The Age of Amy: Behind the Fun Zone

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  Minutes passed, and I couldn’t wait any longer. I reasoned that Dongle was for the guys. The sound of it suggested a part of the human anatomy I wasn’t born with. Chips sounded sort of like chicks, so I chose that one. But when I pushed on the door, it wouldn’t open. I tried again. It was locked.

  At that moment a man in a chef’s hat came by, heading for the Employees Only door at the end of the hall.

  “Can you help me, please?” I asked him. “Do I need a key or something to get in here?”

  “Do you have a Jimmie?” he asked.

  “No. Do I need one?”

  He rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling and heaved a heavy sigh, as if assisting me was a major inconvenience for him. He reached above the door frame. I heard a beep, then the clunk of the doors unlatching.

  “Next time you get the urge,” said the man, “use the public potty outside.”

  I was a little peeved at his attitude. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” I said, “but what is your problem? I just asked you a simple question.”

  The man looked down and shook his head. “You people are all the same.”

  From the moment I stepped foot in the Jimmie Joint I had been treated like an outcast. I was something less than human, just because I didn’t have a Jimmie. I couldn’t sit where I wanted. I was denied food service. Now, I couldn’t go to the bathroom without permission. As for stupid names on restroom doors, it wasn’t that long ago when some of them were designated White and Colored. Being the target of that kind of discrimination was beyond my comprehension, but I was getting a taste of it.

  The man continued down the hall. As I pushed on the Chips door, I heard him say, “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

  “Why not?” I said.

  “That’s the men’s room.”

  When I returned to the lunch counter, our robot was delivering our food on a tray.

  “Lunch is served,” said Ozzie. But he let go of the tray just shy of reaching the countertop.

  Crash!

  “Enjoy,” said the robot, then headed back to the kitchen.

  Our lunch was splattered all over the floor.

  Fred leaned over the counter and looked down.

  “That was a mixed salad you ordered, right?”

  Another robot came by, carrying a pail and a mop. It started to clean up the mess when it abruptly froze. All of the other robots in the dining room stopped moving, too. The restaurant guests put down there utensils and looked up from their meals. Fred did the same thing, as if in a hypnotic trance.

  Stay Tune for a Special Announcement! flashed across the video monitors. The cameras switched to an empty stage inside an enormous arena. A backstage announcer greeted the capacity crowd:

  Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and Jimmieheads here and around the world. JimmieCon proudly presents the father of modern mobile communications, and CEO of Monstro Industries: Tobias Goodfellow!

  The restaurant erupted into applause, along with the thousands of cheering conventioneers miles away.

  Toby stepped out onto the stage and waved to his adoring followers. Then the thunderous reception subsided, as he addressed the audience:

  Since its introduction, Jimmies have benefited mankind the world over. From the youngest to the oldest, they have connected us. From mud huts in Africa to skyscrapers in Dubai, they have united us. Jimmies are important. Jimmies are necessary. But most of all, Jimmies are awesome! Now, your Jimmies are about to become a lot more awesomer. Ladies and gentleman—

  Jimmie 6.0!

  The curtains behind Toby parted to a trumpet fanfare. A giant rendering of the microscopic device zoomed in to fill a massive projection screen. Then a playful beam of light shot into view. It danced and whirled across the screen, leaving a glittering trail behind it—like Tinkerbell sprinkling her pixie dust.

  Toby continued:

  As with previous versions, you will be able to speak to Jimmie, and he will hear you. Now, for the first time, you will hear Jimmie speak to you! Introducing—

  Jimmie Voice!

  The on-screen beam of light darted into the image of the Jimmie. A hush fell over the crowd. Then a delicate, female voice spoke over the sound system:

  “Hello, World.”

  The elated crowd jumped to its feet and roared with approval, as did the Jimmieheads in our restaurant. The feature everyone had been waiting for had finally arrived: Jimmie had a voice!

  But Jimmie Voice was more than just a new way to communicate with your brain-implanted device, it was a companion. It could read your thoughts, and interpret your feelings. It cheered you up when you were low. It offered hope in your darkest hour, as its sweet sound was delivered directly to your auditory nerve.

  But as the convention crowd reveled at this ground-breaking marvel, a strong human voice cried out from the back of the hall.

  “Ban the Jimmie!”

  Cameras quickly panned and zoomed around the room.

  “Abolish slavery!”

  The source of the disturbance finally appeared on the monitors. A small group of protesters were standing on their seats, in a sea of Jimmieheads. They held a wide banner over their heads that showed an illustration of a brain, locked behind prison cell bars.

  The chanting continued:

  “Abolish slavery! Ban the Jimmie!

  Abolish slavery! Ban the Jimmie!”

  The convention crowd hissed and booed the demonstrators, as they were promptly dragged out of the hall by security guards.

  Unlike the angry Jimmieheads, seeing the outburst filled me with delight. I totally understood their outrage. I would have joined them if I had been there, but since I wasn’t, I did the next best thing. I climbed up on the lunch counter.

  “Abolish slavery! Ban the Jimmie!” I hollered loudly.

  The dining room fell silent. All heads turned in my direction.

  “Sorry for this, folks,” I said, “but I just had to do it. You can go back to eating your lunches now.”

  Next thing I knew, I was being escorted to the front door by a band of robots. Fred trailed behind me, his face as red as the tomatoes on the Broadband Veggie Burger he never got to eat.

  From the sidewalk, I looked back at The Jimmie Joint, as a robot in the doorway said, “We reserve the right to deny service to anyone.” Then it slammed the door shut.

  Fred waited until we were safely inside his Jimmie Cruiser before criticizing my militant response.

  I was anticipating a fierce argument with Fred, until I heard him say, “Well, I guess we won’t be going there again.”

  “Guess not,” I said.

  Fred had every right to be furious with me, but I rattled him just enough for him to see that those protesters had a legitimate complaint.

  “Home,” Fred commanded his self-driving car.

  We had just exited the parking lot when the sound of sirens blared from behind us. Fred’s Cruiser automatically pulled over as police cars raced by. Flashing ambulance lights bounced off the buildings a short distance down the street.

  “Jimmie?” asked Fred. “What’s all the commotion?”

  Fred’s car responded, “Looks like an accident up ahead. We should be past it in a few minutes. Police radios report that there was a serious injury.”

  We advanced toward the accident scene. As we got closer, I saw that a Jimmie Cruiser and a large SUV had collided in the middle of an intersection. The big truck showed only slight damage to its front end, while the mangled, happy-faced Cruiser lay motionless on its side, like roadkill.

  “What were you saying about this car’s safety record?” I asked.

  “They’re perfectly safe,” said Fred. “A Jimmie Cruiser has never been in an accident—and don’t say what you’re about to say!”

  “There’s a first time for every—”

  “Don’t say it!”

  Then Fred engaged the car’s Stone Age controls he thought he would never have to use. He grasped the steering wheel firmly, and eased on t
he gas pedal.

  “Keep moving,” instructed a police officer.

  We slowly rolled past the steaming automobiles and pools of spilled gasoline. Fred kept his eyes on the road, not wanting to view the tragedy. As we merged into traffic, I looked back. On an ambulance stretcher lay the unfortunate accident victim, and on the ground beside the wreck, a newspaper and a Panama hat.

  Chapter 6

  Star Bright

  Most Jimmie users were pretty easy to spot. That blank stare was a dead giveaway. It signaled that they were engaged in some Jimmie-induced activity. While appearing quite ordinary on the outside, their brains were on a Jimmie high. Pop-up ads were usually small, and easy to ignore, but full-screen images never failed to produce that zombie-like expression.

  Perceiving the world around you, while watching Jimmie visuals at the same time takes practice. Seasoned users have learned to operate their Jimmies behind a straight face. Nell hadn’t yet mastered that art of disguise, but then she only had her Jimmie for a week.

  Her parents were split on allowing Nell to get one at all, even though they were both contented Jimmieheads. Uncle Abner didn’t see the harm in it. Aunt Dolly was adamantly against it. Abner liked the reassurance of her always being connected in the event of an emergency. Dolly didn’t like its grossly inadequate parental controls. But ultimately, the benefits outweighed the risks. One feature in particular had swayed their decision. With permissions in place, Nell could be “followed” by live-streaming her Jimmie-cam.

  Nell was an active, out-and-about 13-year-old, and her folks felt it important to keep tabs on her. Unless she agreed to enable this feature, they wouldn’t give her the parental consent required by law. Nell reluctantly agreed. Now, anytime they wished, Dolly and Abner could tune in to see what Nell was up to.

  “Can Nell come out and play?” I asked Aunt Dolly

  “Nell isn’t here,” she said. “She’s spending the night at Summer’s. Didn’t she tell you? ”

  “Not a word. We had a date to go to the movies today.”

  “Really? She didn’t say anything to me about it.”

  “That’s strange. Did you take her over to Summer’s house?”

  “She took the bus. For some reason she didn’t want me to drive her, but you know how she likes to do things on her own.”

  Uncle Abner came to the door. “If you’re worried about Nell, don’t be. I checked her Jimmie-cam, and saw her on the bus myself. If you like, I can check it again for you.”

  “Would you, please?” I said.

  Abner stared out into space. “Jimmie, show me Nell’s eyes.”

  After a few seconds, he smiled. “Well, she got there alright. The front door to Summer’s house is opening. Oh, there’s Summer now, helping Nell with her gym bag. I’m hearing lots of giggling. Looks like she’s okay, and having a ball.”

  Something didn’t feel right about this. Our trip to the movies had been planned weeks earlier. Nell’s favorite teen heartthrob was starring in a new film. She was so pumped about going that she counted down the days to its opening. Maybe she decided to see it with Summer instead of me. Wanting to share that kind of girlish fun with a friend her own age was entirely possible, and perfectly understandable. But it wasn’t like Nell to change her mind without telling me.

  I was also leery of something else. Abner claimed to have seen Nell’s gym bag through her Jimmie-cam, but he couldn’t have. That bag was in the backseat of my car, and had been ever since the final soccer match.

  I had observed a lot of Jimmie mishaps in recent days. All of them were officially dismissed as having been caused through human error. Showing Nell’s bag to Abner was no mistake. It couldn’t have been. It was a deliberate act of deception—albeit an elaborate one. Despite Abner’s assurance that Nell was safe and sound, my intuition told me that something was wrong—maybe horribly wrong!

  I said goodbye to my aunt and uncle, then drove out to Summer’s house. If Nell was there, I wanted to see it for myself.

  Summer’s mom was just opening her curbside mailbox, as I pulled up to her house.

  “Hey there, Amy!” she said. “What brings you out here?”

  I rolled down my car window. “I need to see Nell for a minute. I was told that she was staying here tonight.”

  “They must have meant some other friend’s house. Summer’s spending the night at her brother’s place outside Shankstonville.”

  This story was sounding eerily familiar.

  “Did Summer get there okay?” I asked.

  “She’s there now. I checked her Jimmie-cam not a half-hour ago.”

  This was just too coincidental. First Nell leaves home under suspicious circumstances, then Summer goes out of town the same day.

  “You want me to call Summer for you?” asked her concerned mother. “Maybe she knows where Nell is.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said.

  “You sure? You look a little worried.”

  “I heard she was here, that’s all. Guess I got my signals crossed. Thanks anyway.”

  If Nell wasn’t with Summer, and not in her own home, then where was she? And why did Uncle Abner see Jimmie-cam video that wasn’t even real, and in such detail?

  My first duty should have been to tell Nell’s parents what I had learned, but I decided to wait. I would speak with them soon enough. First, I wanted some answers.

  Police headquarters.

  “Amy Dawson?”

  “Yes?”

  “Detective Brookings will see you now.”

  I held on to a snapshot of Nell that I had brought with me, and entered a small, dark office. The midday sun streamed through the window blinds, casting long shadows on the walls. A crumpled fedora hat hung on a hat stand in the corner. On a cluttered desktop sat a half-filled glass of bourbon. It was like walking onto the set of a gangster film from the 1940s. The laptop computer on the desk was a little out of place, though.

  Behind the desk sat Detective Brookings, or so I assumed. He was barely a shadow against the daylight. The quiet detective’s head was bowed, but his steel gray eyes rested squarely on mine.

  “Close the door,” he said, in a low voice.

  I did as he asked.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” I said. “My name’s Amy.” I reached out my hand to shake his, but he didn’t move a muscle.

  “Does it have to be so dark in here?” I asked.

  “You gotta problem with that, punk?” he said softly, playing the hard-nosed detective.

  I glanced around the room. “Excuse me for asking, but am I in the right place?”

  “Well, are you, punk?”

  Okay. Fun is fun, but this guy was starting to irritate me.

  “That’s it! Goodbye,” I said, then headed for the door.

  The detective’s head abruptly tilted up.

  “No, wait!” he said, now in a normal speaking voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just always wanted to do that.”

  “Why? Are you trying out for the Shankstonville Community Players?”

  “No, no. I just get a little bored sometimes. With all the Jimmies around, there isn’t the crime there used to be, and there’s not much for a police detective to do.”

  I sat on the corner of his desk and leaned in, like an old-movie femme fatale, then said, in a sultry voice, “Well, mister, this is your lucky day!”

  He switched on his desk lamp.

  “It is?” he said, with childlike curiosity.

  “How would you like to investigate a real crime novel mystery?”

  He rubbed his palms together excitedly. “Please, continue.”

  “This case will require brains and lots of guts.”

  “Go on.”

  I held up Nell’s picture. “This is my cousin Nell. She’s 13 years old, and missing."

  The detective brought his eyes close to the photo. “Jimmie!” he said. “Photo snap.” Then he blinked. He went to his computer, entered a few commands, then swiveled it toward me.
r />   “This is the victim’s Jimmie-cam,” he said.

  It showed Nell in Summer’s bedroom, playing a video game. A glance to her right revealed Summer sitting on the floor next to her. Someone knocked on the door. Nell swung around to show Summer’s mom in the doorway, asking, “Anyone for popcorn?”

  “That’s Nell’s Jimmie-cam, alright,” I said, “and that’s her friend Summer. And that’s the house where she’s suppose to be, but that’s not where she is.”

  “That isn’t possible,” said Detective Brookings. “Jimmie-cams don’t lie.”

  “But I just came from that house, and I tell you, Nell isn’t there.”

  “Did you go inside?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then how can you be so sure?”

  “Summer’s mom told me.”

  “Is there any reason she would want to lie to you?”

  I could see where this was going. My evidence was all hearsay, and Detective Brookings wasn’t buying my story. I was even beginning to doubt it myself. Maybe Summer’s mom did lie to me, but if so, why? All this just added another layer to an already perplexing mystery.

  “File a missing persons report if you want to,” said the detective, “but there’s not much I can do. I can’t investigate without probable cause, which this video fails to show. You can also make a formal statement, but with Jimmie-cam evidence like this, it’ll never stand up in court.”

  “So, what you’re telling me is that I’m screwed.”

  The detective leaned back in his chair. “Maybe not. Have you tried going to the Media? Asking the public to help find a missing person can be very effective. If you can get your cousin’s picture seen on TV, word will spread fast.” He handed me a business card. “This is a friend of mine at WSVL, the local TV station. He may be able to help you.”