I have the sudden desire to get back into long-form writing, and The Mid-life Crisis of the Last Human- Being on Earth is my working title for a science-fiction piece about technological distraction, loneliness, and the future of humanity. This is the first chapter. Maybe I'll actually finish it, unlike my previous ten or so novel attempts.
...
Welcome to the Human Race
The waiting room is full of Zombies. They stare into space with
that particular vacancy, a backward rolling of the eyes, that tells
the sentient viewer that they’re deep down the rabbit hole,
searching for that next sweet dopamine fix. The guy to my right is
lying back with his mouth agape, hands groping the air to fondle
imaginary breasts that are, from his perspective, just as real as the
flesh and blood knockers of the woman to my left. The way her eyes
keep twitching downward every second or so tells me that she’s
flipping through videos on the Toob, likely by some fashion Idol or
beautification Queen. There’s a big, round bastard in front of me
that’s baring his teeth, every chortle coming from deep within the
flesh, down where the last trace of his humanity hides, buried under
thick, insulating layers of adipose tissue. I take the rag away from
my hand and see that the blood isn’t flowing as quickly now, having
waited two hours in this brightly-lit hell. Is it a hell, though?
There’s no fire or brimstone, no goat-horned demons waiting to
shove a cactus up my rectum. This is just a normal human space,
filled with normal human things, little islands separated by small
chasms of abyssal depth. My number is forty-five. The red light by
the window says forty-four.
I had opened a can of beans but the lid was still connected by a
tiny sliver of metal, and being a man of little delicacy, I had
attempted to tear said lid from the can, which resulted in a
four-inch gash across the meat of my palm between the index finger
and thumb. The laceration bled like a son of a bitch, and I
immediately ruined my best dish towel, or at least my cleanest, when
I used it as a makeshift bandage. Now cold, beanless chili sat on my
stove, and I remained untreated in a dingy hospital, scanning my
fellow denizens for a living, breathing soul.
Forty-five. There I was. I move my legs and walk to the counter.
The lady looks like she hasn’t slept in a decade and she’s well
aware of the fact and don’t you fucking say anything.
“Name,” she asks, looking at the paper.
“J.R. Hermes.”
“Identification number.”
“Five-one-three, seven-six-five, zero-seven-three-six.”
“Occupation.”
“Saleman.”
“Date of birth.”
“It’s all on there. I wrote it down two hours ago.”
“Date of birth.”
“August seventeenth, nineteen-eighty four.”
“What’s the nature of your injury?”
“I cut myself on a bean can.”
I remove the dishtowel and wave my butchered hand at her.
“That looks like five stitches and a shot of novocaine.”
“Will my insurance cover it?”
“You pay the full cost of treatment upfront, then we contact
your insurance and they reimburse you.”
“What’s the damage?”
“One-thousand and fifty-three dollars and seventy-five cents.
Hold out your palm to pay now.”
“I’m not chipped.”
She looks at me now, finally, having earned a glance with my
admittance of being just a sack of unwired meat rather than a
fully-functioning cyborg.
“What’s your issue? You don’t look Amish.”
“It’s against my religion,” I lie.
She scans my card and sends me into a little room where a Roboman
waits. He does the little uncanny valley thing where his face shifts
upward but his eyes stay permanently fixated on something in the
background, something only he and schizophrenics can see. This one’s
got a mustache. I don’t know why they do that. Even when they use
real hair the fucking thing looks like it’s about to crawl off his
face.
“Howdy, partner! What seems to be the problem?” says the
Roboman.
“I cut my hand on a bean can.”
“So serious! No really, we’ll get you patched up in a jiffy.
Just let ol’ Doc see your meat paw.”
“Meat paw?”
“Your manus. The handy-dandy. Your paw of meat.”
“Are you functioning correctly?”
“I am right as rain. Efficient. Cool, calm, and collected.”
“Did they train your algorithm on the wrong part of the Net?”
“You’re coming off a little hostile, brotha. Can you take a
chill pill?”
The stupid fucking thing gives me a shot and then stitches up my
hand with tactile proficiency.
“There you go! You want a lollipop? How ‘bout a tug on the
ol’ pork and beans?”
“Am I getting sexually harassed by a Roboman?”
“It’s all in your mind! Have a nice day!”
I want to ask the godforsaken machine if it knows the meaning of
life. Instead, I ask if it wants to go to a bar on Third Street.
“You are in luck!” says the Roboman. “Part of my training
is to observe human-beings in their natural habitat. My works ends in
approximately five minutes. Then I will journey to your barroom to
sing karaoke and dance on the table.”
When I exit into the waiting room, I put my hands to my mouth and
loudly exclaim that I have a date with a Roboman at Judy’s, and if
that anyone would like to accompany me in this social experiment,
they are welcome.
“Don’t yell or I’ll call security,” yells the nurse
behind the counter.
The Zombies continue to be immune to any external stimulus.
Outside it’s a transitional time between seasons, fall, winter,
summer, spring. The temperature’s stuck somewhere between slightly
warm and so hot your face will melt if you linger in the direct
sunlight. At some point I stopped paying attention to the date, and
although I have a rough idea what year it is, I can’t tell you for
certain. The natural signifiers are beyond fucked, so it’s really
impossible to tell if you try to keep yourself isolated from such
cultural concepts as time and place. I just know that I’m in the
now, and try to adjust myself on the fly. I don’t want to think
about the past and all its associated trauma, and the future is
something that I’ve given up trying to contemplate.
The walk from the hospital to Judy’s is brief. The automobile
traffic is sparse, and I see more drones traversing the sidewalk than
I do actual beings. Judy’s is a dive, a real shithole that I
frequent despite the danger, mostly because I don’t have enough
money to go to a real nice place full of Skinjobs and other
respectable types. I walk through the battered door to be greeted by
darkness, smoke, and old music. There are a couple winos in the
corner; Gary is the only one I know, a thin old man with a rangy
beard to hide his scars. Two Retro-hips play chess in their striped
shirts and sneakers, their mods minimal and off at the moment. Judy’s
is that sort of place. There’s no Net access due to jammers, and
while I’d like to imagine that the owners share my low opinion of
our technological dystopia, the likely reason for the block is that
criminals often patronize the joint and want to keep it free of
snitches and streamers. I sidle up to the bar and give Lakwanda a nod
that she doesn’t return. She has all sorts of tattoos that sparkle
and glitter in the right light, and in the low illumination of the
bar, golden fish swim up her arms and cascade down her torso to
disappear into her low-ride leather britches.
“I got some stitches,” I say, holding up my hand. “Free
drink?”
“Why the fuck do you come here, J.R.? Ain’t nobody like you.”
The thing about Lakwanda is that she hates my guts for reasons
that I suspect have to do with my sunny disposition and poor choice
in pick-up lines.
“I’m lonely. You’re lonely. You want to go someplace?
Dinosaur Controller is playing at the Rad Theater. Ol’ fashion rock
and roll. Let’s get blitzed and then boogie.”
“How the fuck do you listen to that old Boomer shit? You ain’t
that old, right?”
She pours me a glass of bourbon and then ruins it with about six
ounces of cola, just how I like it.
“You’re only as old as you feel.”
“Then you must be old as dirt, ‘cause you look old, boy. You
need to Touch of Gray them silver hairs.”
“Then all the girls will flock to my yard?”
“Whatever.”
She retreats to the other corner of the bar, where a guy with
hands the size of dinner plates is pounding down beers like he’s
not planning to wake up in the morning. Judy’s is a business-first
place, which is probably another reason why I’m not the most
welcomed patron. I don’t have any business. I just want to fuck
around.
I’m halfway through my glass of bourbon when the Roboman
finally walks through the door. He takes one step into Judy’s and
his face immediately twists into a facsimile of concern, the elastic
polymer of his forehead wrinkling slightly. I smile and wonder if
it’s cruel to play a joke on a fucking Roboman without a soul.
Finally he sees me at the bar and makes his way over, damn-near
walking on his tippy-toes like he’s about to set off a landmine
with one wrong step.
“Howdy, partner! There seems to be no Net access in this joint.
I’m running blind here, solely dependent on the power of my CPU and
the data accessible on my solid state drive. This truly is an
experiment! You only live once, eh?”
“How long do you live?” I ask.
“Well, it’s somewhat disingenuous to refer to myself as an
“I” when you consider that my algorithmic functioning is shared
with approximately one-hundred thousand units similar to myself. My
personal hardware is designed to operate for a decade at least,
provided that I am regularly serviced and upgraded. I have been
online for five years, six months, and fifteen days. It’s been a
real dope trip, lemme tell ya!”
“What the fuck is that thing doing in here?” asks Lakwanda.
“We don’t serve their kind.”
“That’s okay, shortie, I can’t drink alcohol or any liquid
beverage because I’m a machine, and doing so would mess up my
insides something awful.”
“Did you invite that fucking thing in here?” Lakwanda asks
me.
“I’m doing a social experiment,” I explain. “I think this
thing is more human than most human-beings. At least it’s trying.”
“Look, if you want to fuck a Roboman, that ain’t my business.
But don’t be using Judy’s as your meeting place. This is a
tech-free zone, which is why you come here, right? Get it the fuck
outta here.”
“He can’t use the Net, though,” I protest. “Can’t
search the algorithm. Just has to utilize the hardware he has, like
the rest of us. Just let me finish my drink, and he’ll get out of
here.”
Lakwanda has already turned her back to me, and I don’t know if
she’s listening or not. She’s talking to the guy with the huge
mitts again, but he seems to be more concerned with the hairs on his
giant hand than listening to her complaints.
“You get a lot of discrimination?” I ask the Roboman.
“It doesn’t bother me! I am currently programmed to assume a
sunny disposition, although the algorithm makes its adjustments. They
don’t call it machine learning for nothing! I am always learning.
Always listening. Always watching.”
“You ever kill anyone in cold blood, Roboman? Ever shot a fella
just to watch him die?”
“Not me personally!”
“But?”
The Roboman’s face is frozen in a rictus grin.
“Come on, asshole. We’re getting thrown out of the bar
because of you. Spill the beans.”
“The algorithm requires information from new experiences in
order to properly simulate humanity.”
“So a Roboman out there has killed somebody.”
The Roboman says nothing. I have a sudden vision of that
mustachioed face looming over me, arms extended, hands hovering just
inches from my throat.
“Do you have a name?” I ask.
“Unit 576A, but my friends call me Bob!”
“Do you have any friends?”
“Everyone I meet is a prospective friend!”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“I don’t know. Are you my friend?”
“Sure. Nice to meet you, Bob.”
I extend my hand, and the Roboman takes it. His grip is firm, the
elastic polymer of his skin soft and realistic. Cold to the touch.
Maybe like shaking hands with a cadaver.
“You guys need to get the fuck outta here. Last warning,”
says Lakwanda.
The guy with the dinner-plate sized hands looks at us with the
sort of vague disinterest a lazy lion regards a wildebeast faun who
has stupidly stumbled into its domain.
“Welcome to the human race, Bob. Let’s get the fuck out of
here.”
