Down the Road to Eternity

by M. A. C. Farrant

  Thinking: whatever happened to the Dalai Lama and the untainted, generous life?

  Back on the streets. The sun shining in spite of itself. A city duly warmed. Imagining the pile-lined slippers I might possibly buy. Another gift. For your nightly TV vigil. Compounding my investment; my mood surging to bright. And will your feet in pile-lined slippers thank me? Your feet tender from years of giving your all: pounding pavements, carpets, linoleum, grass.

  Meeting my friend Heather, then, for coffee at five dollars a pop. Coffee in theory. Made with chocolate, whipped cream, ad campaigns. The conversation turning to her lover, Ross: They don’t understand, do they? They don’t consider COMPLEXITY. For them it’s all business, the bottom line.

  Uh huh.

  Thinking: intravenous Buddhism. Cleverly attached to our sleeping arms—subliminal brainwashing pumping us full of kindness, wisdom, love. And will the man asleep in the pet shop doorway thank me?

  Thinking of what Sartre said: There are two ways to go to the gas chamber, free or not free.

  Entering, then, the waiting hearse for my return trip home. Our newest form of public transportation, tailor-made for those of us preferring the slow, gloomy sweep, the funereal glide. The hearse taking me home. Where I’m a volunteer participant in whatever falls my way. Sometimes smiling, sometimes not.

  And yesterday by mail a blessing from St. Mary’s Church. With a special message from the churchwardens: Please, we need your money.

  Giving and taking. Thinking: our ability to reconcile dark with light has diminished.

  Filling out my coupon for a bag of microwave popcorn. Free with a fill-up at Save-On-Gas.

  Intent on having giddiness.

  DOWN THE ROAD TO ETERNITY

  It’s official. I’ve seriously decided to freeze my brain.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Mother. I was so excited I raced over to the Cormac McCarthy Retirement Commune, the place she co-founded for elderly freaks. She was in her room, beading another necklace. Cannabis smoke hung in the air like an incredibly hip deodorizer.

  Once again I marvelled at how good Mother looked: tall and slim and tanned like an aged version of “The Girl from Ipanema.” She was barefoot in her purple tie-dyed caftan; feathers and beads were twined through her long grey hair.

  “Freezing brains!” I could hardly contain my glee. “It’s the latest hope. Technology will make us eternal.”

  “Why go on suffering forever?” Mother asked, bored. “I thought the whole point was to end the cycle of birth and rebirth.”

  “That’s your point, not mine,” I said.

  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “Again,” she said, “what’s the big deal about eternal?”

  “Are you serious?” I screamed. “When you end your first life cycle, you get to have another one! Nanotechnology will make it possible. Scientists freeze your brain now, when you die, and then, when the technology’s fully developed, they thaw it out. Just like that! In fifty years or five hundred. Then they grow a replacement body for your thawed out head. I want my next body to look like a twenty-four-year-old starlet.”

  Mother laughed so hard she choked.

  I wrote in my journal: It’s official. I’ve seriously decided to freeze my brain.

  Why?

  —Because my name is Willow, like a bad joke. I’m fat but not obese, chunky but not gross. I don’t yet require two stools at a lunch counter.

  —Because I’m thirty-one years old and was home-schooled in communes. I excel at playing in the woods and making God’s Eyes out of wool and sticks. Try putting that on a resumé.

  —Because the best job I can get is for minimum wage at Video Madness. My supervisor’s a seventeen-year-old drug dealer named Conner who specializes in rave drugs, the speedy chemicals, buying empty gelatin capsules and filling them in the bathroom during his shifts. His pair of mongrels go everywhere with him. They’re called Crystal and Meth.

  —Because I live with a forty-year-old auto body repairman named Walter whose idea of enlightenment is watching plane crash marathons on TV. If only he could repair this body of mine.

  —Because marijuana gives me anxiety attacks and meditation makes my nose bleed.

  —Because I’ve searched for my bliss and found it was sleep.

  —Because when I try to plump up my sagging self-esteem like it was a satin cushion there’s nothing there to plump. My body may be thick but my inner life is as thin as a cracker.

  —Because Mother says, “Call me Rayna!” her new name based on numerological principles. Before that she was Rose, then Athena, then Starshine. Names based on something else, mythology, the zodiac, TV commercials.

  So it’s official. I’ve seriously decided to freeze my brain.

  Mother’s dying wish is to be stoned for the trip to the “Big Beyond.” She says, “I want to go out like Aldous Huxley and be injected with acid. I don’t want to face death with only this puny consciousness for company.”

  My dying wish is to get another life and avoid death altogether.

  Mother says her final trip will be a mind fuck. I say fucking with my mind will be the least of it. It’s my brain in a new body that I’m after. A new body meaning a new me. Don’t believe the other hype. It really is the package that counts. Our brains will adapt. It’ll be the ultimate makeover, a technological morph spanning centuries. Packed along with my frozen head will be a “before” picture of the ancient, flabby Willow which I’ll look at from my fabulous new body for exactly ten seconds before ripping it to shreds.

  Two hundred years from now the world will still go berserk over a beautiful woman. I’m counting on it. I want to be that woman. I have an Internet lover who thinks I’m that woman, now. His name is Donald Thomas and he’s into freezing brains big time. Even though he says he’s got a body like the star of Tarzan, even though he says he sells insurance and is obscenely rich, he’s a dedicated man. He spends his free time fighting off the pessimists and trying to start a Movement.

  Walter spends his free time lying on the couch in his boxer shorts and wife-beater T-shirt drinking beer and watching disaster shows. “Wilma!”—he calls me Wilma, like he was Fred and we’re the Flintstones.

  “Wilma, come see this!” And I’ll go running and it’ll be another boring killer tornado wrecking a trailer park.

  Things are livelier with Donald. He believes my name is Kimmie. Cybernetic Kimmie is the first step towards the flesh and blood model existing somewhere down the road to Eternity.

  Donald and me have what he calls “brain sex.” That’s the incredible thrill you get from the true linking of minds. So far he’s been the only one getting the thrills because I don’t understand half of what he says. But that’s okay. I just play along being the blonde, willowy Slimmy Kimmy with the showgirl legs and the theoretically eye-popping breasts.

  Dear Donnie

  Thanks to you, it’s official. I’ve seriously decided to freeze my brain. But are you sure it will work?

  XO Your Blonde Bomber

  Doll,

  Thawing your brain out will be as easy as using a 23rd-century kid’s chemistry set. And you know what? All those people waiting for a revival before they join the Movement will just have to die. Too bad.

  Best and long, long life,

  Donald

  About freezing my brain, Mother said, “Why don’t you freeze part of it now as a test run? The frontal lobes, for starters. We could use a hypo full of freezing compound and see what happens.”

  That’s Mother. Always there for me with a bucket of ice water.

  “You don’t understand,” I hollered. “You’re a hopeless old hippie. Your time is past. Over. Finito. Everyone’s doing pharmaceuticals now and watching videos and saving up for fifty-two-inch TV screens. Peace and love is a joke. High-tech is what’s cool. And speed, and fashion, and being young and cutting edge. Which is what freezing brains is all about. Being cutting edge. Not old and mouldy like this commune.”

  “You don’t know di
ck,” Mother said, putting on her kind Buddhist voice, cozy as a homespun monk’s robe.

  She suggested I calm down and take her dog Smack for a walk. “Check out the new landscaping,” she said. “It’s done after Cormac McCarthy. I’ve always liked his writing. His reality’s so sharp it cuts the skin.”

  “If you want your reality sharp,” I said, “try surfing the Net and reading up on freezing brains. Freezing brains will leave Cormac McCarthy spitting dust.”

  But I took the dog anyway, passing in the hallway two macrobiotic old women. They were bald-headed and bent over, devotees of something or other.

  When I got outside what I saw was drifts of sand and planted sagebrush. The place looked like a movie set of the old West. The only thing missing was a hot wind blowing beneath a blood meridian sky.

  “Big deal,” I told Smack. “Mother’s created a theme park. A graveyard. Any minute now we’ll see roving bands of bloodthirsty cowboys and Indians hacking one another to death with rifle butts and axes.”

  We climbed the dusty hill behind the commune and found a patch of newly grown moss to sit on. Nearby, a skinny old man wearing nothing but a pair of Jockey shorts was in the lotus position meditating.

  “Excuse me,” I called.

  The man didn’t move.

  “Excuse me,” I called again. “I just wanted to tell someone. It’s official. I’ve seriously decided to freeze my brain.”

  He turned slowly and looked at me for a few moments before speaking. “Fuck off,” he finally said.

  Dearest Donnie,

  When our brains are frozen will we have cozy side-by-side slots in cold storage?

  XO Kimmie

  Kim,

  How many times have I told you? It’s called Neuro Suspension!!! By the way, I sent you an insurance policy application form. Did you receive it?

  Donald

  Dusting the videos at work, I called over to Conner, “It’s official. I’ve seriously decided to freeze my brain. Only I have to take out this life insurance policy and make the company the sole beneficiary. That’s because freezing your brain costs so much money. Thousands and thousands of dollars.”

  Conner was behind the counter studying a spreadsheet about his drug business—scrunched face, Magic Marker in his hand. “What?” he said, turning down the master switch on the eight TV sets blaring cartoons. His nose ring vibrated, a sure sign he was choked. “Cool,” he hissed when I told him again. “Whaaat Ev-eeeeer.”

  At home I said, “Hey, Walter, I’ve seriously decided … ”

  “Yeah, yeah … I know … to freeze your brain. It’s another rip-off by insurance companies. Didn’t you know that? They get people to take out huge insurance policies plus charge an annual holding fee. When you die, Wilma, they cut your head off, drain the blood, fill it with antifreeze, and put it in cold storage. Think about that! Then they burn the rest of you and flush your ashes down the toilet. With you it’ll take several flushes.”

  “Very funny. But how’d you get so smart about the insurance companies?”

  “Saw it on TV,” Walter said. “Where else? On a show about future disasters. Freezing brains is some kind of idiot belief in future technology. Might as well believe in reincarnation. It’s cheaper.”

  Dear Don,

  Tell me again about Neuro Suspension. I’m getting kind of worried about the money.

  Yours truly, Kimberly

  Kimmie,

  If you’re cost conscious, the budget route is the best way to go. The death benefit on a hundred-thousand-dollar insurance policy will include, besides Neuro Suspension, cremation and burial of your non-frozen remains at sea. It’s a bargain. But don’t wait too long to act. There’s so many people wanting this service that prices will be soaring within days. Kimmie, sign those forms now!

  Yours in eternity, Don

  I told a customer who was renting three adult videos. “It’s official. I’ve seriously decided to freeze my brain.”

  The customer smirked at me, leering. “Frozen from the neck up. I like that. I like that very much.”

  I’ve told everyone I know. And everyone I don’t know. Something’s been decided. I’m seriously thinking. Nanotechnology will make it possible. It’s official. The Girl from Ipanema will inject herself with acid. The Flintstones will watch disaster shows till death does them in. Cowboys and Indians will hack each other to death with rifle butts and axes. But something’s been decided. The death benefit on a hundred-thousand-dollar insurance policy will ensure my survival. Yours in long, long life. I’ve seriously decided. When you end your first life cycle, you get another one. Mother laughed so hard she choked. Thawing you out will be as easy as using a 23rd-century kid’s chemistry set. Adapt and live. Frozen from the neck up. A mind fuck a mind fuck. Donald Thomas, my lover, my sole beneficiary. Stored at -179 degrees Celsius. Willowy as a two-ton truck. Living forever in a beautiful starlet’s body. It’s official. My non-frozen remains will be flushed down the toilet. Technology will make us eternal. Wife-beater T-shirts, disaster shows on TV. Twentieth-century writer Cormac McCarthy wrote spare, gothic Westerns. Video Madness has over ten thousand videos in stock. I’ve seen them all. Something’s been decided. My intuitive wisdom. My serious lack. My beautiful future. Kimmie, sign those forms now! The ultimate makeover. Blonde slimmy Kimmie with the eye-blinking breasts. Walter, Mother, Donald, Conner. Why would you want to live forever? Crystal and Meth. Grass and acid. It’s cutting edge! It’s Neuro Suspension! I’m so excited. It’s official. Fuck off. I think I’ve seriously decided.

  POINT TEN

  1. TEN POINT LESSON

  1. It is dangerous to be one half of a pair of lovebirds because lovebirds are enamoured of time. A lovebird is always trying to outlive its mate so it can pine away in exquisite grief. This is the prize: one dies so the other can sing.

  2. There is a substance called oenanthic ether, which is found in the oxygen samples of those happily feasting on brotherly love. This ether may contain the antidote to brotherly strife.

  3. Romantic love is a musical term meaning toccata and fumble. It is short-lived but can occur repeatedly in lives that are old, new, exotic, local, conventional or radical.

  4. When love is lost do not be ashamed. Turn the memory of love on its side and push and pull and stroke it. Soon you will have a colourless, odourless shape like a glass dome, practical enough to encase your heart in.

  5. When love is blind, meddle slowly and with care. Too much or too little inhabitancy will cause blind love to miss its mark and you’ll be left holding the donkey’s tail.

  6. The love knot is supposedly an interlaced bow made of ribbon but lovers know it as that sated realm where to even utter a tender word is too exhausting.

  7. Love Lies Bleeding and Bleeding Hearts are the names of plants and, while suitable as nineteenth century metaphors for a broken heart, they are too sentimental for our cooler times. Choose metaphors that are pest-free and ultra-hardy, ones that prefer wasteland environs such as shopping malls, concrete boulevards, airports, abandoned king-sized beds.

  8. The cure for love sickness is a tasty bit of anything forbidden such as a Black-Thorn cocktail made of Irish whiskey, French vermouth, absinthe and Angostura bitters.

  9. If Platonic love heats up dangerously, set up an immediate chill. The secret of a quick and gentle exit is plenty of idealism; no one wants to be accused of upsetting the story.

  10. In games, love scores nothing.

  2. TEN POINT DEFENSE

  1. A person’s original nature attracts or repels certain wisdoms; hence no expert can with assurance affirm that any particular wisdom is better than another.

  2. The earliest records of wisdom almost uniformly refer to it in connection with religious celebration, i.e., the effect on the brain.

  3. There is no substantial evidence that wisdom has contributed to the corruption of mankind, other than in connection with evangelism, which, being an emotion, is a brain by-product.

  4. A frequently a
sked question: Where does the pursuit of wisdom lead its devotees? A common answer: To laurels and hindsight, most certainly, to the harmless and delightful thrill of a wise and moderate wit.

  5. The combining and manipulating of nature’s more potent thoughts should not be treated as a mere matter of routine. Devils of confusion are lurking everywhere. They’re only too happy to caricature importance and to spoil polite Socratic events.

  6. It is prudent to remember that households in all parts of the world are engaged in their own brand of tragicomedy, all of them excellent.

  7. To the nervous who may seek wisdom without understanding there lurks potential gloom: mal de mer and headache may substitute for a planned and happy affair with life.

  8. To a normally healthy person there is a fair certainty that some wisdom, taken with forbearance and in postmodern fragments, will contribute materially to the health of the species.

  9. It is always a wise decision to suspend definitive judgment on any matter at all.

  10. As an added bonus, wisdom acts as a mild stimulant on the adult orgasm and is a solvent for pasty accusations concerning performance in that sphere, sweetie pie, my beloved.

  3. TEN POINT TOUR

  1. Seduced by sang-froid we rode the city streets in busses made of bulletproof metaphysics. The busses had clear, indestructible platinoid instead of glass for the windows. Outside: car lights and casualties.

  2. Many things have absorbed then dulled our interiors so that now it takes a violent swizzle to renew the deadly. Never mind, we say, trusting the next stereotype, the next expression of mind. Never mind.