at the newspaper still tucked under his arm. “Nope,” I tell him. “Nothing else.”
Dr. Chin reaches in his pants pocket and pulls out a handful of change. He sorts through them, picking out quarters and feeding them into the slot on the metal box.
“Is that coin-op?” I ask.
“Don’t worry,” Chin says. “All of it is deducted
straight from your insurance.” This does not address my concern.
Chin pulls a lever, and the spiderlike helmet lowers from the ceiling. “This is all based on neuroscience—our brains’ vast underutilized capacities, but it’s got a foot in physics. I mean theories of alternate realities. The world’s future iterations are endless. Am I right?”
“You’re the doctor, Doctor.”
He turns on the television. It snaps and buzzes to life, but the picture is filled with snow. He starts pressing buttons on the ancient cable box. Finally, he gets a black screen. “There we go. You’re on station sixteen. That’s rare.”
“Is it?” I ask. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing really. It’s just rare.” Dr. Chin places the helmet onto my head and then attaches leather chin straps. I think of my mother tying a winter hat under my chin. I think of Madge’s woolen mittens.
With his back to me, he messes around with some pill bottles, then hands me a Dixie cup with three little pills in it. “How far into the future would you like to go? Ten, fifteen, forty years?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, I think beyond fifteen would be greedy, don’t you?”
There’s a pause as Dr. Chin seems to contemplate this. “Not for me to judge. Let’s go with fifteen. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He fills another Dixie cup with water and puts it on a tray beside me. “You and Madge Hedgeworth.” He types into the computer, mumbling to himself. “Fifteen years.”
I’m suddenly terrified. In fifteen years, I’ll be older than the age Mart Thigpen was when he seduced my mother. “Dr. Chin,” I say, “I have this one problem.”
“I hope it’s not seizures.”
“No, no,” I say. “I have an animal nature, deep down. See, my biological father, Mart Thigpen, a man I’ve never met, is the kind to cheat on his wife with other women and not really have regrets about it. I’m a little worried that I’ll be like him fifteen years from now. Maybe it’s irrational, but do you think people are kind of genetically programmed to become their parents, on some level?”
Chin sighs. “I believe in free will.”
“Huh, I see. Is that a no? You don’t think I’m going to turn into my biological father, right?”
“I think you’re you, for better and for worse.”
I nod but wonder if Chin put just a tiny bit more emphasis on for worse. Should I feel insulted?
“Can we proceed?”
“Sure,” I say, “of course.”
“Okay, then. After you take the pills, you’ll get very sleepy. You won’t actually fall asleep, but your emotions will no longer affect what your brain conjures. You will still react to the images, but those emotions won’t block your brain’s power. Images that appear in your mind will appear on the screen.”
“Why no brand names?” I ask.
“Some people were using that information for financial gains that led to legal battles. It was ugly.”
“Why don’t the future lovers come in clearly?”
Chin shrugs and goes on, “Audio will pipe into the headgear. There will be a little intro.” He puts a joystick into my hand. “Control the volume by pressing here.” It has a thumb button and is wired to the wall. It would be easy to pretend I was on a quiz show.
“What if I don’t believe in all of this?” I ask.
“I don’t understand your question,” Dr. Chin says in that way that Ivy League types can not know an answer and make you look like the stupid one.
“Is this one of those things where you have to believe in it to have any results?”
“Are you asking me if this is like pixie dust and that you have to repeat ‘I can fly’ so that you can fly?”
“I guess I am.”
“You don’t have to believe in anything,” Dr. Chin says. “It’ll work. Unless, of course, you have no future; then the screen will stay blank.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, if you’re going to die young, the screen will stay blank.”
“Jesus Christ!” I say loudly before I whisper it again and again.
“And sometimes you only die young in certain futures and in others you live a long life. But sometimes death is death.”
“Holy shit!”
“That reminds me. You’ve signed off in triplicate, right?”
“Signed off ?”
“The last page. Here it is.” He boyishly shoves his blond hair off his forehead, and pushes the papers at me. “We really aren’t responsible for any trauma caused by this process. But we will refer you to a professional, if you happen to, well, become troubled by anything you see here today.” He hands me a black ballpoint. “Seeing futures, well, as you can imagine, it’s tricky business.”
“Tricky, sure. I can understand that.” I pause, the pen frozen over three dotted lines.
“Are you okay?” Dr. Chin asks. He puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Do you look into your own future?” I ask him.
Dr. Chin claps me on the shoulder. “No. Of course not.” He says this while smiling broadly. It’s the kind of smile that makes me think of the expression a winning smile and then immediately I wonder if there’s such a thing as a losing smile, and suddenly I’m sure there is. In fact, I’m sure that I’m smiling a losing smile right now—a smile that turns down at its edges and the eyes well up, nervously—but I can’t help it. I’m still smiling while I sign my name—once, twice, three times.
I DOWN THE PILL and, in a few minutes the screen goes blue and the words Madge Hedgeworth and Godfrey Burkes / A Chin Production pop up like the low-budget video production of a shitty wedding—the union of two people with criminally awful taste. A rose lying on its side underlines the title and then a dubious copyright symbol, the year, and A Chin Production appear in cursive letters.
My thumb is poised on the joystick. This has been a waste of my copay money, my insurance company’s money, and my time off from Unclaimed Goods. But I can imagine how I’ll tell it, that I was in it for laughs all along, the blond Dr. Chin, the signing in triplicate, the idiotic leather straps on the metal helmet. My parents will say, Oh, Godfrey, you’re such a wonderful storyteller! And Bart and Amy will have to concede that their envisionist was pretty hokey, too, worthless in fact. Bart might say, I’ll probably be completely bald in five years! And We don’t even like tennis and boating! Maybe even Madge would laugh along and then cup my face in her hands and say, Poor Godfrey, I can’t believe I put you through all of that.
I start to feel a little loose and dreamy just as the first image appears on the screen—a small green car pulls into a driveway. A teenage girl gets out and starts across a front yard to a house. She’s pretty with pale eyes and dark hair. She looks barely sixteen. She’s wearing a skirt and a jean jacket—it surprises me how jean jackets refuse to become obsolete.
And that’s when a man appears. He’s holding a watering can. It’s me, of course. I recognize myself. I’m forty, wearing what my father would call trousers—those almost high-waisted pants with pleats down the front. I wonder if I have a better job now; the pants seem to indicate a higher function in life. At forty I appear relatively fit, but the problem is that I have gelled hair, which is obviously lame. The first thing I realize is that in this alternate future I have very little, if any, personal dignity. My future self says to the girl, “Hey there.”
“My mom wanted me to tell you that she dropped off some seed packets. They’re in the backyard, under a pot.”
“Great!” future-me says.
“I’m sorry about your mom,” the girl says.
I look down at the watering can. “Thanks, but it’s okay. I don’t like to talk about it.” I shake my head and stare at the ground. I recognize this as my sympathy pose; it’s the one I strike when I’d really like someone to feel sorry for me. I hadn’t realized until this moment that I have such a pose, but I can tell that this is a fake little moment.
The two undeniable facts of the situation are these
: One. Something awful has happened to my mother. Two. In this alternate future, I’ve taken to hitting on teenage girls.
“Where’s Madge?” the girl asks.
Future-me raises my eyebrows. “Just calling her Madge now?”
The girl nods.
“She’s taken her latest dog to a restaurant. She’s, you know, socializing.” What in the hell does this mean? Is Madge openly cheating on me? Do people in the future openly cheat and call each other’s latest lovers dogs? The girl doesn’t seem surprised by anything future-me is saying.
“Well,” the girl says. “See you later!” She walks to her tiny car, hops in the driver’s seat, and waves through the open window.
“See you later, Lib!” Lib? This name means nothing to me. Future-me watches the girl, this Lib, ride off, and then I plod on. Future-me walks like now-me walks, with a small bounce forward with each step. I can’t deny that this is, in fact, me. A forty-year-old man about to water his wife’s flowers while she’s out possibly cheating on him in broad daylight with his full knowledge. And is my mother really dead? What’s happened to my mother?
Future-me stops suddenly. He looks down the street, watching the car drive out of sight. But then something else catches his eye. Someone’s legs are pumping a bike. A woman’s legs. Her skirt is flipping up on her thigh, six houses away or so but heading toward future-me—it’s a close-up on the legs and the skirt and a big blue bike—its brand blurred out. The legs are beautiful but not really young. They strike me as the legs of a woman my age now. Where did the bike come from? The legs? I want to will myself to look at this woman’s face, but I don’t. She glides on by. Future-me turns around and walks back to the front of the house. He plops the watering can, a prop after all, down on the stoop. Evidently I had no intentions of watering Madge’s flowers or finding some seed pack.
Do Madge and I get married and stay in the Baltimore area? Could be. The houses are boxy, older. A few are strung with Christmas lights, although by the looks of the small green yards and the sunlight, it’s late spring. I watch myself walk into the house. It’s design is all Madge, retro and antiqued.
The Future for Curious People Page 5
