by Ray G.
Wyatt, who I thought was sleeping, chimes in, “He’s probably just afraid that one of the nineteen-year-old male prostitutes he solicits played the game.”
I doubt that. I want to disagree with Dick Pills, but part of me really misses ‘the before.’ The closed doors. The polite world.
“This is bullshit Eve. This is absolute bullshit. We gotta do something.”
I’m confused, “Something about what?”
“About this. About everything. It just dawned on me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why are we on this doom-and-gloom kick? We’re not at the mercy of these fuckin’ machines. They’re just flimsy pieces of shit. They have no power. Literally. If I was in the Sahara and this iPad ran out of power it would be worthless. Just a piece of junk. It’s not shit without power…so why do we give it so much? We act like the juice won’t ever run out. Like the sun won’t blast our ass one good time and render all this shit useless.”
Damn. Pretty insightful, but, “What do you suppose we do?”
“Do you have any tools?”
DAMN.
That felt good. Really good.
Just finished taking a hammer to my phone, XBOX and laptop. All smithereens now. Out of breath now. Sweaty. Diabolically grinning at the debris strewn about the bottom of my bathtub.
Finally.
Freedom.
Everyone should do this.
An act of solidarity.
But of course…they will not.
The gossip-gettin’ is too good right now. The machines are feeding us what we crave right now. Unadulterated dirt on damn near everybody. All that awkward weird shit. The perverse private shit. The needy shit. All of it. Right out there in the open. Delivered right to our doorsteps. No effort required.
That felt really fucking good!!!
Like ‘better than chocoboi’ good.
Wyatt suggested I destroy my iPod. Couldn’t do it though. My entire music collection is on that damn thing. I used to have an actual collection. Actual records. Actual tapes. Actual CDs. Took up actual space. Had to sell it. Needed the money. But before I did I bought an iPod and dumped my entire collection onto it. Didn’t back a damn thing up because I wanted my digital collection to mirror my physical one. My records, tapes and CDs existed in one place. I valued my collection because of that. In order for me to value this new all-digital collection it would need to possess the same exclusivity. That bullshit reasoning worked then. Helped to ease the loss of the collection and welcome the much-needed money, but as I sit here now, staring at this pitiful little device I’m struck with sadness. My collection took years to amass. I purchased its pieces in places far and wide. Met cool, interesting people. The price tag on my Smith & Mighty Bass is Maternal LP used to remind me of an awesome chick I met in the second-hand store where I bought it. Loved her crooked smile. Beautiful wide gap between her two front teeth. Such a life-worn face, only a slight remnant of youth remained. She defined cool for me back then. Someone to aspire to be. So gorgeous.
Damn. Maybe I should destroy this thing. There’s something sinisterly reductive about it. Like it doesn’t care about what it holds.
Wyatt places his iPad, PS3 and gaming rig atop the bathtub debris. Raises the hammer above his head.
“Wait!” I shout. “You need some smashin’ music. What do you want?”
“I don’t care, you pick something.”
Hmmm...I smashed to Prodigy’s Smack My Bitch Up… aggressive, high energy. Let’s go with something a little more on the sentimental side for Wyatt…
Donny Hathaway, Someday We’ll All Be Free.
Yeah!
Donny begins.
Wyatt begins.
This is awesome.
It feels like we are winning right now. We are taking a stand against the know-it-all machines. Yeah, I know it’s too late. I know all of our shit is out there already and I know the machines aren’t really the guilty ones. They’re just the conduits. I know that the network of networked networks was created by us and that it is our narcissism that is the true culprit. But this still feels good. Even if it’s only symbolic. It’s something. We are doing something.
Wyatt’s panting. Heavily. “I wanna do that again,” he says. “Come on, let me do your iPod.”
“No way Wyatt. I love my music too much.”
“Well then go get it.”
“Go get what?”
“The music. It’s all out there. Records, CDs, tapes, concerts, sheet music even. It’s all out there. Just go get that shit. Fuck that piece of plastic shit. That shit ain’t rock an’ roll.”
Wyatt must be a lesbian.
“I’m just sayin’ music used to be big Eve. Fuckin’ huge. Now it’s small. Compressed. Shrunken down. Stuffed inside tiny soulless robots.”
Dude’s actually sounding poetic. I kinda dig it.
“Come on Eve, let me smash that shit.”
I should let him smash that shit. He’s right. The music is too big to be confined. Songs don’t feel the same anymore. They’re too accessible now. They can be taken everywhere now. Listening to Nina on the bus is nice, but something about it seems wrong. Too insular. Like I’m hoarding greatness. Like Nina’s all mine. She sings on my command. Just a press of a button. A button that doesn’t even depress properly. Just a little more than a touch is all it takes.
One more song.
One more song then I’ll throw it in the tub.
Don’t even have to think about the selection. Nina Simone of course. The cut: Isn’t It a Pity.
WYATT IS pacing back-and-forth, mumbling about how someone should destroy everything. “Just bring it all down.” Little guy really wants to be a part of something. Never seen him this charged up before. Not even when he was playing his gay-ass RPGs. He’s turning into some sort of militant Luddite. All of a sudden. But whatever. It’s entertaining.
“Why did we let it go this far? What were we expecting? This game came at the right damn time. He got us Eve. Got us good and it’s fucking beautiful. Our eyes are open now. And to think we were part of the problem—yes, I said ‘were,’ I’m quitting tomorrow. I can’t believe I thought it was okay to sell those life-suckers to people. Mindless, empty, blood-soaked virtual worlds that just fed on our souls and devoured our precious time. I can’t believe I’m only seeing this now! That’s why this game had to happen Eve. I hate to say it, but dude is like a fucking messiah.”
Oh shit. I have to get outta here. Thank God I’m leaving for The Vesta Room in a moment. Don’t know how much more of this reverence I can take. All dude did was create a damn game. Yes, it’s postmodern and all that shit, but it’s still just a damn game. I love Mortal Kombat more than I could ever love a child, but I’m not about to build shrines to Ed Boon and John Tobias.
“I know what I’m saying sounds crazy to you Eve, but just think about it. Nothing’s slowing down. We just keep on advancing artificial intelligence and building better, smarter machines without once stopping and saying, ‘Hey, what the fuck are we doing here? This could get out of control. We’re equipping these machines to think by themselves, to learn by themselves.’ We don’t stop and take stock. We just keep on building and celebrating our achievements. A new phone every fucking week. Smarter AI in each new shooter. Shit’s getting crazy.”
I can’t believe what I’m witnessing. A twenty-five-year-old hardcore gamer transforming into this neo-Ted Kaczynski. It’s strange, but I’m sure there are others out there just like him. All worshipping their tragic hero. A kind of Andy Kaufman of the indie game development world. But hey, it’s something. And it’s happening. Right now.
“Eve, I know we smashed up our shit and I know it felt good, but we gotta do something else.”
“Like what?”
“Something else. Something big. We have to redeem ourselves. We have to—” His eyes dart to my TV. He starts snapping his fingers. Rapidly. “That’s it. Let me burn your TV.”
“Excuse me?”
“Like out in the street. Maybe I can get some other people to come out. Create a big-ass bonfire of media-delivery devices. Burn it all. Like some sort of pagan sacrifice.”
“Why?”
“It needs to happen Eve. It’s time to go back to our roots. Maybe if we’re lucky the sun will strike us. Save us. For the first time in my life I think it might be cool to believe in some shit.”
I just realized something. I don’t even feel like having this conversation. It’s not about the TV right now. It’s all about Amy right now...so, “Go ahead. Burn that shit.”
“Thanks!” He immediately goes to disconnect it. Heads out the door.
What the hell is going on?
Everything is mad right now. People. Time. Me. Everything. Nothing makes sense. I wanna put the whole damn world in my tub and smash it to bits while Rabbit in the Moon’s Out of Body Experience blares behind me. Maybe I should join Wyatt. Seems like things are making sense to him. He’s found meaning. A sense of purpose. I can’t be mad at him for that, although I want to be, but that’s only because I’m jealous. I don’t have meaning in my life. Just neurosis. I want meaning. Where’s my damn meaning?! What if Alice is right? I might just be an obsessive fetishist. But where did the obsession come from? It couldn’t have started with Ms. Maxine Shaw. She just helped springboard it into the stratosphere. Damn, when did it start? Who was the first naked black girl?
Acoustic guitar pours in through the window. I peek outside. Looks like Wyatt has been joined by a budding folk singer. So far he is Wyatt’s sole acolyte.
Hope the little guy can—
Grace Jones! It was Grace fucking Jones!!!
The album cover for Island Life! Saw it for the first time during a summer weekend I spent at my Uncle Wesley’s. He played in a band. Always had interesting people over. Always smoking weed. Didn’t know what weed was back then. I just knew they weren’t smoking cigarettes. The smoke behaved differently. Smelled differently. Like a skunk right after a shower. Also, they weren’t stressed out maniacs like the people I knew who smoked tobacco. They were cool. Real cool. I remember them just laughing all the time. Cool music playing all the time. But it was that album cover that is my strongest memory. I stared at it the whole weekend. Even snuck it into the bathroom a few times. No masturbation. Didn’t know how to back then...or what it was. But I knew something was going on. I was obsessed with her. She was so sleek. So dark. Looked like she was sculpted out of obsidian. She looked like something else. I wanted to be next to her. But was that it? Was Grace the reason? It wasn’t like I grew up in a world without black people. They weren’t like some exotic creatures I’d only seen in the pages of National Geographic. I went to school with black kids...who I found peculiar to say the least. Especially the girls who would make fun of me. They were so forthright. And so damn mean. I remember one incident in middle school where this girl asked me, “Why yo’ hair look like SpaghettiOs?” She said it with such a straight face as if she actually wanted to know, but when she erupted in laughter I knew I was the butt of a joke. I didn’t think it was that funny. I actually thought it was cheesy as hell, but her friends were in tears. Like they were in the audience of Def Comedy Jam or some shit. I didn’t get it. What was so damn funny about pointing out obvious shit with extraordinary meanness? What about the black experience made that—
Slavery.
Got hip to slavery. Changed everything. Suddenly it all made sense...
White people feel guilty so they let black people talk shit now. It’s the least we can do. They get a shit-talking pass now. But for how long? How long would I have to endure the ridicule? I had some good comebacks—rehearsed them in front of the mirror—but I kept them to myself. I didn’t want to be considered racist. But why? I didn’t grow up hating black people like the douchebags that came before me. I grew up going to the same school as them. Using the same water fountains. Bathrooms. All that shit. So...for how long? How long do I let them do this? How long do I have to endure—
Hold on a second. What the hell am I talking about? Who the fuck gave ME permission to allow anyone to do anything?! Does my whiteness grant me such power?! I was just born this damn way. I had no say so in the matter. And really, I am no-fucking-body. I’m tired of being considered a representative of the Big Bad Oppressor. The only thing I have ever oppressed was my sexuality for the last nineteen years. Not people. I don’t even have the power to oppress people. I’m just an under-achieving thirty-year-old doing the same shit I was doing when I was a kid. I am not the fucking Man. I am not even—
Wait. I’m getting away from what I’m supposed to be doing here. What the hell am I supposed to be doing here? Other than driving myself mad.
Oh yeah, that’s right, black girls. Why do I love black girls?
Damn it, I don’t fucking know! And why do I have to? If I were black I wouldn’t be going through any of this. My love for black women would just fit. It would be appropriate. But because I’m a white girl I have to have some reason. Something that explains my ‘aberrant’ behavior. I can’t just like black girls? Why do I have to be some pseudo-racist fetishist? Or some white-guilt stricken self-hating liberal apologist? Fuck man! I don’t know. I just don’t fucking know. It’s not like I don’t like women of other races. I love all women. I truly do. It’s just something about black girls. I can’t put my finger on it…and frankly I don’t know if I really want to. I’m giving myself a goddamn headache thinking about this shit.
I need a break.
Let’s go see what Wyatt’s up to…
He’s still out there, dancing around my burning TV. Junior Dylan strummin’ away.
Oh, the irony…
It was that very TV that drove him to this. The talking heads got under his skin. They pressed his buttons in the most passive aggressive way possible. I’ve never heard him use the expression ‘media-delivery device’ until one of the heads beat it into his cerebellum. Maybe that’s why he’s burning the TV. It played him. But it also made him. It made all of us. So in a way we’re indebted to it. To every last one of the ‘media-delivery devices.’ We are nothing without them. There’s no Nina without them, no MK without them, no naked black girls without them, no nothing without them. Most of my memories are of TV shows, commercials, movies, songs, games. All passive aggressively presented to me by the devices.
We have no solid connections to the shit we like. We’re just multimedia collecting dilettantes. Lazy. Unappreciative. Everything right here. Right now. All the time. Everywhere. Discovery is dead. The journey no longer matters.
Maybe that’s why Wyatt’s out there.
He’s fed up.
He’s the bot fighting back.
Maybe that’s what I need to do. I have to find what part of the program I don’t like and destroy it. Or do I find something about it I like and add to it? I don’t know. Whatever comes first I guess. I wonder if Wyatt knows what he’s doing. In his mind is he adding or destroying? Burning TV says destroying, but then again he’s adding something by destroying. Damn it. These loops kill me. I’m tired of the loops. The infinite quagmire. The ‘only truth is that there are no truths’ shit.
Fuck it.
And fuck this...
I’m a human being damn it! A real person! How could I have allowed this to happen to me? I let them use me. I let them drain me. Gut me. Everything I thought I was doing for myself I was really doing for them. There is no me. Not anymore at least. My labor, my everything is for them. I don’t even know who I am right now. I don’t even—
I need space. Something’s gotta give. I need a space to open up. I need a private room in the universe right now. A place where I can just curl up and cry. Like a big white expanse. Devoid of all sound. Real silence. I need that. But it looks like I’m stuck here.
Amy.
Just focus on Amy.
The something else.
This heady shit is for the birds. Always leads to the abyss. Starts out enlightening but never ends that w
ay. Always ends with gloom. So stop it. Just focus on Amy.
Something light, but good heavy.
Soul filling heavy.
Levity.
Levity.
Yeah.
That’s it.
Things are getting too dense.
I need some room to breathe.
AMY. AMY. Amy. It’s all about her right now. That damn mocha-hued beauty. Dripping with style and quirky sex appeal. Just fucking perfect. Too perfect of course. But we’re not going to dwell on that right now. I dwell on that I dwell on you. And I know you don’t like that. That’s why I’m trying my hardest. I really am. But damn it, I can feel you. I know you’re there. You know you’re there. So why must we continue this charade? I’m only maintaining it because of Amy. I want her to be real. Like my gift. The make-good. Ms. Choco Savoir wasn’t it. She was the ‘first time.’ The ‘get-it-outta-the-damn-way.’ Amy might be the ‘real thing.’ The ‘happily-ever-after.’
Let me take a step back.
Breathe.
It’s been nineteen years of longing and then suddenly a few days of madness. You weren’t there for the nineteen years. You showed up for the madness, which leads me to believe that you are in some way responsible for it. Things have happened way too damn fast. Posted the ad, hooked up with choco, got used and abused, met Amy, played that stupid Can You? game and now I’m here. It all happened way too fast. It should’ve taken more time. Like a year. Not two days.
Damn.
Just damn.
I don’t know what the hell is going on anymore.
Fuck it. I know. I know damn well what’s going on. I need to be honest with myself…
I want to fall in love with Amy.
There it is. That’s it.
I want something big to triumph over all of this. And I want it to be her. She has to be the real Real Her. It would make sense. Perfect, beautiful sense...