by Novo Dé
Notice that the commercial never actually went into any product details. Like how you utilize an NCL or what it does. It was just pandering to me, and only me.
So if you thought the commercial was eerily aimed directly at me, or someone in my position, you’d be right – it’s no coincidence – organizations behind products like the NCL make dozens upon dozens of these videos, commercials, each one aimed at a different audience, a different demographic, a different person, with the sole purpose of tapping into something personal, so they can better sell the product and convince you that you need it.
After initiating the video, an algorithm analyzes all of your recent DRI data within the last year, processes the data within milliseconds, and chooses the appropriate video to manifest, seamless to the onlooker.
It just appears to be the main commercial from the product site, the assumed same commercial that plays for everybody. But it isn’t. It’s meticulously chosen.
But like everything else, it’s not a perfect system.
No company has the marketing budget to design, produce, and shoot a commercial that is perfectly tailored to someone like me, or Juliet, or fucking Cohen.
But luckily, there are plenty of people in the world that have similar lifestyles, personalities, backgrounds, you name it, just like mine, so they can tailor the videos to cater to a very specific group of individuals, far more narrowed and with much more precision than we use to see in the past, and with enough subliminal elements to be effective.
So it was perfectly aimed at me, but not perfect for me per se.
Direct-Algorithmic Marketing is what they call it. It’s a logical step forward when an organization can’t utilize dream marketing. It’s a bit expensive.
So take me for example:
They knew I was still married from something, like, my immediate last tax return. But they also knew that there’s probably been a rift between us as well, due to my also very recent criminal charges and probation, as found in the public documents of the court proceedings, all now digitally archived. And when you take into account all of the complementary data of our interpersonal relationship, as examined by the regular physical distance we have from each other via our GPS time-lapses for instance, as well as what my fucking life has become these days, where I tend to zone out on my couch night after night as I stare at a blank wall, it was probably no problem for the application to pinpoint the perfect video to assign.
In other words, it essentially said to itself, ‘I need a video for a poor, sad, pathetic, lonely, yet-still-married loser. Ah, here’s one.’
But you know what the worst part is about these videos – they work – they fucking work.
Definitely worked on me, almost instantly, which is strange when you think about it, because that means I’m consciously aware of the delusion; I know exactly what they’re doing. I know exactly what these kind of marketing tools are trying to achieve, knowing full well the manipulative nature at play, but I can’t help but still want to be that man.
I can’t help but want that world. Want that beautiful evening with that beautiful woman. With my beautiful wife. Want that laughter. That conversation. Even though I know it’s not real, I still want it.
I want it all.
But maybe. And my mind shifts to an idea I did not see coming.
Maybe it can be real.
Maybe everyone’s been right all along. Maybe I’m the wrong one here, the stubborn one. Maybe the reality of my life is that I’ve been turning into my father more and more, year after year, only living a delusion of distancing myself from what he became.
Maybe to find peace again, solace, I have to make a change so radical, a sacrifice even, that it helps build on the potential of the future I seek, the world I want, knowing full well that it could also be the downfall of so many other aspects of my life.
Maybe the answer has always been right there in front of me, staring at me.
Right under my nose.
Or more fitting, above it.
Falling back into a trance in my mind again, I’m brought back to reality as my front door swiftly opens, revealing the very thing that brought me to my shift in thought – Juliet.
“Hey,” she says through a heavy breath, allowing me time to realize that she just made it in from work. “You ready?”
“Ready? For ah? For—”
And she sighs.
“Please don’t tell me you forgot again,” she says, pausing. “Our dinner plans. You practically begged me to carve out time tonight to—”
“Oh no I remember, I remember, I just thought I had a little more time,” I say, stalling, allowing me time to make up the right words to save face. “To ah finish some errands. But those can wait of course. Just, just give me a minute. Won’t take me long to get ready.”
And I rush to our bedroom to find something presentable, frantically shoving my hands through the clothes of my closet to find a simple, nice, clean button-up, and maybe some slacks.
Doesn’t take long luckily.
Finding an outfit, I perform the usual check-list: no wrinkles, no stains, and as soon as they pass the smell test, I throw the articles on without a second thought, and head to the bathroom. Now time for a little deodorant, a brush of the hair, and a swish of mouthwash, and I’m ready.
“See, all set,” I say, walking back into the living room, alluding to the little time I needed to clean up nice.
And Juliet nods and smiles, a closed mouth smile, giving me that satisfied ‘alright then’ look, pausing.
“So…lets, head on…out,” I say.
And Juliet nods again, mouthing an ‘ok’ response.
Given my proximity arrest, we have no choice but to find something close. Walking to the nearby business district, I begin the evening with my best foot forward.
“Thank you so much for making the time for me tonight. I ah—”
“No problem,” she returns calmly.
“I really want tonight to be nice, so ah, pick whatever you’re in the mood for, craving…” I say looking at her. “Ladies choice.”
Need to be on my best behavior tonight. Show her I can be me again. And for good.
“Ah ok. How bout…that place,” she says, pointing to a little Italian Bistro, the same kind of restaurant that always reminds me of our first date together.
“Perfect,” I say smiling.
I continue to pull out the red carpet. I open the door for her. I help her in her chair. I remind her that ‘chivalry isn’t dead.’ It’s just been hibernating.
The Bistro is lovely of course, like every Bistro: Low, mood lighting. Old antique furniture and décor. Linens for the napkins; linens for the table. The serving staff well dressed, all with matching ties. The place is simply…cute…for a lack of a better word.
Every woman’s favorite kind of date night.
The rest of the evening goes through the usual motions. We decide to take our time however. And we should take our time quite frankly; there’s no need to rush. Especially if I want to plant any seeds tonight, that starting tonight, everything is going to be turned around.
After placing each of our respective orders, I decide to keep the ball rolling.
“It’s…really nice in here. Good choice,” I begin, nodding.
“Thanks, yeah, it is,” she returns, with a sense of delight in her voice, looking around at the restaurant décor. “I’ve probably walked past this place a million times, and never been in.”
“And you look, um, really nice,” I continue, nodding.
And she looks down at her attire, and begins laughing at herself.
“Just my work clothes Tybalt. You see ‘em every day.”
“Yeah, but ah, doesn’t mean it’s any less nice.”
And she laughs at herself again, and looks off.
“Thanks,” she finally says at a whisper.
And our conversation continues on like this, in this very light manner, almost like we’re meeting for the first time, not knowing ex
actly what to say.
But I keep my eye on the prize. I have to.
Eventually, she sees it, sees how hard I’m trying to be ‘a good little boy,’ to give her a little happiness for once with our time together, and in that moment, brings our light banter to a stop with a look in her eye.
A glimmer.
Complete silence now, she’s staring at me, deep into my eyes with a slight smirk of a smile on her face that seems to say ‘where has this man been – my man – I miss him,’ and that she’s ready to shift the conversation in a more personal direction.
“About the other night,” she begins. “I’m sorry. I ah, with everything that’s been going on…you and me, and work, and…it’s just a lot right now…and sometimes I can’t handle...it all. I clearly don’t know how to channel all this—”
And I place my hand on hers.
“It’s ok – I understand. I mean I should be the one apologizing; I mean I am sorry, I am,” and she looks deep in my eyes again, and for a brief moment, I feel connected again, more connected than I’ve felt in years, and it reminds me why I fell in love with her to begin with.
It’s her heart.
It’s always been her heart. So big, so vibrant. A smart, strong, spunky type, she’s always been special, but always down to Earth when she needed to be. The type to apologize when she’s done nothing wrong. A true maternal being, always wanting to save everything in her path, even when she knows she can’t.
A heart of gold.
“I’m really not trying to be so distant lately too. I’m really not. Work has just been…consuming…lately. Always having to answer someone. Always checking in. It’s just become…endless. And I’m…just…a little sick of it,” she says looking down.
She clearly needs to vent.
“So I’m sorry if I’m not always ready to talk,” she continues. “But with this new job, it’s hard to talk to someone, to anyone, about it, right now, outside that world. And that includes…you.”
That explains a lot.
“Ok,” I say, not knowing what to say really. “Well ah, I’m still always here for you. You don’t always have to go into specifics, Jules, if you don’t want to. I can, always, just listen.”
“Ok,” she says back, clearly not knowing what to say either.
“It’s everything though; I’m just tired. It’s hard to keep up. I’m just, I’m sorry, god, I’m just babbling on now; we can switch—”
“It’s ok. Babble,” I say, putting my hand on hers again.
And she smiles, full teeth showing, bright.
“Thanks,” she says again at a whisper. “And don’t think that I don’t want the same thing you do – I do – I just don’t know how to do it right now. And I hate that. I hate, I hate being this way Tybalt. Still processing it all. I thought we would’ve figured it out by now. Y’know? But I’m just, still trying to find the right answers. Just like you. So if you can just give me some more time, and space, and—”
“Take all the time you need,” I say sincerely.
At this point, I’ll say anything to bring her even a single step closer to me, even if I’m not exactly feeling what my words may express.
“Thank you,” she says again at a whisper, but before she can continue our conversation down this darker path, our server gives us a break in the moment, bringing us our meals, placing each of them in their respective destination.
With no words, we then simply smile at each other, a smile that says, ‘why don’t we just eat and enjoy the rest of the evening.’
So we do just that.
And there’s something about food that can liven any mood and ours delivers without fail, the rest of the evening simply delightful.
We return to our more light-hearted banter of course. We laugh. We giggle. We talk fondly of the past, bonding over past stories together. We’re genuinely enjoying each other’s company for once; it hasn’t been like this for a long time.
Now this is a drug I can get use to.
Eventually, we find our bellies full, which inevitably summons a soon close to the time at any restaurant.
“Well, I think I’m there,” I begin.
“Yeah, me too.”
“You ready to ah—”
“Yeah.”
“Alright, let’s, get you back home then. I bet you have some reading you’d like to get to…"
And she looks at me, inquisitively, and bites her lower lip.
“How bout a movie?” she says.
And I’m genuinely surprised.
“I’d like that.”
We then pay, and make our way back home. As we’re walking side by side, bonding again over past stories together, I decide to make a bold gesture to reinforce how I feel without any words needing to be said, a gesture we haven’t engaged in in a very long time.
I try to hold her hand.
At first, I pretend that my hand simply glides over hers by accident.
But it’s no accident. It’s all purposeful.
I then make clear that I’ll soon want this, that I will soon try, by touching her delicately here and there with clear conscious thought, each contact meticulously chosen.
I then make my attempt and hold her hand, at first simply cupping hers, with each of our respective fingers closed, her telling me with her non-verbal language that she isn’t against this, but hasn’t necessarily accepted the gesture quite yet as well.
We continue on like this for a while until Juliet squeezes my hand just firmly enough to bring our walk to a standstill. She says no words however. She simply stares deep into my eyes again, clearly looking for something, an answer maybe. Once she finds what she’s looking for, she offers me another smile, a closed lip smile, and then looks at our hands, and then back at me.
She then slides her hand over to mirror mine, each respective finger in front of the other, and then slides her fingers over again to find the valleys of mine and pushes in to interlock, our fingers now intertwined.
She smiles at me again. No words. And then pulls me in the direction of our house, our hands becoming warm with their interlocked proximity, her return gesture finally telling me the very thing I hoped to find with my initial engagement.
‘I accept.’
December 1st, 2051
Once you’ve ventured into the inner-circle of the collective, a good House is never too hard to find. You just have to follow the data. Look for the clues. And pray that you still have a friend on the inside.
Luckily, I have that very thing – Lydia.
The best kind of person to have on the inside in fact.
She’s a gatekeeper.
Still don’t know exactly why I felt the need to escape. Must've been Cohen, mentioning the kid again in the session this morning. The mere thought of ‘em. That’s all it takes anymore.
For someone on the inside, finding one is not too hard, no, but much like obtaining Anonymous, the steps to getting there can sometimes be meticulously intricate, hidden. But I always tend to find my way to the end.
Didn’t always used to be like this.
Fortunately, I have a House that’s close, near my own house in fact, luckily within my proximity arrest. And given my limited DRI output and the fact that Juliet’s still at work, the data just makes it look like I’m out for another long walk, visiting a neighbor.
Makes sense that I’d find one in my very own neighborhood too. Because every House I’ve ever been to, which is to say, isn’t that many, looks like just your ‘Every Day’ kind-of-house, your run-of-the-mill, cookie-cutter, inconspicuous, boring-as-fuck, upper-middle-class piece of shit real estate.
But what lies below, however, is a world of beautiful foreign unknown splendors.
Walking up to the door now, I have the same feeling I always have when I’m walking up to an Anonymous House – I’m nervous – in part, because, it always may be my last.
My heart’s beating fast, and hard, and now faster as I walk up to the door. My extremities, tingling. My thoughts,
pivoting to paranoid delusion. At the door now, I hold my breath as I begin to knock. I can feel as my body is about to succumb to a full blown panic-attack.
And the door opens, and Lydia is standing there, greeting me with that unforgettable smile of hers.
And I let out a deep sigh through my mouth – thank god - I’m safe.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” I say through a breathy exhalation.
Lydia is a perfect gatekeeper because she is practically a walking oxymoron.
On the outside, she looks like a classic conservative housewife, the same kind you’d find with every fucking governor of a red state. Long shining straight brunette hair. It’s obvious that she uses a lot of product. Chocolate brown eyes to match. Cute button nose. A big, pretty smile, full of teeth. And of course, a shiny black dot on her right temple.
Today, she’s wearing a light pink, checkered shirt, a collared button-down. A white tank top underneath, no cleavage visible of course. With a matching, darker-colored, pink crew-neck cardigan on top. For her long legs, fitted, dark, almost black jeans. And last but not least, off-red ballerina flats, to complete the ensemble.
But Lydia is anything but conservative. A user herself, underneath all that garb, is sleeve, back, and chest tattoos. Duel nipple piercings. A piercing on her clitoris that I’ve never seen, but she won’t shut up about. Large, metal rings that rest in the deep tissues of her back, used to hang herself from, for body suspension, so she can get to that more ‘deeper, meditative high,’ as she calls it, when using. She even participates in self-mutilation for fun. You can find her type on the third level of the House. And she does every drug there is. Not just the No-Names. I’m surprised she’s still alive honestly. Says a lot about her.
So conservative, no; she just likes to hide in plain sight, but it’s more than that. Lydia actually likes and prefers to dress like a domesticated, upper-class mother-of-three. Makes her feel ‘pretty,’ she says. ‘I just like it; it’s my style’, she told me once, which again, is perfect for a gatekeeper – one look at her, and any thoughts of wrong-doing is defused – no one ever thinks that she’s the sole marker between the world of the normal and the world of underground debauchery.