by Dave Eggers
“Did I what?”
“Did you tell on me?”
“Annie, what the fuck?”
“Just tell me.”
“No, I didn’t tell on you. To who?”
“What did you say to him?”
“Who?”
“Dan.”
“I haven’t even seen him.”
“You didn’t send a message to him?”
“No. Annie, shit.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
Annie sighed. “Okay. Fuck. Sorry. I sent him a message, and called him, and hadn’t heard back. And then I didn’t hear back from you, and my brain just put all this together in a weird way.”
“Annie, shit.”
“Sorry.”
“I think you’re overstressed.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Let me get you some drinks tonight.”
“Thanks, no.”
“Please?”
“I can’t. We have too many things going on here this week. Just trying to deal with this clusterfuck in Washington.”
“Washington? What about it?”
“It’s such a long story. I can’t say, actually.”
“But you’re the one that has to handle it? All of Washington?”
“They give me some of the government-hassle stuff because, I don’t know, because they think my dimples help. Maybe they do. I don’t know. I just wish there were five of me.”
“You sound terrible, Annie. Take a night off.”
“No, no. I’ll be fine. I just have to answer these queries from some subcommittee. It’ll be fine. But I better go. Love you.”
And she hung up.
Mae called Francis. “Annie won’t go out with me. Will you? Tonight?”
“Out-out? There’s a band here tonight. You know the Creamers? They’re playing in the Colony. It’s a benefit.”
Mae said yes, that sounded good, but when the time came, she didn’t want to see a band called the Creamers play in the Colony. She cajoled Francis into her car, and they left for San Francisco.
“You know where we’re going?” he asked.
“I don’t. What are you doing?”
He was typing furiously into his phone. “I’m just telling everyone I’m not coming.”
“Finished?”
“Yes.” He dropped his phone.
“Good. Let’s drink first.”
And so they parked downtown and found a restaurant that looked so terrible, with faded and unappetizing pictures of the food taped haphazardly to the windows, that they figured it might be cheap. They were right, and they ate curry and drank Singha and sat in bamboo chairs that squealed and strained to stay erect. Somewhere toward the end of her first beer, Mae decided that she would have a second, quickly, and that shortly after dinner she would kiss Francis on the street.
They finished dinner and she did.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Did you just thank me?”
“You just saved me so much inner turmoil. I’ve never made the first move in my life. But usually it takes a woman weeks to figure out she’ll have to take the initiative.”
Again Mae had the feeling of being clubbed with information that complicated her feelings about Francis, who seemed so sweet one moment and so strange and unfiltered the next.
Still, because she was riding at the crest of a Singha wave, she led him by the hand back to her car, where they kissed more, while parked on a very busy intersection. A homeless man was watching them, as an anthropologist would, from the sidewalk, miming the taking of notes.
“Let’s go,” she said, and they left the car, and wandered through the city, finding a Japanese souvenir shop open, and, next to it, also open, a gallery full of photorealistic paintings of gigantic human haunches.
“Big pictures of big asses,” Francis noted, as they found a bench, in an alley-turned-piazza, the streetlamps above giving it the look of blue moonlight. “That was real art. I couldn’t believe they hadn’t sold anything yet.”
Mae kissed him again. She was in a kissing mood, and knowing that Francis wouldn’t make any aggressive moves, she felt at ease, kissing him more, knowing it would be only kissing tonight. She threw herself into the kissing, making it mean lust, and friendship, and the possibility of love, and kissed him while thinking of his face, wondering if his eyes were open, if he cared about the passersby who clucked or who hooted but still passed by.
In the days that followed, Mae knew that it could be true, that the sun could be her halo, that the leaves could exist to marvel at her every step, to urge her on, to congratulate her on this Francis, what the two of them had done. They had celebrated their shimmering youth, their freedom, their wet mouths, and had done so in public, fueled by the knowledge that whatever hardships they had faced or would face, they were working at the center of the world and trying mightily to improve it. They had reason to feel good. Mae wondered if she was in love. No, she knew she was not in love, but she was, she felt, at least halfway. That week, she and Francis ate lunch together often, even if briefly, and after they ate, they found a place to lean against each other and kiss. Once it was under a fire exit behind the Paleozoic. Once it was in the Roman Empire, behind the paddle courts. She loved his taste, always clean, simple like lemon water, and how he would remove his glasses, look briefly lost, then would close his eyes and look almost beautiful, his face as smooth and uncomplicated as a child’s. Having him near brought a new crackle to the days. Everything was astounding. Eating was astounding, under the bright sun, the heat of his shirt, his hands on her ankle. Walking was astounding. Sitting in the Enlightenment was astounding, as they were now doing, awaiting Dream Friday in the Great Hall.
“Pay attention,” Francis said. “I really think you’ll like this.”
Francis wouldn’t tell Mae what the subject of that Friday’s innovation talk was. The speaker, Gus Khazeni, had apparently been part of Francis’s child safety project before he spun off, four months ago, to head up a new unit. Today would be his first airing of his findings and new plan.
Mae and Francis sat near the front, at Gus’s request. He wanted to see some friendly faces as he spoke, for the first time, in the Great Hall, Francis said. Mae turned to scan the crowd, seeing Dan a few rows back, and Renata and Sabine, sitting together, concentrating on a tablet laid between them.
Eamon Bailey stepped onto the stage to warm applause.
“Well, we really have a treat for you today,” he said. “Most of you know our local treasure and jack-of-all-trades, Gus Khazeni. And most of you know he had an inspiration a while back that we urged him to follow. Today he’ll do a bit of a presentation, and I think you’ll really like it.” And with that, he ceded the stage to Gus, who had the odd combination of preternaturally good looks and a timid, mouse-like demeanor. Or at least it seemed that way, as he pittered across the stage like he was tip-toeing.
“Okay, if you’re like me, you’re single and pathetic and forever a disappointment to your Persian mother and father and grandparents, who see you as a failure for not having a mate and children by now because you’re pathetic.”
Laughs from the audience.
“Did I use the word pathetic twice?” More laughter. “If my family was here, it would have been many more times.
“Okay,” Gus continued, “but let’s say you want to please your family, and maybe yourself too, by finding a mate. Anyone interested in finding a mate here?”
A few hands rose up.
“Oh c’mon. You liars. I happen to know that 67 percent of this company is unmarried. So I’m talking to you. The other 33 percent can go to hell.”
Mae laughed out loud. Gus’s delivery was perfect. She leaned over to Francis. “I love this guy.”
He continued: “Now maybe you tried other dating sites. And let’s say you’re matched up, and that’s all good, and you’re headed out for a rendezvous. All good, the family’s happy, they briefly entertain the idea that you’re not a worthless use o
f their shared DNA.
“Now, the second you ask someone out, you’re screwed, right? Actually, you’re not screwed. You’re celibate, but you want to change that. So you spend the rest of the week stressing over where to take them—food, concert, wax museum? Some kind of dungeon? You have no idea. The wrong choice and you’re an idiot. You know that you have a wide variety of tastes, things you like, and they probably do, too, but that first choice is too important. You need help to send the right message—the message being that you’re sensitive, intuitive, decisive, you have good taste and you’re perfect.”
The crowd was laughing; they hadn’t stopped laughing. The screen behind Gus now showed a grid of icons, with information listed clearly below each. Mae could make out what seemed to be symbols for a restaurant, for movies, music, shopping, outdoor activities, beaches.
“Okay,” Gus continued, “so check this out and remember it’s just a beta version. This is called LuvLuv. Okay, maybe that name sucks. Actually, I know it sucks and we’re working on it. But this is how it works. When you’ve found someone, and you have their name, you made contact, you have a date planned—this is when LuvLuv comes in. Maybe you’ve already memorized their dating-site page, their personal page, all their feeds. But this LuvLuv gives you an entirely different set of information. So you feed in your date’s name. That’s the start. Then LuvLuv scans the web and uses some high-powered and very surgical search machinery to ensure that you don’t make an ass out of yourself and that you might find love and produce grandchildren for your baba, who thinks you might be sterile.”
“You’re awesome, Gus!” a woman’s voice yelled from the audience.
“Thank you! Will you go out with me?” he said, and waited for an answer. When the woman went quiet, he said, “See, this is why I need help. Now, to test this software, I think we require an actual person who wants to find out more about an actual potential romantic interest. Can I have a volunteer?”
Gus looked out to the audience, theatrically peering around with his hand shielding his eyes.
“No one? Oh wait. I see a hand up.”
To Mae’s shock and horror, Gus was looking her way. More specifically, he was looking at Francis, whose hand was raised. And before she could say anything to him, Francis was out of his seat and headed up to the stage.
“Give this brave volunteer a round of applause!” Gus said, and Francis jogged up the steps and was enveloped in the warm spotlight, next to Gus. He had not looked back to Mae since he’d left her side.
“Now what is your name, sir?”
“Francis Garaventa.”
Mae thought she’d puke. What was happening? This isn’t real, she said to herself. Was he really going to talk about her onstage? No, she assured herself. He’s just helping a friend, and they’ll do their demonstration using fake names.
“Now Francis,” Gus continued, “am I to assume you have someone you’d like to date?”
“Yes, Gus, that is correct.”
Mae, dizzy and terrified, nonetheless couldn’t help noticing that onstage, Francis was transformed, just as Gus had been. He was playing along, showing his teeth, acting shy but doing so with great confidence.
“Is that person a real person?” Gus asked.
“Of course,” Francis said. “I no longer date imaginary people.” The crowd laughed heartily, and Mae’s stomach dropped to her shoes. Oh shit, she thought. Oh shit.
“And her name?”
“Her name is Mae Holland,” Francis said, and for the first time, looked down to her. Her face was in her hands, her eyes peeking from under her trembling fingers. With an almost imperceptible tilt of his head, he seemed to register that Mae wasn’t entirely comfortable with the proceedings thus far, but just as soon as he acknowledged her, he turned back to Gus, grinning like a game-show host.
“Okay,” Gus said, typing the name into his tablet, “Mae Holland.” In the search box, her name appeared in three-foot letters on the screen.
“So Francis wants to go out with Mae, and he doesn’t want to make an ass out of himself. What’s one of the first things he needs to know. Anyone?”
“Allergies!” someone yelled.
“Okay, allergies. I can search for that.”
He clicked on an icon of a cat sneezing, and immediately a stanza appeared below.
Likely gluten allergy
Definite horse allergy
Mother has nut allergy
No other likely allergies
“Okay. I can click on any one of these listings and find out more. Let’s try the gluten one.” Gus clicked on the first line, revealing a more complex and dense scroll of links and text blocks. “Now as you can see, LuvLuv has searched everything Mae’s ever posted. It’s collated this information and analyzed it for relevance. Maybe Mae’s mentioned gluten. Maybe she’s bought or reviewed gluten-free products. This would indicate she’s likely gluten-allergic.”
Mae wanted to leave the auditorium, but knew it would make more of a scene than staying.
“Now let’s look at the horse one,” Gus said, and clicked on the next listing. “Here we can make a more definite assertion, given it’s found three instances of messages posted that directly say, for example, I’m allergic to horses.”
“So does that help you?” Gus asked.
“It does,” Francis said. “I was about to take her to some stables to eat leavened bread.” He mugged to the audience. “Now I know!”
The audience laughed, and Gus nodded, as if to say, Aren’t we a pair? “Okay,” Gus continued, “now notice that the mentions of the horse allergy were way back in 2010, from Facebook of all places. For all of you who thought it was silly of us to pay what we did for Facebook’s archives, take heed! Okay, no allergies. But check this out, right nearby. This is what I had in mind next—food. Did you think you might take her out to eat, Francis?”
Francis answered gamely. “Yes I did, Gus.” Mae didn’t recognize this man on stage. Where had Francis gone? She wanted to kill this version of him.
“Okay, this is where things usually get ugly and stupid. There’s nothing worse than the back and forth: ‘Where do you want to eat?’ ‘Oh, anything’s fine.’ ‘No, really. What’s your preference?’ ‘Doesn’t matter to me. What’s yours?’ No more of that bull … shite. LuvLuv breaks it down for you. Any time she’s posted, any time she’s liked or disliked a restaurant, any time she’s mentioned food—it all gets ranked and sorted and I end up with a list like this.”
He clicked on the food icon, which revealed a number of subset lists, with rankings of type of food, names of restaurants, restaurants by city and by neighborhood. The lists were uncanny in their accuracy. They even featured the place she and Francis had eaten earlier that week.
“Now I click on the place I like, and if she paid through TruYou, I know what she ordered last time she ate there. Click here and see the specials for those restaurants on Friday, when our date will happen. Here’s the average wait for a table that day. Uncertainty eliminated.”
Gus went on and on throughout the presentation, into Mae’s preferences for films, for outdoor spaces to walk on and jog through, to favorite sports, favorite vistas. It was accurate, most of it, and while Gus and Francis hammed it up onstage, and the audience grew ever-more impressed with the software, Mae had first hidden behind her hands, then sunk to the lowest-possible place in her seat, and finally, when she felt that any moment she’d be asked to get onstage to confirm the great power of this new tool, she slipped out of her seat, across the aisle, out the auditorium’s side door and into the flat white light of an overcast afternoon.
“I’m sorry.”
Mae couldn’t look at him.
“Mae. Sorry. I don’t understand why you’re so mad.”
She did not want him near her. She was back at her desk, and he’d followed her there, standing over her like some carrion bird. She didn’t glance at him, because besides loathing him and finding his face weak and his eyes shifty, besides being sure s
he’d never need to see that wretched face again, she had work to do. The afternoon chute had been opened and the flow was heavy. “We can talk later,” she said to him, but she had no intention of talking to him again, that day or any day. There was relief in that certainty.
Eventually he left, at least his corporeal self left, but he appeared in minutes, on her third screen, pleading for forgiveness. He told her he knew he shouldn’t have sprung it on her, but that Gus had insisted on it being a surprise. He sent forty or fifty messages throughout the afternoon, apologizing, telling her what a big hit she was, how it would have been even better if she’d gotten onstage, because people were clapping for her. He assured her that everything that had been onscreen was publicly available, none of it embarrassing, all of it culled from things she’d posted herself, after all.
And Mae knew all this to be true. She wasn’t angry at the revelation of her allergies. Or her favorite foods. She had openly offered this information for many years, and she felt that offering her preferences, and reading about others’, was one of the things she loved about her life online.
So what had so mortified her during Gus’s presentation? She couldn’t put her finger on it. Was it only the surprise of it? Was it the pinpoint accuracy of the algorithms? Maybe. But then again, it wasn’t entirely accurate, so was that the problem? Having a matrix of preferences presented as your essence, as the whole you? Maybe that was it. It was some kind of mirror, but it was incomplete, distorted. And if Francis wanted any or all of that information, why couldn’t he just ask her? Her third screen, though, all afternoon was filled with congratulatory messages.
You’re awesome, Mae.
Good job, newbie.
No horseback rides for you. Maybe a llama?
She pushed through the afternoon and didn’t notice her blinking phone till after five. She’d missed three messages from her mother. When she listened to them, they all said the same thing: “Come home.”
As she drove over the hills and through the tunnel, heading east, she called her mom and got the details. Her father had had a seizure, had gone to the hospital, was asked to spend the night for observation. Mae was told to drive directly there, but when she arrived, he was gone. She called her mother.