It was an odd-looking thing, a small, dome-shaped two-seater. The little round headlights and the curved bumper on its sloping front end made it look like it was smiling. It resembled an oversized, beady-eyed hamster without a tail. Chrome letters on the side of it read Jimmie Cruiser.
Fred opened the passenger-side door from the inside. “Hop in!”
I stepped into the curious vehicle, and sunk into the most comfortable car seat I had ever felt. Windows wrapped around the entire car, providing wide-screen visibility. It felt like sitting in the loge section in a movie theater with air bags.
“Like it?” asked Fred.
“Pretty cool,” I said, “but why would a big guy like you get a little car like—” I suddenly realized that something was missing. There was no steering wheel to grip, nor peddles at Fred’s feet. “Is there something wrong with this car, or am I just out of step with the times?”
“This car drives itself,” said Fred. “It steers, accelerates, and brakes with absolute precision. I tell it where to go through a special Jimmie app. I’ve already programmed it where I want it to take us.”
“Is it safe?”
“Perfectly. Computer-controlled and certified by the Federal Safety Council. But, if you prefer . . .”
Fred pushed a button. A door in front of him swung down, and a standard steering wheel with shifting and turn signal levers on the column settled into his lap. Gas and brake peddles lower to the floor from under the dash. He pushed the button again, sending the primitive controls back to the land of the dinosaurs.
“I don’t know about this,” I said. “Something about a computer deciding when to go, when to stop, and when to turn bothers me.”
“Not to worry. This car has backup systems—and backups for the backups.”
“That may well be. All I know is that when your computer at home crashes you only lose your data. A glitch in this thing and you might lose your head.”
“It’s as reliable as can be”
“It’s an accident waiting to happen.”
“It’s as solid as a fortress.”
“It’s a computer on wheels.”
I didn’t mean to make Fred feel that he had made a mistake getting that car. I simply wanted to point out a few facts that a car salesman would never mention to a prospective buyer. It was no doubt a well-made machine, and Fred surely researched it fully before buying it. But I was afraid that the coolness factor might have clouded his judgment.
“Would you rather take your car?” asked Fred, acknowledging my concerns.
“No, that’s okay,” I said. “As long as I’m here, let’s see what this bucket can do.”
Fred’s face brightened. “Wait till you see how it works.”
A screen on the dashboard came on.
“Jimmie?” said Fred.
A gentle voice spoke:
“Working.”
“We’re ready to go now.”
The engine started by itself.
“Please fasten your seat belts.”
We buckled ourselves in. Then Fred said, “Take us shopping.”
The car switched on its turn signal, waited for traffic to clear, then pulled away from the curb, as gentle as a lamb.
My apprehension quickly turned to astonishment. As we cruised down the street, the little car kept up with the flow of traffic, stopped at red lights, and changed lanes, all while keeping a safe distance from the other cars on the road. At one point, a car next to us swerved into our lane. The Jimmie Cruiser gently applied its own brakes and let the approaching car in, as if sensing what it was about to do.
The self-driving car wasn’t only great for getting around town, it was a godsend for long-distance travelers. It allows city-bound commuters to read, watch TV, or even take a nap. An alarm auto- matically awakens you when you reach your destination.
“What’s for lunch?” asked Fred.
“You’re hungry already?” I said. “It’s not even 11 o’clock.”
“I know, but an ad for Donny Boy Burgers just popped up on my Jimmie.”
Jimmie’s remarkable brain-based circuitry had the ability to sense when you were hungry—yet another invasion of privacy that Jimmie users were content to live with.
“Can’t you see what your Jimmie is doing?” I said. “You could go anywhere you want for lunch, but it’s trying to wrangled you into going where it wants you to go.”
“No, it isn’t,” insisted Fred, in obvious denial. “I was thinking about going there, anyway.”
“Well, the joke’s on Jimmie. There isn’t a Donny Boy in this part of town.”
“Really? Then why is it showing me one, just two blocks from here? It’s right on our way.”
I slumped down in my seat and snarled under my breath, “How convenient.”
On Fred’s command, the car turned left, avoiding the oncoming traffic with ease.
“Would you like something?” asked Fred. “Jimmie is asking for our order.”
“Is it going to feed me, too?” I said sarcastically.
“Yeah, right. You want something or not?”
I could have gotten nastier, but I was now as hungry as Fred—as if his Jimmie knew that, too.
“I’ll have a green salad and an apple juice,” I said.
“Jimmie,” called out Fred “One green salad and an apple juice. Hmm, boy! That looks good! And a Triple-patty Donnie Burger with Freaky Fries and a Jiffy Fizz Cola.”
“It’s doing it again!” I said. “Now that it’s coaxed you into where to go, it’s telling you what to order.”
“But—it’s what I want.”
“Fine! Eat that crap! Join the ranks of the Obese. Get diabetes. Just remember that when you’re breathing your last breath from heart disease, you listened to a stupid commercial instead of someone who cares deeply about you.”
Fred looked over. “You care about me that much?” He gently laid his hand on mine, then slowly leaned in toward me. That same moment, the Jimmie Cruiser hit its brakes, which also put the brakes on Fred.
“We’re here!” announce the discourteous car.
The Jimmie Cruiser pulled into the Donny Boy Burger express lane and rolled down Fred’s window. We stopped by an outdoor speaker as a drawer below it slid out.
“Please, take your order,” said a voice from the speaker.
There was our lunch, fresh and hot off the grill in a cardboard tray.
“Enjoy!”
Fred grabbed the tray as our wonder car sped away. It passed under an arch with a green light that flashed Thank You.
Normally, keeping your car on the road while eating is a simple matter of steering with your knees. We’ve all done it. But with Jimmie in the driver’s seat, Fred and I could enjoy our meals in comfort and safety. I was starting to like the Jimmie Cruiser!
“Welcome to Happy Fun Mart,” said the bubbly, elderly gentleman in the blue blazer.
“Why is everyone so happy here?” I asked Fred, as we entered the retail megastore. “These poor employees barely make a living wage.”
“It’s the HappyJoy app running on their Jimmies,” said Fred. “All workers are required to install it.”
HFM was the largest chain of discount stores in the world. Each one had the girth of a whale and was the length of two football fields—and fully stocked with everything from groceries to axle grease. It was one-stop-shopping at its most outrageous.
We passed the smiling old greeter and grabbed a shopping cart, then stopped at the store directory.
“Better check out this map before we get started,” I said.
“Not necessary,” said Fred proudly. “Jimmie is already showing me where to go.”
Fred and I locked arms as we marched bravely into the retail jungle.
Navigating past slow-moving shoppers became our first challenge. The place was brimming with cheerless consumers, shuffling along as they leaned heavily on their carts. A walker parade at a retirement home would have moved faster. They blindly reached for spe
cials on shelves and closeouts in bins, little considering what they were buying—as if their only purpose in life was to fill their carts.
And full they were: toys that children would tire of after 30 seconds; TV screens so big you had to sit in the kitchen to see the whole picture; over-priced celebrity products that were identical to their plain-wrapped twins.
“I need toilet paper,” said Fred. “Turn right here.”
As expected, there was a huge assortment of brands to choose from: Pillow Soft, Cushy Wipes, Bum Buddies.
“Here’s the one you should get,” I said. “It’s triple-ply and soft as a baby’s behind.”
“$12.99 for 12 rolls,” said Fred, pointing to the digital price display below the item. “That’s a little steep, isn’t it? Here’s the Happy Fun Mart brand. Two-ply for only $7.99.”
“Do you want comfort, or do you want to save money?”
Fred stared at me smugly. “Look at you. You’re the one who is down on over-commercialization. Those TV ads showing puppet bears and cartoon kittens cuddling toilet paper rolls now have you in their clutches.”
Okay, so I’m susceptible to the power of advertising. Isn’t everyone to some degree?
“You’re right,” I relented. “Get the cheaper one.”
But just as I said that, the price now read $6.99!
“I thought you said this brand was $7.99,” I said.
“It was,” said Fred, “a second ago,”
“Move away from this shelf for minute.” As Fred backed away, the item went back up to its original price. “I thought so! Your Jimmie heard that you needed toilet paper, then it told the store to mark down this item to dupe you into buying it. See? The prices on the others haven’t changed.”
“That’s not all,” said Fred. “A 10% discount coupon just popped up in my Jimmie Vision.”
Amazing! During our short conversation, Fred’s hesitation to decide alerted the store to further sweeten the deal. We were being manipulated like puppets, and Happy Fun Mart held the strings.
“This place is possessed,” I said. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll get your toilet paper somewhere else.”
“I don’t think so,” said Fred, “Think about it. Add up what it will cost in gas to go elsewhere, and we’ll end up spending more than if we just buy it here and now.”
I wasn’t one to argue with logic, even though caving to the store’s fiendish tricks violated every principle I believed in. We just shrugged our shoulders. Fred put the two-ply rolls into his cart. We’d been had!
Finished with our shopping, we bypassed the traditional checkout counters. JimmiePal Purchases read the sign over a row of doorframes, like the metal detectors you see at airports. A green light lit up above each one, as each shopper went through. But as we entered ours, a red light flashed, instead. A series of loud beeps sounded, followed by a voice from overhead:
“Transaction incomplete. Please contact a sales associate. Thank you.”
A blue-blazered gentleman approached us.
“Is there a problem?” Fred asked him.
“It’s probably our Jimmie sensors,” said the man pleasantly. “They sometimes don’t pick up the signals like they should.”
The man waved an electronic wand over Fred’s forehead, then looked at the results on its handle display. He didn’t look pleased.
“What is it?” asked Fred.
The man shook his head. “Says here you have a zero balance in your JimmiePal account.”
“That can’t be! I deposited three-hundred bucks in there yesterday morning.”
“Yesterday afternoon it was withdrawn, along with whatever other funds you already had in there.”
“By who?”
“It’s showing me a code: FAA.”
“What does that mean?”
“Fraudulent Account Activity. Hate to tell you this, buddy. Your account’s been hacked.”
“That’s not possible! Those accounts are totally secure. This has never happened to a Jimmie. Not ever! Not once!”
“You know what they say: There’s a first time for everything.”
I glanced over at Fred, but he was either too shaken, or too ashamed to look back at me. I had warned him that this might happen one day. Now that day had arrived.
The man switched off his wand. “How would you like to pay for your purchase today, sir?”
The cashier handed me my change after I paid for our goods in cash.
Neither of us said a word as Fred pushed our cart through the parking lot. I was tempted to give him an I told you so, but I didn’t want to further upset him. I don’t think it was the stolen money that troubled him, rather that this was his first experience being victimized. Funny, how one minute you’re beaming with pride, the next you’re hanging your head in humiliation.
But in Fred’s depressed state, he wasn’t able to see where all this was leading—but I could. A much bigger dilemma still awaited him, and all Jimmie users. The one thing I feared had finally come to light: Jimmie’s impenetrable fortress had been breached!
Chapter 3
Crush
For months I was finding love letters in my school locker, each one neatly folded before being stuffed through the locker’s air vent. “To my beloved Amy,” they began. “My heart aches for you,” and “I long for your affection” were commonly-used phrases. As much as I hoped that Fred was the anonymous author, I discovered they were being written by a different boy. My bold admirer tried his best to keep his identity a secret, but after catching him following me around campus, the pieces fell into place pretty quickly. He once wrote that he “admired me from afar,” which was funny, because his locker was right next to mine.
His name was Zachary Smithers. He was a full foot shorter than me, and skinny as a hockey stick. His prying eyes followed me through large horn rimmed glasses. His eavesdropping ears were somewhere under his long hair, that flipped up at the ends around his narrow shoulders. He never socialized with other students. Instead, he would be off in a corner talking on his flip phone, the kind with the little antenna you had to extend to get a signal.
Peculiarities aside, having a secret Romeo is kind of flattering. I mean, who doesn’t enjoy being put on a pedestal? For a lot of girls, dealing with schoolboy crushes is a normal part of high school life. None of this would have bothered me, except that this schoolboy was a freshman!
I pretended not to know of Zac’s covert activity, even though he knew that his little scheme had been uncovered. We were both happy to play along. It was kind of cute for a while, but the game was starting to wear thin.
Another note fell into my hands as I opened my locker. Zac watched me from behind his own locker door, as if he thought I wouldn’t notice him.
“Another letter?” I said to Zac.
A sad eye peeked around the locker door and stared at me. “You’re not mad, are you?” he said bashfully.
I looked down on him like a scolding mother. “Don’t you think this has gone on long enough?”
I closed my locker door and headed down the crowded corridor to my next class. I heard Zac’s locker close a moment later, and I didn’t need to turn around to know he was following one step behind me.
“Can I carry something for you?” I heard him ask.
“I’m not carrying anything,” I replied, my eyes straight ahead.
“Well, you might pick up something along the way, in which case I would be happy to carry it for you.”
Two girls coming in the opposite direction giggled as they walked passed us.
“Where are you going?” asked Zac, still on my heels.
“To meet my boyfriend,” I said, “like I do this time everyday. You should know that by now.”
Zac fell silent for a moment, then said, “Why don’t you dump that guy? You can do better than him.”
I stopped suddenly. Zac bumped in to me as I turned to confront him.
“Don’t you think I’m being awfully nice about all this?” I said.
Zac hung his head. “I appreciate that.”
“Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you’re going to have to stop following me like a lost puppy. I’m an upper-class student. You’re lower-class. It’s embarrassing. And besides, I already have a boyfriend. Do you understand?”
Zac’s eyes filled with disappointment. I felt like a heel, but I had to stand firm, or I would never be rid of him.
“What’s it going to take to snap you out of this?” I said. “Why don’t you just put your Jimmie on Stun and come to your senses?”
“I would, but I don’t have a Jimmie,” said Zac, “and neither do you. See? We have more in common than you think.”
“How did you know I don’t have a Jimmie?”
“It’s public information.”
“What else do you know about me?”
I detected a shakiness in his voice. “I haven’t been spying on you, if that’s what you’re thinking. But you don’t have to worry about it. I see now that you will never love me. I won’t bother you anymore.”
My heart sank as Zac slowly walked off in despair. I’m not the type to wish heartache on anyone, but I did what had to be done, for his sake as well as my own.
As I continued on, I heard footsteps behind me again, and the familiar voice of Zac: “What are you doing after school?”
I arrived at the library building, where Fred was waiting to walk me to Science class.
“Running a little late today, aren’t you?” said Fred. Then he reached behind me and pulled Zac out into the light by his boney arm. “I see your fan club is with you again. I’m disappointed in you, Amy. I thought this little creep was banned from joining.”
Zac bravely stepped up to Fred, balancing on his tiptoes to get right into his face.
“Don’t you talk that way to Amy!” said Zac. “It’s not her fault. Why can’t you be a little more considerate?”
Fred offered no response, as the bitter rivals stood nose-to-nose in complete silence.
“Well, Fred?” I said. “You gonna take that from an underclassman?”
Now, I was the disappointed one, as Fred’s yellow streak showed itself once again. He backed away from Zac.
The Age of Amy: Behind the Fun Zone Page 2