by Dave Eggers
He opened both bottles, gave one to Mae, took a sip from his, and said his name was Francis.
“Not Frank?” she asked. She took the bottle and filled her mouth with the candysweet wine.
“People try to call me that and I … I ask them not to.”
She laughed, and he laughed.
He was a developer, he said, and had been at the company for almost two years. Before that he’d been a kind of anarchist, a provocateur. He’d gotten the job here by hacking further into the Circle system than anyone else. Now he was on the security team.
“This is my first day,” Mae noted.
“No way.”
And then Mae, who intended to say “I shit you not,” instead decided to innovate, but something got garbled during her verbal innovation, and she uttered the words “I fuck you not,” knowing almost instantly that she would remember these words, and hate herself for them, for decades to come.
“You fuck me not?” he asked, deadpan. “That sounds very conclusive. You’ve made a decision with very little information. You fuck me not. Wow.”
Mae tried to explain what she meant to say, how she thought, or some department of her brain thought, that she would turn the phrase around a bit … But it didn’t matter. He was laughing now, and he knew she had a sense of humor, and she knew he did, too, and somehow he made her feel safe, made her trust that he would never bring it up again, that this terrible thing she said would remain between them, that they both understood mistakes are made by all and that they should, if everyone is acknowledging our common humanity, our common frailty and propensity for sounding and looking ridiculous a thousand times a day, that these mistakes should be allowed to be forgotten.
“First day,” he said. “Well congratulations. A toast.”
They clinked bottles and took sips. Mae held her bottle up to the moon to see how much was left; the liquid turned an otherworldly blue and she saw that she’d already swallowed half. She put the bottle down.
“I like your voice,” he said. “Was it always that way?”
“Low and scratchy?”
“I would call it seasoned. I would call it soulful. You know Tatum O’Neal?”
“My parents made me watch Paper Moon a hundred times. They wanted me to feel better.”
“I love that movie,” he said.
“They thought I’d grow up like Addie Pray, streetwise but adorable. They wanted a tomboy. They cut my hair like hers.”
“I like it.”
“You like bowl cuts.”
“No. Your voice. So far it’s the best thing about you.”
Mae said nothing. She felt like she’d been slapped.
“Shit,” he said. “Did that sound weird? I was trying to give you a compliment.”
There was a troubling pause; Mae had had a few terrible experiences with men who spoke too well, who leaped over any number of steps to land on inappropriate compliments. She turned to him, to confirm he was not what she thought he was—generous, harmless—but actually warped, troubled, asymmetrical. But when she looked at him, she saw the same smooth face, blue glasses, ancient eyes. His expression was pained.
He looked at his bottle, as if to lay the blame there. “I just wanted to make you feel better about your voice. But I guess I insulted the rest of you.”
Mae thought on that for a second, but her brain, addled with Riesling, was slow-moving, sticky. She gave up trying to parse his statement or his intentions. “I think you’re strange,” she said.
“I don’t have parents,” he said. “Does that buy me some forgiveness?” Then, realizing he was revealing too much, and too desperately, he said, “You’re not drinking.”
Mae decided to let him drop the subject of his childhood. “I’m already done,” she said. “I’ve gotten the full effect.”
“I’m really sorry. I sometimes get my words in the wrong order. I’m happiest when I don’t talk at something like this.”
“You are really strange,” Mae said again, and meant it. She was twenty-four, and he was unlike anyone she’d ever known. That was, she thought drunkenly, evidence of God, was it not? That she could encounter thousands of people in her life thus far, so many of them similar, so many of them forgettable, but then there is this person, new and bizarre and speaking bizarrely. Every day some scientist discovered a new species of frog or waterlily, and that, too, seemed to confirm some divine showman, some celestial inventor putting new toys before us, hidden but hidden poorly, just where we might happen upon them. And this Francis person, he was something entirely different, some new frog. Mae turned to look at him, thinking she might kiss him.
But he was busy. With one hand, he was emptying his shoe, sand pouring from it. With the other he seemed to be biting off most of his fingernail.
Her reverie ended, she thought of home and bed.
“How will everyone get back?” she asked.
Francis looked out at a scrum of people who seemed to be trying to form a pyramid. “There’s the dorms, of course. But I bet those are full already. There are always a few shuttles ready, too. They probably told you that.” He waved his bottle in the direction of the main entrance, where Mae could make out the rooftops of the minibuses she’d seen that morning on her way in. “The company does cost analyses on everything. And one staffer driving home too tired or, in this case, too drunk to drive—well, the cost of shuttles is a lot cheaper in the long run. Don’t tell me you didn’t come for the shuttle buses. The shuttle buses are awesome. Inside they’re like yachts. Lots of compartments and wood.”
“Lots of wood? Lots of wood?” Mae punched Francis in the arm, knowing she was flirting, knowing it was idiotic to flirt with a fellow Circler on her first night, that it was idiotic to drink this much on her first night. But she was doing all those things and was happy about it.
A figure was gliding toward them. Mae watched with dull curiosity, realizing first that the figure was female. And then that this figure was Annie.
“Is this man harassing you?” she asked.
Francis moved quickly away from Mae, and then hid his bottle behind his back. Annie laughed.
“Francis, what are you so squirrelly about?”
“Sorry. I thought you said something else.”
“Whoa. Guilty conscience! I saw Mae here punch you in the arm and I made a joke. But are you trying to confess something? What have you been planning, Francis Garbanzo?”
“Garaventa.”
“Yes. I know your name.”
“Francis,” Annie said, dropping herself clumsily between them, “I need to ask you something, as your esteemed colleague but also as your friend. Can I do that?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Can I have some alone time with Mae? I need to kiss her on the mouth.”
Francis laughed, then stopped, noticing that neither Mae nor Annie was laughing. Scared and confused, and visibly intimidated by Annie, he was soon walking down the steps, and across the lawn, dodging revelers. Halfway across the green he stopped, turned back and looked up, as if making sure Annie intended to replace him as Mae’s companion that night. His fears confirmed, he walked under the awning of the Dark Ages. He tried to open the door, but couldn’t. He pulled and pushed, but it would not budge. Knowing they were watching, he made his way around the corner and out of view.
“He’s in security, he says,” Mae said.
“That’s what he told you? Francis Garaventa?”
“I guess he shouldn’t have.”
“Well, it’s not like he’s in security-security. He’s not Mossad. But did I interrupt something you definitely shouldn’t be doing on your first night here you idiot?”
“You didn’t interrupt anything.”
“I think I did.”
“No. Not really.”
“I did. I know this.”
Annie located the bottle at Mae’s feet. “I thought we ran out of everything hours ago.”
“There was some wine in the waterfall—by the Industrial Revoluti
on.”
“Oh, right. People hide things there.”
“I just heard myself say, ‘There was some wine in the waterfall by the Industrial Revolution.’ ”
Annie looked across the campus. “I know. Shit. I know.”
At home, after the shuttle, after a jello shot someone gave her onboard, after listening to the shuttle driver talk wistfully about his family, his twins, his wife, who had gout, Mae couldn’t sleep. She lay on her cheap futon, in her tiny room, in the railroad apartment she shared with two near-strangers, both of them flight attendants and rarely seen. Her apartment was on the second floor of a former motel and it was humble, uncleanable, smelling of the desperation and bad cooking of its former residents. It was a sad place, especially after a day at the Circle, where all was made with care and love and the gift of a good eye. In her wretched low bed, Mae slept for a few hours, woke up, recounted the day and the night, thought of Annie and Francis, and Denise and Josiah, and the fireman’s pole, and the Enola Gay, and the waterfall, and the tiki torches, all of these things the stuff of vacations and dreams and impossible to maintain, but then she knew—and this is what was keeping her up, her head careening with something like a toddler’s joy—that she would be going back to that place, the place where all these things happened. She was welcome there, employed there.
She got to work early. When she arrived, though, at eight, she realized she hadn’t been given a desk, at least not a real desk, and so she had nowhere to go. She waited an hour, under a sign that said LET’S DO THIS. LET’S DO ALL OF THIS, until Renata arrived and brought her to the second floor of the Renaissance, into a large room, the size of a basketball court, where there were about twenty desks, all different, all shaped from blond wood into desktops of organic shapes. They were separated by dividers of glass, and arranged in groups of five, like petals on a flower. None were occupied.
“You’re the first here,” Renata said, “but you won’t be alone for long. Each new Customer Experience area tends to fill pretty quickly. And you’re not far from all the more senior people.” And here she swept her arm around, indicating about a dozen offices surrounding the open space. The occupants of each were visible through the glass walls, each of the supervisors somewhere between twenty-six and thirty-two, starting their day, seeming relaxed, competent, wise.
“The designers really like glass, eh?” Mae said, smiling.
Renata stopped, furrowed her brow and thought on this notion. She put a strand of hair behind her ear and said, “I think so. I can check. But first we should explain the setup, and what to expect on your first real day.”
Renata explained the features of the desk and chair and screen, all of which had been ergonomically perfected, and could be adjusted for those who wanted to work standing up.
“You can set your stuff down and adjust your chair, and—Oh, looks like you have a welcoming committee. Don’t get up,” she said, and made way.
Mae followed Renata’s eyeline and saw a trio of young faces making their way to her. A balding man in his late twenties extended his hand. Mae shook it, and he put an oversized tablet on the desk in front of her.
“Hi Mae, I’m Rob from payroll. Bet you’re glad to see me.” He smiled then laughed heartily, as if he’d just realized anew the humor in his repartee. “Okay,” he said, “we’ve filled out everything here. There’s just these three places you need to sign.” He pointed to the screen, where yellow rectangles flashed, asking for her signature.
When she was finished, Rob took the tablet and smiled with great warmth. “Thank you, and welcome aboard.”
He turned and left, and was replaced by a full-figured woman with flawless, copper skin.
“Hi Mae, I’m Tasha, the notary.” She held out a wide book. “You have your driver’s license?” Mae gave it to her. “Great. I need three signatures from you. Don’t ask me why. And don’t ask me why this is on paper. Government rules.” Tasha pointed to three consecutive boxes, and Mae signed her name in each.
“Thank you,” Tasha said, and now held out a blue inkpad. “Now your fingerprint next to each. Don’t worry, this ink won’t stain. You’ll see.”
Mae pushed her thumb into the pad, and then into the boxes next to each of her three signatures. The ink was visible on the page, but when Mae looked at her thumb, it was absolutely clean.
Tasha’s eyebrows arched, registering Mae’s delight. “See? It’s invisible. The only place it shows up is in this book.”
This was the sort of thing Mae had come for. Everything was done better here. Even the fingerprint ink was advanced, invisible.
When Tasha left she was replaced by a thin man in a red zippered shirt. He shook Mae’s hand.
“Hi, I’m Jon. I emailed you yesterday about bringing your birth certificate?” His hands came together, as if in prayer.
Mae retrieved the certificate from her bag and Jon’s eyes lit up. “You brought it!” He clapped quickly, silently, and revealed a mouth of tiny teeth. “No one remembers the first time. You’re my new favorite.” He took the certificate, promising to return it after he’d made a copy.
Behind him was a fourth staff member, this one a beatific-looking man of about thirty-five, by far the oldest person Mae had met that day.
“Hi Mae. I’m Brandon, and I have the honor of giving you your new tablet.” He was holding a gleaming object, translucent, its edges black and smooth as obsidian.
Mae was stunned. “These haven’t been released yet.”
Brandon smiled broadly. “It’s four times as fast as its predecessor. I’ve been playing with mine all week. It’s very cool.”
“And I get one?”
“You already did,” he said. “It’s got your name on it.”
He turned the tablet on its side to reveal that it had been inscribed with Mae’s full name: MAEBELLINE RENNER HOLLAND.
He handed it to her. It was the weight of a paper plate.
“Now, I’m assuming you have your own tablet?”
“I do. Well, a laptop anyway.”
“Laptop. Wow. Can I see it?”
Mae pointed to it. “Now I feel like I should chuck it in the trash.”
Brandon paled. “No, don’t do that! At least recycle it.”
“Oh no. I was just kidding,” Mae said. “I’ll probably hold onto it. I have all my stuff on it.”
“Good segue, Mae! That’s what I’m here to do next. We should transfer all your stuff to the new tablet.”
“Oh. I can do that.”
“Would you grant me the honor? I’ve trained all my life for this very moment.”
Mae laughed and pushed her chair out of the way. Brandon knelt next to her desk and put the new tablet next to her laptop. In minutes he had transferred all her information and accounts.
“Okay. Now let’s do the same with your phone. Ta-da.” He reached into his bag and unveiled a new phone, a few significant steps ahead of her own. Like the tablet, it had her name already engraved on the back. He set both phones, new and old, on the desk next to each other and quickly, wirelessly, transferred everything within from one to the other.
“Okay. Now everything you had on your other phone and on your hard drive is accessible here on the tablet and your new phone, but it’s also backed up in the cloud and on our servers. Your music, your photos, your messages, your data. It can never be lost. You lose this tablet or phone, it takes exactly six minutes to retrieve all your stuff and dump it on the next one. It’ll be here next year and next century.”
They both looked at the new devices.
“I wish our system existed ten years ago,” he said. “I fried two different hard drives back then, and it’s like having your house burn down with all your belongings inside.”
Brandon stood up.
“Thank you,” Mae said.
“No sweat,” he said. “And this way we can send you updates for the software, the apps, everything, and know you’re current. Everyone in CE has to be on the same version of any given software, as
you can imagine. I think that’s it …” he said, backing away. Then he stopped. “Oh, and it’s crucial that all company devices are password protected, so I gave you one. It’s written here.” He handed her a slip of paper bearing a series of digits and numerals and obscure typographical symbols. “I hope you can memorize it today and then throw this away. Deal?”
“Yes. Deal.”
“We can change the password later if you want. Just let me know and I’ll give you a new one. They’re all computer-generated.”
Mae took her old laptop and moved it toward her bag.
Brandon looked at it like it was an invasive species. “You want me to get rid of it? We do it in a very environmentally friendly way.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” she said, “I want to say goodbye.”
Brandon smiled indulgently. “Oh. I get it. Okay then.” He gave a bow and left, and behind him she saw Annie. She was holding her knuckle up to her chin, tilting her head.
“There’s my little girl, grown up at last!”
Mae got up and wrapped her arms around her.
“Thank you,” she said into Annie’s neck.
“Awww.” Annie tried to pull away.
Mae grabbed her tighter. “Really.”
“It’s okay.” Annie finally extricated herself. “Easy there. Or maybe keep going. It was starting to get sexy.”
“Really. Thank you,” Mae said, her voice quaking.
“No, no, no,” Annie said. “No crying on your second day.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just so grateful.”
“Stop.” Annie moved in and held her again. “Stop. Stop. Jesus. You are such a freak.”
Mae breathed deeply, until she was calm again. “I think I have it under control now. Oh, my dad says he loves you, too. Everyone’s so happy.”