The Age of Amy: Behind the Fun Zone

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  “Like a charm,” I said.

  My car had been a gift from my dad, who knew I loved all things ‘60s. I found it parked in our driveway one morning, restored, detailed, and running like new. It was a dream-come-true for me. For my dad, it was an incentive for me to pass my drivers license test with honors—which I did!

  The car’s little engine purred as we started down the street.

  “I forgot to tell you,” said Nell. “We’re picking up Summer. Is that okay?”

  “You know how to get to her house?” I asked.

  “I think so. Turn left here—or is it right? No, left!”

  I signaled and pulled into the left-turn lane. As the traffic light changed, a Jimmie Cruiser stopped across the intersection from us, its “driver” reading a newspaper. He was an older gentleman, dressed in a business suit and Panama hat.

  “Look there!” said Nell, pointing to the hi-tech vehicle. “If you had one of those, I wouldn’t have to give you directions. That’s what I want when I’m old enough to drive.”

  Nell smiled at the driver as we turned. The man lowered his paper and tipped his hat to her.

  “All in good time,” I said. “You’re not even old enough for a Jimmie yet.”

  “But I am! Didn’t you hear? Anyone over twelve can get one now. It’s the law.”

  “Already? The law?”

  I didn’t know the Monstro lobbyists could hog-tie Congress so quickly. Now, minors who couldn’t legally drink, smoke, or vote could have their underdeveloped brains hijacked by a Jimmie. Go figure!

  After a few wrong turns, we drove up to a colonial-style house, with a beautifully manicured front lawn. Summer waved to us on the front porch in her Bearcats uniform.

  She ran across the lawn, and as I opened the car door for her, the giggling started even before she got in.

  “Is Bobby gonna be there today?” asked Nell.

  “I’ll just die if he doesn’t,” said Summer. “Did you see the way he looked at me in class yesterday?”

  “Tell you what. I’ll accidentally on purpose let you steal the ball a few times. That’ll make Bobby sit up and notice you.”

  “No you won’t!” I insisted. “That’s nice to want to help Summer make a good impression, but what about your teammates? They’re counting on you to help them win.”

  “Oh, hi, Amy,” said Summer, “I almost forgot you were in the car with us.” (More giggling.) “But I won’t need Nell to help me look good. I’ve got a new Jimmie app that will do it for me.”

  “You got a Jimmie?”

  “Last week. It’s awesome!”

  “What’s this app you’re planning to use?”

  “It works like this: Orbiting satellites monitor our soccer match, then analyze the action based on algorithms—whatever that is. Then, whenever I get the ball, Jimmie Vision shows me the best path to the goal. It’s kind of like following the map on a car’s GPS.”

  “Isn’t that cheating?”

  “In a way, I guess. But it’s illegal to prevent someone from using their Jimmie. Besides, there’s nothing to stop the other players from getting the same app. That kind of makes it all even, doesn’t it?”

  “Unless, of course, you don’t have a Jimmie.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  There were only about fifty people in the bleachers that bordered the soccer field.

  “Amy!” called a voice from the top row. I squinted up at the stands. Someone was waving both arms to get my attention. I was shocked when I recognized who it was:

  Zac!

  I marched up the steps and hovered over him.

  “You, again!” I said. “I think there’s a bus leaving in 5 minutes. Why don’t you get on it?”

  “This is a public event, is it not?” said Zac, tapping my nose with a small Cyclones pennant.

  “To a sane public, yes. Not to someone who belongs in a mental ward.”

  “Meaning me, I suppose.”

  I sat down. “C’mon, Zac. When are you going to leave me alone?”

  “Who says I came here to see you?” Zac waved to someone on the field. The person waving back at him was Nell!

  “Oh, no!” I said. “Please, not that!”

  Nell bounded up the steps. “Zachary! You made it.”

  “You two know each other?” I asked.

  “We met while waiting in line for a ride at Theme Farm last week,” said Nell. Then she put her hand on my shoulder. “Zac, this is my cousin Amy.”

  “How delightful!” said Zac, with an arrogant grin. “Nice to meet you, Amy.”

  He held out his hand to shake mine.

  By now my blood was boiling, but I didn’t dare release the pressure valve with Nell sitting there.

  “Well, I have to leave you now,” said Nell. “Got the semifinals to win.”

  Zac smiled broadly as Nell skipped happily down the stairs to join her team members.

  “What a nice girl,” said Zac.

  “You keep away from her!” I demanded. “She’s only thirteen.”

  “And I’m fourteen. The perfect age difference, don’t you think?”

  Nell motioned me down to her team’s bench, where I promised to sit with her during the match.

  I stood up and looked sternly at Zac. “Remember what I said.”

  As the match got underway, it wasn’t long before Summer’s techno-advantage over the other players became evident. She had already scored two goals for the Bearcats in less than 10 minutes.

  The trend continued over most of the first half. Not that the Cyclones didn’t make a few goals of their own, but the Bearcats’ early lead left little chance of a Cyclones comeback.

  The referee blew the half-time whistle.

  Seeing the long faces on our struggling team as they trudged off the field was almost unbearable.

  Nell sat down beside me. “Summer’s Jimmie app seems to be working pretty well,” she said, between gulps of water, “too well.”

  Nell sat out the second half.

  As play resumed, the Cyclones coach anxiously paced along the touch line. She was a local middle school teacher named Miss Scott. I had gotten to know her during the time I spent waiting to drive Nell home after practices. Having played a fair amount of soccer when I was Nell’s age, Coach Scott would let me drill her team to improve their kicking skills.

  The match was now drawing to a close, and the Cyclones were still down by 4 points.

  The team’s goalie asked for a time out and trotted over to Miss Scott.

  “Can somebody take my place,” asked the out-of-breath girl. “How much more of this do I have to take?”

  The coach looked over at her reserve players. Their eyes shifted to their feet, afraid to make eye-contact with her.

  Then Nell tugged at my elbow and whispered, “That does it. I’m getting a Jimmie.”

  I had hoped never to hear that from her. I had no authority to prevent her from getting one, but I could do something else to discourage it.

  “Jimmies can do a lot of cool things,” I confessed to Nell, “but a clever app is no substitute for cunning and agility.”

  I approached Miss Scott. “What do the rules say about an outsider taking over as goalie?” I asked.

  Overhearing my question, the bowed heads on the Cyclone bench lifted off the ground.

  “You?” said the coach. “Don’t you think that might be unfair to the other team?”

  “This match is already unfair,” I said, “for reasons I’ll explain to you later. But I’d like to sub for your goalie if you’ll let me.”

  Coach Scott called the referee over for a consultation with the Bearcats coach. After a brief chat, they nodded their heads.

  Miss Scott walked back to me. “There’s only 12 minutes left to play, and with the lead the Bearcats have, their coach has no problem with you hitting the field. Get yourself a jersey.”

  I ran onto the field wearing the required protective gear and took my place as the Cyclones goalkeeper.

  The
ball was thrown in. In less than a minute, Summer had control of it, and was coming at me fast.

  Kick!

  I reached over my head and caught the ball, preventing her from scoring. The faces of our team lit up like glow sticks.

  The ball was back in play, and here came Summer again. I blocked her kick a second time, robbing her of another goal. The spectators cheered. This was getting to be fun!

  With their renewed confidence, the Cyclones rallied to make 2 more goals.

  At Summer’s next attempt to score, I jumped to my right, certain to deny another point for the Bearcats. But to my amazement, the ball whooshed past me on the left.

  Score!

  How was this possible? Her backswing was aimed squarely at the right goalpost. Did her Jimmie have the power to redirect the ball, too?

  For the rest of the match, every trick I used to outplay Summer backfired.

  The final score was Bearcats, 11—Cyclones, 6. The winning team huddled and cheered to celebrate their victory. Showing good sportsmanship, the losers congratulated them. For the Cyclones, the season was over.

  Nell packed her gym bag on the team bench.

  Summer kissed Bobby under the empty bleachers.

  For me, the ride home would be a long one.

  Chapter 5

  Lunch Counter

  It was a forty-five minute wait to get into Shankstonville’s newest and hippest restaurant: The Jimmie Joint. Monstro Industries had been expanding its Jimmie brand into other profit-making enterprises. A clothing line offered trendy fashions from high heels to hoodies, imprinted with the Jimmie logo. Grooming products included hair spray that would improve your Jimmie’s Wi-Fi reception. That claim had yet to be verified, of course. Now, a chain of restaurants afforded Jimmie users a hi-tech dining experience.

  Not being a Jimmiehead, I was in no rush to see what all the hype was about. But Fred couldn’t wait to go there. It was the eatery’s first day in business, as it was at the over 300 other diners around the world. The simultaneous grand openings coincided with the first day of JimmieCon, the international conference and convention in San Francisco.

  Fred had gone inside to add his name to the lunchtime seating list, but returned without the wireless pager they usually give you.

  “How are we going to know when our table is ready?” I asked him.

  “Have you forgotten where you are?” said Fred. “We’ll be alerted through my Jimmie, of course.”

  I felt a little bit insulted by that remark. I thought to myself, How absent-minded I am. I had forgotten that people without Jimmies are the stupidest morons on the planet. But I didn’t dare say that out loud. I was saving my sarcasm for later.

  “Cool!” Fred blurted out. “Now its showing me how many people are ahead of us, and the estimated time till we’re seated.”

  “Promise me you’ll turn that thing off when we get inside,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “I’m here to share lunch with you. Not your Jimmie.”

  “But that’s what makes this place so special. You summon your waiter, order your food, and pay your check all with your Jimmie.”

  “This may come as a shock, but most people go to restaurants to enjoy the food.”

  “You’re missing the point.”

  I understood exactly what Fred was saying. He was the one who didn’t get it. I was there to satisfy my hunger and enjoy Fred’s company. He was there because the Mad Men at Monstro-tronics had seduced him into coming. Out of respect for his feelings, I overlooked that fact, and willingly took a back seat to Fred’s Jimmie.

  “We’re up!” said Fred.

  The dining room resembled a Silicone Valley office interior. Distressed brick veneer covered the walls. Ceiling rafters were exposed, with the air duct system fully visible. Guests were separated by office cubical partitions. To reinforce the technology theme, everything in writing was expressed in computer-based lingo. Fred and I stepped up to a sign that read, Please Wait to be Installed. Cute!

  We were then greeted by a robot, or rather something resembling one. It looked more like a TV on a hat stand with wheels. The monitor displayed a close-up of a man’s face.

  “Fred, party of two?” said the man through a speaker.

  I leaned in toward the screen. “Are you a real person, watching us from somewhere else in the building?”

  The smiling face paused for a moment, then repeated, “Fred, party of two?”

  “Guess not.”

  Fred waved his hand in front of the monitor. “We’re right here.”

  “Welcome! Thank you for waiting. I see that only one of you has a Jimmie.”

  “Is that a problem?” I asked the talking screen.

  Another long pause followed.

  “Fred, party of two?”

  A man in coveralls walked up behind the screwy robot. “Sorry ‘bout this, folks,” he said, “Still working the bugs out.” He drew a remote control from his pocket and pressed a button. The fake maitre d’ hiccupped, then said, “Your table is ready. Follow me, please.”

  Pop music played in the background as we were led into the dining area. Large video monitors were suspended overhead, like you commonly see in sports bars. But instead of showing sporting events, they displayed a live feed from JimmieCon. Convention exhibitors pitched their cutting edge products. Most demonstrated new Jimmie apps and accessories, while others offered unrelated electronic goodies, like a pop-up toaster that also buttered your bread.

  Along the walls, various displays presented the history of the Jimmie. Replicas of early prototypes could be viewed under microscopes. The Jimmie development team was recognized for its hard work and ingenuity. But these tributes were dwarfed by a shrine honoring the founder of Monstro Industries: Tobias Goodfellow.

  Known as the Jimmie King, Goodfellow was the twenty-something marketing genius who turned a gadget that no one needed, into a necessity no one could live without. Everybody knew who he was, mostly from his numerous TV talk show appearances. But few knew that behind this youthful facade was a ruthless corporate manipulator. On Wall Street he was known as Tobias the Conqueror. To his millions of devoted fans he was simply, Toby.

  The display was dominated by a huge wall-mounted portrait of Toby, wearing his trademark black t-shirt and ragged blue jeans. His sly grin seemed to be saying, “Don’t you wish you were me?” But then, Toby had a lot to smile about: his personal net worth was over $50 billion dollars!

  Of all the restaurant patrons we walked past, not one of them was reading a menu. Naturally, Jimmie Vision made that task quite unnecessary. I wondered how I was going to order my lunch without one.

  Then I spotted a group holding real printed menus in their hands. They were sitting at a long lunch counter at the back of the room. Our robot matre d’ directed us to the stools at the far end.

  “What is this?” I asked the quirky robot. “Why are you putting us way back here? Why can’t we have a booth like the others?”

  The robot pivoted around to face me.

  “Jimmieheads have complained that they don’t like sitting alongside non-Jimmie users.” Then it rolled away without any apology.

  Fred and I grudgingly took our seats.

  Dozens of four-foot tall robot servers ambled about the restaurant. They walked on two legs as they crisscrossed the dining room. Many were carrying food trays, and even though their gait was slow and a little unsteady, there were no collisions.

  One of these curious machines approached us from behind the counter. It had arms, legs, and fingers that functioned just like a human. Its mechanical muscles and electronic circuitry were concealed under its snow-white, fiberglass skin. A computer screen on its bowling ball-sized head served as its face. A name was stamped on its forehead: Ozzie.

  “Good afternoon,” said our server, in a computer-simulated voice. “May I bring you something to drink while you look over the menu?”

  “A Diet Jiffy Fizz Cola for me,” said Fred.

  I fo
und a printed menu by the ketchup and mustard dispensers, and looked over the beverage choices. I pointed to the orange juice. “And I’d like a glass of—”

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, lady,” the robot said scornfully.

  Confirmation of Fred’s order popped onto the robot’s face. “Anything else?”

  I raised my hand. “Yes. You can bring me a glass of—”

  “I told you before!” yelled the robot. “Wait your turn!”

  Fred was a little put off by the robot’s rudeness. “Better bring an orange juice, too,” he said.

  “Very good, sir,” said Ozzie, then sauntered away.

  “What was that about?” I said. “Was it something I said?”

  “Looks like these robots have bugs in them, too,” said Fred.

  “Yeah, up their rear ports!”

  “Better tell me what you want and I’ll order for the both of us.”

  Surprisingly, the menu items looked pretty decent, even though the clever naming was a bit peculiar. They offered dishes like Tomato Hotspot soup, an HTML BLT sandwich, and a Strawberry Shortcut dessert. Their lunchtime special was a Spam Sandwich with a slice of Bluetooth Blueberry Pie. Little stars indicated their more popular items, rated in giga-“bites.”

  “I’m ready to order,” I told Fred.

  “We’re ready, Jimmie,” said Fred.

  “I’ll have a Macro Chicken Salad with Avatar dressing.”

  “A Macro Chicken Salad with Avatar dressing, please,” repeated Fred, “and a Broadband Veggie Burger with Firmware Fries.” A brief pause. “Uh, analog, thank you.”

  “Analog?” I asked.

  “It was asking whether I wanted my fries analog or digital.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “We’ll find out when it gets here.”

  In spite of being shunned to the corner of the room and verbally assaulted by an ill-mannered robot, I was feeling pretty relaxed.

  “I think I’ll visit the little girl’s room while we’re waiting for lunch,” I said.

  I had no problem finding the restrooms, but was puzzled at what I saw next: The doors were labeled Chips and Dongles—yet more fun with technology wordplay. Prince and Princess, or Guys and Dolls, are words you can easily decode. What gender these computer terms represented was a complete mystery. Not wanting to enter the men’s room by mistake, I waited for somebody to come out through one of the doors.