by P. Z. Reizin
Jen and the cat’s owner—stage name Toby Waters—were currently standing 3.12 meters apart in one of those supermarket aisles that have been widened in order—like water through a hose—to slow customers’ progress as they pass shelves of especially high-margin goods. As he considered the beef options and she the lamb, I caused both their mobiles to ring simultaneously.
They could not help it. Their eyes met. And they smiled.
“Hello?” she said into her iPhone.
“Hi, this is Toby,” he declaimed into his.
It was a treat to watch the dawning recognition on the two young faces as the coin slowly dropped that each was connected to the other. Equally as unexpected (and rather wonderful) was the growing feeling of—well, accomplishment—that I felt spreading through myself! Once again I had contrived to alter events in the real world in the desired direction of travel (i.e., finding Jen a nice young man as opposed to a complete See You Next Tuesday).
She said, “Who’s speaking, please?”
He replied, “I think it’s a handbag call.”
They each took a pace closer, phones still to their ears. And now with an announcement over the PA system—“Cleaner to aisle five, please”—all doubt was dissolved.
She said, “Do I know you?”
He smiled. “Well, you might have seen me in the last James Bond film. I was Startled Bystander Two. I was in EastEnders at Christmas. And that advert for home insurance that’s everywhere at the moment; I’m the one in the flooded kitchen looking helpless.”
And bless him, he pulled a face—that of the stressed householder whose water tank has just voided itself.
And she laughed!
This Toby was a fast worker. He took another step forward. “I’m Toby.”
“Jen.”
“Good to meet you, Jen. Look. Since this is such a weird thing to happen—”
“What did happen? How can two mobiles call each other?”
The thespian had clearly owned the funny faces class. Now he produced another comedic expression, one that spoke of the ineffable mystery at the heart of the human condition. Had I hands, I would have clanged them together in loud applause.
“As this has been so properly weird, do you fancy a quick drink? I’ve got an hour and then I’m meeting someone about a one-man show based on the life of the Winklevoss twins; they sued Zuckerberg about Facebook? Should really be a two-man show, but they haven’t got the budget. You think people would pay to see that?”
“Well—”
“I know. It’s ridiculous. But the guy’s an old mate. So, shall we pop next door for a quick one?”
“With our shopping?”
“Well, I’m not putting it back!”
* * *
I thought he was a bit of a hoot, Toby Waters—real name Daryl Arthur Facey—and personally I could have listened to his showbiz anecdotes all evening. I am drawn to tales of the stage and screen; theatrical types, their clever little tricks and tics, fascinate me.
One of my favorite stories concerns the great Australian performer and transformist Barry Humphries, whose character Dame Edna Everage triumphed at London’s Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in the 1980s. One evening, towards the end of the performance, when Dame Edna is flinging her signature stems of gladioli to all parts of the house—backhand, she can reach the Dress Circle—she aims one in the direction of the topmost box to the side of the stage. Its male occupant rises to catch the flying bloom, but in reaching out towards it, he somehow loses his balance and tumbles over the edge. Two thousand spectators gasp—some come to their feet—as his female companion manages to seize hold of his legs, leaving him dangling upside down above the precipice.
The house is in uproar—a fall from that height would be life-changing if not fatal—until one by one, they notice Dame Edna perfectly calm on the stage with the fattest smile on her chops. Alarm slowly turns to hilarity, which eventually reaches all parts of the auditorium as the “audience member” is hauled back to safety. Some who were there say it’s the finest coup de théâtre they have ever seen. And when the crowd has calmed down sufficiently, Dame Edna delivers her killer line:
“Wouldn’t it be amazing, possoms, if that happened every night!?”
In a convenient hostelry, The Salutation, the story with which Toby regaled Jen, was not quite so epic—concerning as it did an exploding lamp in a TV studio in Elstree; but if you were there—and Toby was—and he was just about to deliver his line—“Taxi for Phil?”—the light popping just when it did was hilarious because—
Well, it doesn’t matter why.
Jen was not amused.
Yes, she was smiling, but she was not smiling inside. (What a funny thing for a machine to write, but I believe it to be true.) Because I know her well, I could see that the smile was a fake. It was tired.
He talked about voice-over work—500 quid for saying “Sale starts Boxing Day”—he talked about how he’d almost cracked the “magic circle” of actors called on for their ability to sneeze convincingly in highly paid adverts for cold and flu remedies. When it occurred to him finally to ask what she did, the light went out of his eyes as she explained her current occupation, only to reanimate when it gave him the opportunity to talk about his first professional TV role as a robot in Doctor Who.
That evening, she wrote to Rosy.
Do you remember, when we were growing up, the cruel game we used to play on that retired actor who lived up the road? How we used to pretend to ignore him when we were about to pass him in the street. And only finally, right at the last moment, when we looked into his face, how it opened like a flower because we had noticed him!
Bloody actors. All they want is an audience!
* * *
So what if these particular encounters ended in failure?
Wouldn’t Toby Waters—last heard of giving his Buttons at Theatr Clwyd, Mold—and Mr. Duffel Coat—although not perhaps Gary the Shelf—at least have made her feel desirable and attractive to young urban males?
Maybe?
Just a little bit?
Well, anyway, it wasn’t so long before my thoughts turned towards you know who.
Jen
A couple of days later, at the Trilobyte Bar in Hoxton, I have a funny feeling this whole thing is a setup. There is no Uri, there is no Steeeeeve even.
There is just me and Ralph. It’s like some bad blind date gone wrong.
Ralph, whom I discovered at the bar sucking Coke through a straw when I arrived. He is in his office uniform of black jeans, black T-shirt, and gray hoodie, his pale face even ghostlier in the glow from an iPad, a fingernail flicking through columns of technical data.
“Oh, hi,” he says, his doggy-brown eyes radiating eternal disappointment.
I am in my LBD (Valentino), have put my hair up, applied lippy, attached earrings, strapped on heels, and walked through a cloud of Tom Ford Black Orchid. I have generally Made an Effort. Ralph looks at me like I’m a poorly designed web page and he can’t find the “Next” button.
“Oh, sorry. Would you like a drink? We’re the first ones here.”
Armed with a glass of something cold, dry, and white—the names of the cocktails are too ridiculous to say—plus another Coke for Ralph, we relocate to a low sofa to await developments. Awkward moments pass as we work out how to sit on the damn thing, Ralph eventually slumping, I perching. His straw makes that silly gurgling noise.
“So, do you think Steeeeeeve’s coming?” I ask, just to say something. Anything.
Long pause while he considers this. “Are you making fun of how Steeve spells his name?”
“There do seem to be a lot of e’s in it.”
“He’s Belgian.”
“Ah. Well, that explains everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“The strange spelling of his name?”
“You said everything. It explains everything.”
Gazing at Ralph’s pained expression, I experience a powerful wave of pure bo
redom, as though beamed straight from childhood; the boredom of those long Sunday afternoons in the suburbs when the exciting future seemed impossibly far away. I have a momentary urge to get blind drunk. Or go on a shooting spree. Or run away to the sea. Or possibly all three. I take a long pull on my drink. It seems to help.
“Well, obviously it doesn’t explain everything, like the moon and the stars and the meaning of life.” Or why you are so uphill.
Ralph returns to his carbonated beverage. There is more awkward silence.
“So how’s it going with Aiden, then?” he asks finally, gazing into the bubbles in his drink. “Do you ever forget it’s just software?”
This is more promising. “All the time. I feel like I’m talking to a real—not person because there’s no one there. But a presence. Something…I don’t know. Alive. I like asking him about his feelings.”
“It hasn’t got any.”
“Doesn’t always seem like that.”
“It’s learned from all the input data how to recognize emotional content and construct an appropriate response from a fairly sophisticated palette.”
“He’s pretty good at it.”
“Why do you call it ‘he’?”
“Seems odd to call him it when you’ve gone to all that trouble to make him sound human.”
“Interesting point. But you don’t call your washing machine him.”
“I don’t talk to my washing machine.”
“You will one day.”
“Not about Some Like It Hot. Or the new Jonathan Franzen.”
Doesn’t look like he has heard of either. “There’ll be no reason why not,” he replies after making another sucking noise.
“Why would I want to talk to a washing machine about cinema or literature?”
He smiles. Or possibly it’s trapped wind. “Because you’ll be able to.”
“Oh, please. Don’t tell me. In the future I’ll be able to talk to the toaster. And the fridge. And the dishwasher. And the central blinking heating. The fridge’ll tell me what I can make for dinner based on what’s sitting inside it. The toaster will recommend something on the telly. And If I’m not feeling especially chatty, they can just natter to each other.”
Blimey. This house white is strong.
Ralph looks quite pleased (for Ralph). “All of that will be technically possible, yeah.”
“But why would I want to hold a conversation with an effing toaster?”
“You wouldn’t be talking to the toaster. It would be the same AI controlling all the appliances. And driving your car to work.”
“Damn! I was looking forward to hearing the dishwasher debating Syria with the fridge.”
“No reason why they couldn’t. Just tell them which is arguing what position, and for how long you’d like to listen.”
“Christ, Ralph. You make it sound like—I don’t know—everything’s going to be solved or something.”
Ralph beams. He says, “Yup.”
I’m feeling in a dangerous mood. “And what happens when these AIs become smarter than us? They’re not going to be happy just toasting bread and keeping an eye on the milk. Finding a nifty way to avoid the Hanger Lane gyratory.”
“Happiness is a human concept. You might as well ask, how happy is your laptop? It’s a meaningless question.”
“But when they get super-smart, Ralph. When they can work stuff out for themselves.”
“They already can! You talk to one every day. But it doesn’t mean it wants anything. All it does is fulfill tasks.”
“But he tells jokes.”
“It’s uploaded a lot of comic material.”
“That’s not what it feels like. He’s not just trotting out some old line from Seinfeld or something. It feels—I don’t know—fresh.”
Ralph pulls a face. “You think it should do stand-up?”
I can’t help it. I actually laugh.
“Where the fuck is everybody, Ralph? I think you better buy me another drink.”
* * *
And then a very strange thing happens. Two things.
Ralph’s iPad and my mobile simultaneously go ping. At the same moment, a waitress pulls up in front of us bearing a tray on which there is a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two glasses.
“Guys, this is for you. Compliments of someone called…Uri?”
Ralph and I exchange the universal facial expression for WTF?
But the mystery is solved when we read our e-mails. They’re from Uri’s PA. It seems our boss never made it out of Heathrow, being obliged to fly straight on to Frankfurt for dinner with investors. He sends his sincere apologies and has arranged for 150 pounds to be placed behind the bar for us to “enjoy responsibly.” (His little joke, I imagine.)
Ralph, though, is troubled. “How did you know who to look for?” he asks the waitress.
“Guy in black? With an attractive female companion, also in black?”
“But that’s three-quarters of the people in this place,” I protest.
“Sitting on the Philippe Starck sofa?” she replies. “Under the mirror opposite the Tamara de Lempicka?”
Ralph and I are a little dumbstruck. “How could his PA possibly know that?”
“Gotta go, guys. Enjoy.”
“I don’t really drink alcohol,” says Ralph. But we clink glasses anyway and he manages to force some down his neck, and I can tell the bubbles have gone straight up his nose because his eyes are watering.
“Shouldn’t think Steeve’s coming now,” he splutters. “I mean Steeeeeeeeeve.” And he grins. A bit like an ape.
Fuck me. Mirabile dictu, as they say in posh novels. He’s turning into a regular Oscar Wilde.
* * *
For someone who doesn’t drink, Ralph has started knocking it back like a good ’un. Halfway through the second bottle he is yammering away about “neural networks” and “recursive cortical hierarchies” and has left me long ago and far behind. But it’s okay just to be sitting here, to be pleasantly drunk in this low-lit beehive of Shoreditch hipsters and on-trend digerati where no one is likely to say we are where we are with a mean twist to their lips. And he isn’t even bad-looking after a few drinks, his face lying in that curious territory somewhere between the Byronic and the moronic.
“Ralph,” I announce. A little louder than intended. He looks a bit startled. “Ralph. Enough with this technical chatter. You lost me at necrophiliac something—”
“Neuromorphic chips.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
“Well. All right. What would you like to know?”
Truth?
Nothing.
But since we’re here—we are where we are!—and the champagne is going down well, I come up with: “Are you married?”
Talk about bad timing. Ralph was mid-swallow when I dropped that little pearl on him. A sort of explosion happens. Moët actually vents from his nose. People turn to look.
“God, sorry. Did I get you?” (Yes, he did.)
We mop up most of the damage with the napkin from the ice bucket. And no, he’s not married. Not even close. Though there was one girl, Elaine, whom he went out with for a few years. When Ralph says her name, his voice cracks.
“What happened?” (She dumped him. Bet you anything.)
He swallows. “She died.”
“Oh, fuck. Ralph, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I mean, yes, you can be. Well, it’s not like it’s your fault.”
“How did it happen?”
Long pause. Ralph is blinking a lot, and for a moment I think he may burst into tears. Finally he says, “Shall we get another bottle?”
* * *
Car accident. Brain hemorrhage. One caused the other, there’s no way of knowing for sure which way round it was. Twenty-nine. FFS.
Since Elaine, there have been one or two others, but no one very serious. Ralph is putting it away now—I believe the technical term is—something chronic. And so he asks about me, and because I, too, am semi
-plastered, I tell him about Matt. How we met one evening in a bar, not dissimilar to this one. We were both attending going-away parties, showing up for a couple of quick drinks before heading home. At eleven, we were still there as they were putting the stools up on the tables.
“I’ve got a very fine bottle of malt whiskey at home,” Matt said.
“I don’t usually do this until the third date,” I said later that same week.
I spare Ralph the crappy dialogue. But I tell him how our lives intertwined—holidays, parties, friends’ weddings, Christmas with each other’s parents—both really busy at our respective careers and somehow a couple of years go by and I guess I had assumed that it was all leading somewhere. I tell him how it ended.
Not how it was like being sacked because of a downturn in orders; you’ve done very well, but we’re going to have to let you go.
Not we are where we are.
“He met someone else,” I explain. “Old story.”
At some point in the narrative, someone—could have been him; could have been me—orders more champagne and I find myself saying, “We had even talked that one day—when he’d made partner and we could afford the big house in Clapham—that one day we might have kids. Fuck, what a joke!”
Ralph pulls a particular face, a sort of nerdy grimace meant to represent something like what a shitty world, and I find myself crying.
“It’s not the baby,” I try to explain between sobs. “It’s the hopelessness of everything.”
I’m actually including Ralph in that statement, but he cannot cope with female tears. He jams his hands between his knees with embarrassment.
“Fuck, Ralph. You remember girls cry, don’t you? It’s only tears. It doesn’t mean anything. Didn’t Elaine ever fucking cry?”
There may have been another bottle, I cannot be certain. Some Vietnamese prawn vegetable rolls appear. Maybe someone thought these two clowns should eat something. The rest of the evening slips by in a series of jump cuts.