The Age of Amy: Behind the Fun Zone

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  Fred took hold of my hand. “You’re late for class, Amy.” Then Fred and I walked on, leaving Zac to go about his business, doing whatever nerdy, little loners do.

  The encounter between Zac and Fred was the goofiest thing I’d ever seen. At least they parted ways without raising a hand to each other. I don’t approve of violent solutions to anything. Fred could have easily pummeled Zac if he wanted to. Still, verbally threatening Zac would have gone a long way to boost his ego.

  Science class.

  Someone had put a pirate hat on the human skeleton in the corner, turning the learning tool for biological study into a theme park buccaneer. A sign around its neck read Mr. Silver, Shankstonville High’s lanky principal, known affectionately to the Student Body as “Long John.”

  At its feet lay the shattered pieces of a test tube rack that had fallen from a table. Bent over, sweeping up the broken glass was our science teacher, Miss Jeffries. She was one of those with that rare gift for getting high schoolers excited about learning. Her encouragement and good humor made her class a joy to attend.

  “Can I help you with that?” I asked her.

  “No thanks, Amy,” said the teacher, her face turned away from me. She was obviously distraught over something. Seeing Miss Jeffries upset like this wasn’t like her at all.

  “I’ll get another rack from the storage closet,” I said.

  “Don’t bother. There aren’t any more.”

  Basic school supplies were getting harder to come by. Teaching high school Science wasn’t a priority to those jugheads in our state legislature. They had voted to cut school spending, in favor of raising their own salaries, and erecting some silly monument nobody even wanted.

  I took my assigned seat at a worktable, as our distressed teacher tossed the contents of her dustpan into a wastebasket.

  A sadness crossed her face as she looked out over a half-empty classroom. “Where’s Margaret, today?” she asked the class.

  “She got a Jimmie last week,” answered one of the students, “and I don’t think she’s coming back.” Jimmies were the main reason why student attendance was so low. A radical series of Jimmie applications provided a whole new way for kids to get a high school education.

  They were called Jimmie-wiz apps.

  Here’s how they worked:

  While you slept soundly, Jimmie was wide awake, flooding your brain with facts, figures, and details on most every academic subject. Teacher lectures were played back into your temporal cortex. Mathematical equations were routed to your frontal lobe. Historical events were scanned into your long-term memory. Think of it. Get a good night’s sleep, then wake up able to recite the Gettysburg Address! And no textbook reading was required.

  Being fully accredited by the Department of Education, Jimmie-wiz was a huge hit. Total downloads numbered in the millions.

  Of course, not all subjects could be taught through a brain-wired device. You still needed to attend P.E., Band, and other classes that required hands-on instruction. But the ability for students to retain Jimmie-fed information more than proved its effectiveness. Student test scores soared. Graduation rates were at an all-time high.

  For Jimmie-wiz users, it was a total win-win: less schooltime—more free time. It wasn’t quite so wonderful for schools, however. As the student population dwindled, many of them closed. With fewer students to teach, hundreds of teachers were laid off.

  “Let’s begin, class, shall we?” said Miss Jeffries. “Today we will be studying how micro-organisms impact human health. In particular, we’ll be analyzing a little-understood, yet extremely infectious virus.”

  She held up a card with a row of numbers printed on it. “How many of you know what this is?”

  A boy’s hand went up. “It’s a lotto ticket.”

  “Not just a lotto ticket,” said the teacher, “a losing ticket. Who can tell me how many of these were sold before the winner was announced this morning?”

  No one would hazard a guess at that one.

  “210 million,” she said, drawing out the words for emphasis. “And the $4.8 million grand prize was awarded to one—a single—individual.”

  Miss Jeffries tore up the worthless ticket and tossed it into the wastebasket, on top of the last of our test tubes.

  She continued, “The odds of winning the lottery are one hundred times greater than being struck by lightning, The question then is: with that knowledge, why would anyone want to buy a ticket?”

  “They want to be rich,” said one student.

  “Who doesn’t?” added another. “How cool would it be to go to your ATM, and find your bank account has a multi-million dollar balance?”

  “But if that’s what everybody wants,” said Miss Jeffries, “why doesn’t everybody play?”

  “Because smart people know they’ll probably lose,” I said.

  “You’re implying that only the dumb ones participate. True, the odds of winning are slim, but it’s a level playing field. Everyone has an equal chance at the grand prize. What’s so dumb about that?”

  “Excuse me, Miss Jeffries,” said a girl, holding up a chemistry textbook. “This is all very interesting, but what does it have to do with science?”

  “The force behind what makes people invest in a game, they’ll almost certainly lose, isn’t emotional or psychological—it’s biological.”

  Then Miss Jeffries wrote a long word on the whiteboard behind her:

  Man-ip-u-li-tis.

  “Manipulitis is a highly contagious virus that attacks the brain, and robs you of reason and self-control. It’s what causes people to be so easily manipulated, and why they sometimes behave so irrationally. Billions around the world are infected with it, and there is no known cure.”

  I held up my hand. “Why isn’t there a cure? There’s research going on for viruses like Ebola and Aids. Why not this one?”

  “Because the powers that be—the ones who profit by it—would rather you didn’t know about it. Where would you possibly find research funds under those circumstances?”

  “Easy. A different kind of lottery! Offer a game where each ticket purchased goes to finding a cure.”

  “Good luck with that. Take away the seduction of personal wealth and no one will play. TV ads showing people lazing on the beach, driving expensive cars, and entertaining sexy, young women is the only way to sell tickets.

  That’s what Manipulitis thrives on. It fools the infected brain into believing that it’s okay to try your luck, even when you know you’re throwing away your hard-earned savings. Then as the lucky winner walks away a millionaire, the virus tells the losers, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll win the next time,’ and the cycle starts all over again.

  “Exploiting people that have the virus is easy. Take a look around, then ask yourself:

  How are corrupt politicians able to steal elections?

  Manipulitis.

  Why do movies with appalling ratings cash in at the box office?

  Manipulitis.

  Why do Washington lawmakers bend to the will of corporate lobbyists?

  Manipulitis.

  What a perfectly intriguing concept. The notion that a bug in your brain controls your behavior had a sci-fi feel to it that I liked. I saw the same fascination in the faces of the other students.

  But the bubble burst, when the classroom door flew open, crashing into the wall. In walked Principal Silver and two school football players. The husky boys walked over to Miss Jeffries, grabbed her arms, then escorted her out of the classroom against her will.

  “Listen to me, everyone!” shouted Miss Jeffries. “People will tell you that Manipulitis isn’t real. Don’t listen to them!” She struggled to shake off the bullies. “Don’t listen to lies! Don’t—”

  A hand over her mouth silenced her desperate plea.

  “Sorry about this,” said Mr. Silver, gently latching the door closed. “This should never have happened. Miss Jeffries hasn’t been well. She’s delusional, and needs psychiatric treatment. All
this about a virus that warps your thinking is a product of her neurotic state, and completely untrue.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Seeing our teacher dragged out of the classroom like a common criminal was shocking enough. Now, our principal was striking down all she had just told us. Despite Mr. Silver’s claims, I knew that Miss Jeffries wasn’t crazy. She was on to something important. Warning us of the seriousness of Manipulitis had put her career in jeopardy—a sacrifice she felt compelled to make.

  A student in the back of the room asked, “Will we get a substitute teacher?”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said the principal. “As you know, school funding has dried up. With the huge number of students learning from their Jimmies, the Board of Education has decided that funds are better spent on developing new Jimmie-wiz apps. I’m sorry, but this school is closed indefinitely. Notices will be sent out if and when classes will resume.”

  My hand abruptly went up. “May I ask you a question, sir?”

  “What is it?” said Mr. Silver.

  “Doesn’t closing the school put you out of a job? What will you do?”

  “I’m thinking of retiring. I’ve been a teacher and school principal my whole adult life, and I’d like to take time off to see the world.”

  “Well, you’ll certainly be able to afford it.”

  The principal looked at me with suspicion. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, with the school district pumping all that money into Jimmie apps, investor returns are going to skyrocket. And with all the shares of stock you own in Monstro Industries, you’re sure to make a killing.”

  I could almost see the steam rise from Mr. Silver’s collar, as he fumed with anger.

  He walked slowly to my table, then leered down at me with fire in his eyes. “How did you know where I invest my money?”

  I bowed my head while raising my eyes up at him. “I didn’t, sir—but I do, now.”

  Mr. Silver marched to the classroom door, kicking the plastic skeleton with the pirate hat into pieces on his way.

  I immediately jumped to my feet and pointed a finger at our corrupt principal.

  “Shame on you, Long John!” I said fiercely. “No Manipulitis? You’ve got it if anybody has. Making selfish choices when deep down you know it’s wrong is the classic symptom, just like Miss Jeffries said. You say it doesn’t exist? Well, who’s being manipulated now?”

  The pissed-off principal swung open the door.

  “Class dismissed!”

  Then slammed it shut behind him.

  Chapter 4

  Cousin Nell

  "Can Nell come out and play?” I asked.

  Since I was eight years old, this was the way I asked to see my cousin Nell. With her being closer to my own age than my siblings, we grew up practically like sisters.

  Aunt Dolly smiled as she peered around the front door of her farmhouse. Back when I was a city-dweller, my aunt and uncle were my next door neighbors. When my family relocated to the Midwest, they followed soon after, fully realizing that separating Nell and I was simply out of the question.

  Being three years older than Nell, I assumed the role of her big sister. I was her adviser, confidant, and best friend. I was also her protector. Any one messing with Nell would have to deal with me, too!

  When Nell was seven, a mean boy threatened to harm her if she used the swings at a public playground. I went with her to witness this abuse for myself. Sure enough, as Nell approached the play set, the bully leaped off the swings and marched up to her menacingly. He yelled at her like a drill sergeant, then pushed poor Nell to the ground. During all this I applied a generous amount of spray adhesive to the seat the boy had been swinging on.

  An hour later Nell and I returned to find a pair of jeans stuck firmly to the swing seat. Our only regret was having missed the laughter of the other children aimed at the pantless boy!

  Nell was now thirteen. I had watched her shed her childhood to emerge as an adorable teenager. As she grew more independent, unfamiliar emotions began to creep into her adolescent thoughts. School girlfriends and—dare I say it—boys, were becoming more important than family relations. In our younger years, an afternoon with Nell meant hours of doll-play and tea parties. Now, her room was papered with boy band posters and teen idol headshots—the tea sets and rag dolls long since banished to the attic.

  “Nell will be down in a minute,” said Aunt Dolly, ushering me into her house. “She’s upstairs, brushing her teeth. Had breakfast?”

  “Yes, but something smells awfully good,” I said.

  “Just making pancakes. Would you—”

  “Love some!”

  It was Saturday morning, and Uncle Abner was enjoying his day off like he always did, watching TV. He was sunk deep into the soft cushions of his recliner chair, his stocking feet elevated on the horizontal foot rest. Aiming his remote control at the TV, he looked like an out-of-shape starship captain, with his phaser set on lazy.

  I took a seat on the couch. “What’s on?” I asked Abner.

  “Mind if I watch the news?” said my uncle.

  “Fine with me. I’m not much of a TV fan, anyway.”

  Click!

  On the screen was a group of news reporters sitting around a huge desk, gabbing, and making jokes about the color of the anchorman’s tie.

  “This is news?” I said. “Since when did journalists become comedians?”

  My uncle chuckled at the on-screen antics. “They’re just offering a little levity before the next segment. There’s an important news story just coming up.”

  Aunt Dolly rushed into the room with a mixing bowl in her arms.

  “Horse feathers!” she yelled. “Important, my eye! Their idea of a major news story is video of a cat chasing its tail.”

  Uncle Abner chuckled again as they showed a squirrel riding a skateboard.

  “Coming up after the break," said the TV newsman, “inappropriate sexual misconduct—and all caught on camera!”

  I looked up at my aunt. “Aunt Dolly?” I said. “If it isn’t caught on camera, is it still news?”

  Pancake batter splattered across the TV screen as she pointed with her mixing spoon.

  “Not to these clowns,” she replied. “If it doesn’t bring in the ratings, they don’t show it. All they’re interested in is holding your attention till the next commercial. They broadcast what people will watch, whether it’s news-worthy or not.”

  And why wouldn’t they? With the wealth of video being sent in from Jimmies all over the world, there was more absurd behavior being “caught” than ever before. Some people complained that these “Jimmieographers” were violating right-to-privacy laws. Even some Jimmie users had a problem with it.

  But the compulsion to pry into people’s lives was greater than the fear of being watched, so no legal challenges were ever filed. On the plus side, with Jimmie-cams on every street corner, crime rates plummeted. The evidence they provided of criminal activity was indispensable. Courtroom prosecutors loved it. Jimmie footage was far more damaging than any eyewitness testimony.

  Stirring her breakfast batter, Aunt Dolly scowled at the TV screen, “Why would anyone want to tune in to this garbage, anyway?”

  “I can tell you why,” I said. “Manipulitis.”

  Aunt Dolly patted me on the head, then said, “Come and help me in the kitchen, Amy, will you?”

  She walked me through the kitchen swing door and over to the stove, then said in a low voice, “Watch how you say that word.”

  “What word?” I asked.

  “Manipulitis.”

  “What do you know about it? Is it real?”

  “I don’t rightly know, and neither does anyone else. You can’t get any information on it, either. I tried searching that word on my Jimmie. And would you believe it? With all the encyclopedias and libraries in the world, Jimmie couldn’t find a single reference to it. But I believe that it exists. In all the years I’ve liv
ed with your uncle, it’s the only explanation for how such an intelligent man can be so gullible.”

  “That’s it! Manipulitis robs your brain of reason. That’s what my science teacher—”

  “I don’t care who you heard it from. Just keep it to yourself. I don’t speak the M-word, and neither should you.”

  First Miss Jeffries gets sacked for talking about the mysterious virus. Now Aunt Dolly clearly had the jitters just mentioning it. There was something weird about the whole thing, and I wanted to know more.

  “I just have one more question to ask you,” I said. “It’s very important.”

  Aunt Dolly showed concern, as the last of the pancake batter dripped into her frying pan. “What is it?”

  “Can I lick the bowl when you’re done?”

  I heard the booming of little feet on the carpeted stairway.

  “Hey, Amy!” shouted Nell, as she ran into my arms. Dressed in her little soccer outfit, she couldn’t have looked cuter. The back of her jersey was embroidered with the name of her youth soccer team, Cyclones.

  “Taking Nell to soccer practice?” asked Uncle Abner.

  “Not practice,” I said. “Big match today.”

  “An epic match!” said Nell. “We’re playing the Bearcats in the semifinals.”

  “Good luck, sweetie,” said Abner. “And don’t forget to say ‘hi’ to Summer for me.”

  Summer was Nell’s close friend from school. They both excelled in sports. Each year our community soccer league organized teams for girls, and the two friends were always the first to sign up. They usually played for the same team, but this time around they had been chosen to play on opposite sides. Summer was assigned to the Bearcats, the Cyclone’s traditional arch rival, but facing off as competitors in no way impacted their friendship.

  Nell tossed her gym bag in the back seat of my 1968 Volkswagen Beetle. “How’s the old bug running?”