by Simon Rich
He laughed good-naturedly. His fourteen-year-old self did not join in.
Stephen sat with his teenage self on a couch and tried his best to explain his present circumstances.
“I’m not sure why it’s called Zipbop,” he admitted, “but it’s a great place to work. You’re going to love it, Stephen!”
“It’s Spike,” murmured his younger self.
“Oh, right,” Stephen said, remembering the self-selected nickname. He’d spent eighth grade trying to popularize it, but it hadn’t come close to catching on. “So, Spike,” he continued politely, “do you have any questions for me?”
Spike shrugged. “I guess I kind of want to know, like, how does it feel?”
“Being successful?”
“No,” Spike said. “Sucking the Man’s dick.”
Stephen sighed. This was the reaction he had feared.
“I don’t think that’s a fair assessment of my life,” he told the teenager.
“You were supposed to be a writer,” Spike reminded him. He was going through puberty, and his voice was bizarre—strong but adenoidal, sort of like the mayor of Munchkinland.
“I am a writer,” Stephen reminded the boy. “That’s what ‘content specialist’ means. We went over this at length.”
“You were supposed to write experimental protest novels that changed the world. Not bullshit fucking advertisements.”
Stephen forced a smile. He could feel his patience waning.
“Okay, for starters, we don’t use the A word at Zipbop. It’s corporate messaging. And also, my job is way more creative than you think. That’s our company’s entire mission statement—to come up with creative solutions.”
“Yeah, creative solutions for how to suck on the Man’s dick.”
“Are you finished?”
Spike shrugged.
“Okay, listen,” Stephen said, adopting a firm, almost fatherly tone. “This isn’t going to be easy to hear. But the reason we’re not a writer is because we’re not very good at writing.”
Spike folded his bony arms. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll show you,” Stephen said. He took out his iPhone.
“Whoa,” Spike said. “Is that a computer?”
“No, it’s a phone, but there’s, like, internet on it.”
“That’s pretty cool,” Spike said begrudgingly.
Stephen nodded. “Yeah, it’s cool. So anyway, check it out. Here’s our senior fiction thesis.”
He handed the phone to Spike.
“Why are there so many footnotes?” asked the kid.
“I was trying to rip off this writer named David Foster Wallace. You’ll read him next year.”
“This sucks,” Spike said.
“Exactly,” Stephen said. He gestured around the room. “Spike, look, I know this isn’t where we thought we’d end up. But it’s pretty damn good. So what do you say? Can you let me off the hook?”
The teen folded his arms and cocked his head. His bottom braces were clogged with Doritos, and a few scraggly hairs protruded from the bottom of his chin, giving him the appearance of a young goat.
“No,” he spat. He clumsily scrolled through the iPhone, jabbing the screen at random.
“What are you doing?” Stephen asked.
“Looking for a calculator.”
“Pulling up calculator,” Siri said.
“Whoa,” Spike said, jerking back a little. “Sick.” He wriggled his shoulders, shaking off his awe. “Okay, so anyway, check it out. How much does rent cost in whatever year this is? Not in a fancy yuppie place. Just, like, the basics.”
Stephen hesitated. He could sense where the fourteen-year-old was going.
“How much per month?” Spike demanded. “Like, two hundred bucks?”
“More like two thousand.”
“Fine,” Spike said. He typed in the numbers. “Okay, so that’s rent, and then you add some cash for food and stuff and multiply by twelve.” He tilted the phone toward Stephen. “Do you have this much saved up?”
“I mean, yes, technically,” Stephen admitted. “Maybe a little less after this party.”
“Then quit your job and devote a year to writing. That’s so much time! You could write an entire fucking novel!”
Stephen laughed. “I don’t even have an idea for a novel.”
“Yes, you do,” Spike said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn moleskin. Stephen felt the hairs on his neck stand up. He hadn’t thought about that small black book in years, but at one point it had been his most cherished possession.
“This thing is full of book ideas,” Spike said.
Stephen folded his arms. “Then why don’t you write them?”
“Because I don’t have time, remember? Biology’s kicking my ass. Mom’s riding my nuts about Hebrew school confirmation. I can barely take a shit without her yelling at me to practice the goddamn fucking cello.” He pointed a grimy finger at Stephen’s face. “But you don’t have any excuses. You’re a grown-up! Nobody’s telling you what to do! You can drop everything, right now, and follow our dreams!”
Stephen stood up. “That’s insane.”
“No, it’s not!” Spike said. He leapt to his feet and brandished the moleskin at Stephen, backing him slowly across the frozen room. “It’s not too late! Please! You can’t give up!”
Stephen bumped into something; he turned and saw that they’d drifted all the way back to the cake table. The fourteen candles were still blazing.
“Just leave me alone,” Stephen pleaded. “I’m happy here.”
“I don’t believe you!” Spike said. He whipped the moleskin against Stephen’s chest. There was a whooshing sound as the book cut through the air—and extinguished all but seven of the candles.
Spike and Stephen shared a nervous glance as a bluish bubble formed across the room. A little boy was stepping out of it. He wore new Velcro sneakers and a plastic birthday crown from Chuck E. Cheese’s.
“I remember that party,” Stephen said softly.
Spike swallowed. “Me too.”
They made their way over to the seven-year-old and crouched down to eye level.
“Hi, Stephen,” Stephen said.
“It’s Steve,” said the seven-year-old.
Steve was pretty frightened when his older selves explained the situation to him—how he had been transported from his seventh birthday party to his thirtieth through some form of candle-based curse. He calmed down, though, when they said he could have Sprite.
Stephen and Spike made their cases to the boy, arguing the merits and drawbacks of working for Zipbop.com. They hadn’t explicitly stated it, but it was understood that the seven-year-old would serve as the tiebreaker. It was a lot of power to give to a small child, but somehow it seemed to be the only way to settle the debate.
“So what do you think?” Spike said. “Should he stay at this dumb job or quit to be a writer?”
“That’s leading him,” Stephen snapped. He smiled warmly at the boy. “Steve, there’s no wrong answer. I mean, yeah, the Zipbop office has a refrigerator full of Sprite, and you can drink all the Sprite you want all day…”
Spike punched Stephen in the arm.
“Just tell us who you think is right,” Spike pleaded. “Me or him.”
The seven-year-old finished the last of his soda and let out a satisfied belch.
“Advertising’s stupid,” he said.
Spike raised his scrawny arms in triumph.
“We should be doing our dream,” said the seven-year-old. “Basketball.”
Spike slowly lowered his arms. “What?”
“We should be playing for the Knicks,” Steve said. “Or, second choice, Sonics.”
“That’s insane,” Spike said. “We’re way too short to play in the NBA.” He gestured at Stephen. “I mean, look, this is us at thirty. He’s, like, one of the shortest guys in this room. He’s shorter than some of the women.”
“He’s taller than Muggsy Bogues!” Steve said. The Sprite had e
ntered his bloodstream, making him slightly spastic. “He’s taller than Bogues, and Bogues made it to the NBA because he had a dream and he believed in himself!”
“Muggsy Bogues can jump, like, four feet in the air,” Spike pointed out.
“We can get taller!” Steve insisted. There was a desperate look in his eyes. “If we hang on the monkey bars, we can get taller!”
“That doesn’t work,” Spike said.
“Oh God!” moaned the boy. “Oh God!”
Stephen shot Spike a smug smile. “See?” he said. “If anything, we’re supposed to be pursuing basketball.”
Spike shook his head with frustration. “This kid doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Writing has always been our dream. Basketball is just a phase we went through because Mom bought us NBA Jam.”
“That’s not true!” Steve cried.
“Yes, it is!” Spike said. “We wanted to write our whole lives, since the very beginning!” His eyes narrowed. “I’ll prove it to you.”
Steve and Stephen watched with concern as Spike ran over to the cake.
“Be careful!” Stephen cautioned. But it was too late. Spike had already blown out five more candles. A bluish bubble appeared on the opposite side of the room. It was smaller than the previous bubbles, about the size of a beach ball. There was a long pause, and then a toddler tottered out, his face a mask of terror.
“It’s okay!” Spike said, waving to the little boy. “You’re safe, Steve.”
“It’s Stevie,” said the toddler.
Stephen couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his two-year-old self. His face was smeared with frosting from his second birthday party. Something involving balloon animals, if he remembered the photographs correctly.
Spike gestured at the toddler. “We’re not going to get a purer version of ourselves. So whatever he says, goes. Deal?”
Steve and Stephen nodded. “Deal,” they both said.
Spike sat down cross-legged on the floor and smiled at the two-year-old.
“Stevie, listen to me,” he said. “I need you to concentrate. What do you want to be when you grow up?”
The toddler looked up at the ceiling, his attention span already waning.
“Stevie, please, this is important. If you could be anything in the world, what would it be?”
It wasn’t easy, but eventually Stevie was able to formulate an answer.
“Basketball.”
The seven-year-old pumped his fist in the air. “I told you guys!”
He ran over to the two-year-old and gave him a hug. “Good job, Stevie!”
The two-year-old grinned, basking in the big boy’s praise. “Basketball!” he repeated. “Big orange ball. And they dunk us.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Stephen said. “Hold on. Wait.” He knelt down and smiled gently at the two-year-old. “Stevie, is your dream to play basketball when you grow up? Or is it to somehow, like, physically become a basketball?”
The toddler thought hard for a beat. “Become basketball,” he said firmly.
“That’s not possible,” Spike said with frustration. “You’re a human being. You can’t turn into a ball. That’s retarded.”
The two-year-old burst into tears.
“This sucks,” Spike said. His other selves nodded in agreement.
“I’ve got an idea,” Stephen said eventually. “Spike, you’ve got that stupid Zippo, right? With the anarchy sticker?”
“It’s not stupid; it’s hard-core.”
“Whatever, just give it to me.”
Spike handed him his lighter. Stephen walked to the cake and nervously relit one of the candles. The moment it ignited, the two-year-old vanished. Stephen exhaled with relief and lit some more candles—a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, a seventh. When he lit the eighth candle, the seven-year-old disappeared as well. He was almost up to number fifteen when Spike held up his hands.
“Whoa, hold on!” Spike said. “How do we know this is safe?”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Stephen said. “You probably just go back to your own time.”
He moved the lighter closer to the cake.
“Wait!” Spike pleaded. “Before you vanish me, can I, like…”
“What?” Stephen asked.
Spike shook his head and shrugged. “Never mind. It’s fine.”
“What?” Stephen asked, genuinely curious. “What were you going to say?”
Spike’s pimply face reddened. “I was just going to ask, like, would it be okay if I…” He gestured vaguely at the frozen party guests.
“If you what?” Stephen demanded.
Spike looked down at the floor. “Touched some boobs.”
“No!” Stephen said.
“Okay!” Spike said, throwing up his hands with embarrassment. “I’m sorry! It was just a question!”
“That’s assault,” said the thirty-year-old. “That’s the definition of assault.”
“Okay! Jesus! I’m sorry.”
There was a long, awkward pause.
“So that’s a hard ‘No’?” Spike asked softly.
“Yes!”
“Okay.” Spike turned away from Stephen. “Just vanish me,” he murmured, ashamed. “Vanish me, vanish me.”
Stephen lit the fifteenth candle, and the teenager mercifully disappeared. Stephen was overjoyed until he noticed something strange.
He appeared to be standing inside a large blue bubble.
Stephen took a deep breath and nervously stepped out of the thin, translucent orb. There was a giant cake set up on a table. It had seventy squat red candles on it—thirty of them still burning.
An old man wheeled toward him on a swift, motorized cart. “I knew those damn candles looked familiar,” he said. He smiled at Stephen and thrust out a liver-spotted hand. “Welcome to your seventieth birthday, Corporal.”
Stephen’s eyes widened. “Corporal?”
“Oh, right,” said his older self. “You’re from before the war.”
Stephen noticed a flag on the wall, featuring a robot holding up a knife.
“I imagine you have some questions about the flag,” said his older self.
Stephen nodded.
“It’s complicated,” said the seventy-year-old. “But basically, it’s humans versus robots now. I mean, that’s, like, the CliffsNotes version? But, you know, that’s more or less the situation.”
“Wow,” Stephen said. “What’s it like fighting robots all the time?”
The old man hung his head. “I’m actually a traitor,” he admitted. “I work for the robots, helping them find kids to eat.”
“The robots eat kids?”
“Yep, they eat their brains. Their heads are, like, eggs to them.”
“Jesus.”
The old man peered up nervously at Stephen. “I bet you’re disappointed, huh? In how we turn out?”
Stephen thought about it for a moment. “I mean, I’m definitely surprised,” he said. “But I don’t know. I guess the main thing is…are you happy?”
The corporal’s expression brightened. “I am,” he said. “I mean, my job’s not perfect. But I’ve got a ton of friends. A beautiful robot wife. Three incredible half-robot kids.”
“Kids? How does that work?”
“It’s complicated,” the old man admitted.
“Does your robot wife ever try to eat your kids?”
“It’s complicated,” he said again. “But, you know, we get through it.”
Stephen nodded. “It sounds to me like you’re doing everything right.”
The old man smiled with relief. “I’m trying my best,” he said.
Stephen threw his arms around the old man’s body. “I’m proud of you,” he said, giving him a tender squeeze.
“You too,” said the old man.
Stephen handed the corporal the Zippo and saluted as the old man lit the candles. There was a bright blue flash and then he was back in the present, back where he belonged.
The Book of Simon
; Now, there was a righteous Hebrew in the land of Uz named Job. And no one had more faith in God than he did. And God would often boast about this man, who worshipped Him with all his heart.
But Satan said unto the Lord, “Job only praises you because his life is blessed.” So God made a wager with Satan: “Destroy all that Job has, and you will see he still believes.” So Satan rained horror upon Job, killing his livestock and marring his flesh with boils. And behold, the righteous Hebrew still praised God.
Over the course of the next four thousand years, the Hebrews became less religious. They ceased to make burnt offerings to God. They still had bar mitzvahs, but these were mainly just excuses to throw parties. Sometimes the bar mitzvahs would even have a nonreligious theme, like “Broadway” or “New York Sports Teams,” and every table would tie into the theme. So, for example, if the theme was “Broadway,” the tables would say THE LION KING or MAMMA MIA! and have decorations on them that had to do with those shows. And parents would hire professional dancers to come and teach the children dances, which were often sexually suggestive. And if there were older teenagers present, they would steal drinks from the grown-ups and get wasted on a level that was really crazy, like a “Where’s the closest hospital?” kind of situation.
So Satan, who loved to gloat, started hanging out on God’s cloud all the time. And he would point to the bar mitzvah parties and the empty synagogues and the latest Bill Maher YouTube clips. And he would say things like “What’s up now?” or even, more aggressively, “’Sup now?” And by the twenty-first century, God’s self-esteem was at an all-time low.
Now, there was a wicked Hebrew in the land of Brooklyn named Simon Rich. And no one had less faith in God than he. And Satan would often boast about this man.
But God said unto Satan, “Maybe Simon would believe in me if his life were more blessed?” And Satan laughed and said, “How?” For Simon had been raised in luxury and had never experienced hardship of any kind.
So God, whose back was to the wall, made a wager with Satan. “Let’s go double or nothing on the Job thing. I’ll bless Simon and give him reward upon reward, until his cup runneth over. And you will see that he starts to believe!” And God put everything aside, including Africa, and focused full-time on blessing this Jewish atheist.