by S. G. Browne
Delilah’s not a natural redhead. To be honest, I’m still not sure what her natural color is.
“How about we all pretend to be grown-ups?” I say, reaching into the refrigerator for a couple of beers.
“Isn’t pretending what tonight is all about?” says Nat.
The fact that Nat agreed to even consider trying Egos was a surprise, considering his concerns about getting stuck inside someone else’s identity or getting spit out into a ditch in New Jersey. I guess the fact that neither has happened to me helped to sway him.
“Just play nice,” I say, handing him a Guinness. “Please. It’ll make me happy.”
We take our beers and go sit down on the couch, which I’m planning to keep—though I did agree to let Delilah repaint the bedroom.
“I see married life is treating you well,” says Nat.
“We’re not married,” I say. “Delilah is my girlfriend.”
“You say tomato, I say manipulative succubus.”
Nat’s still a little bitter that I moved out. Among other things.
“You know, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea . . . ,” I say, standing up.
“Wait.” Nat grabs on to my arm. “I’m sorry, bro. That was totally out of line. I’ll behave.”
“Promise?”
Nat holds up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never in the Scouts.”
“And I don’t have much honor, so it all zeros out.”
I never could argue with Nat’s logic.
“Okay,” I say, sitting back down. “Then let’s pick one out.”
On the coffee table is my hand-crafted cherrywood box, which I open to reveal the first of two velvet-lined trays with individual compartments containing a total of forty-eight Egos. Then I lift out one of the trays and set it on the coffee table.
Nat lets out a whistle. “That’s a lot of alternate identities to choose from.”
I feel a little gluttonous having so many because I know Nat can’t afford even one. Most high school algebra teachers don’t typically earn enough to afford groceries, let alone drop three grand on a luxury item. But I feel guilty about not spending much time with him. And about the way we left things when I moved out.
Still, I wonder if this is such a good idea. Not because it’s against company policy, but because I can’t help worrying how it might end up impacting my relationship with Nat. I’m also wondering if he’s doing this because he really wants to, or because he thinks it’s the only way he can still be my friend. I’d ask him, but he’d just deny it. Besides, I always thought his complaints about me not being myself had less to do with Egos and more to do with all the time I was spending with Delilah.
Nat looks down at the trays, studying my collection of fictional and celebrity identities. His fingers run across the Plexiglas vials as if they were prized possessions. Or naked breasts.
While it’s not the first time he’s actually seen my collection, it’s the first time he’s shown any interest in my Egos, most of which I didn’t have to pay for. As a perk to our job, we get to take home up to twenty Egos at a time for testing. The ones I did pay for I got at a 50 percent employee discount.
“Captain Kirk. James Bond. Indiana Jones.” Nat names off my Egos one by one. “It’s like a roll call of awesome.”
While I enjoy being Elvis Presley and Kurt Vonnegut and Vincent van Gogh, my favorite Egos are fictional characters. They have fewer emotional hang-ups and tend to allow for a bit more moral flexibility than your real-life celebrities, who are limited by a reality inhibitor.
But then, there’s not a whole lot of reality going on around here lately.
When it comes to real-life celebrities and historical figures, you’re not becoming them, but their public personas. The genetic engineering strips away the undesirable aspects to the Egos, in part for legal reasons but also because no one wants to experience the insecurities or the neuroses of the rich and famous. Or the way they act when they’re not on camera.
No one wants to have a Mel Gibson or a Christian Bale meltdown.
Nat picks up the Plexiglas bottle labeled INDIANA JONES and stares at it like an archaeologist who has just found the Holy Grail. “So . . . what’s it like being Indiana Jones?”
“Exactly like you’d imagine.”
I leave out the part about how having sex as Indiana Jones is about the most fun you can have in bed without a nineteen-year-old gymnast and a gallon of Astroglide. Which I haven’t ever tried, but Delilah is always up for a challenge.
Nat stares at the bottle a few moments longer, then returns it to its compartment like he’s handling a priceless artifact before he continues to peruse his options.
“So who’s it going to be?” I ask.
Nat looks over the two trays of Egos, going back and forth from bottle to bottle like an indecisive kid at Baskin-Robbins trying to select a flavor of ice cream.
“I don’t know. There are so many choices. I don’t know which one to pick.”
He never could make a decision, which is how he ended up in teaching.
“Pick the one you feel most connected to right now,” I say. “And if there’s more than one you want to try, we can always do this again.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure. We can even make this a monthly thing if you want.”
That’s my guilty conscience talking, trying to even things out and make up for being a neglectful friend. Though I still question the wisdom of introducing Nat to a lifestyle he can’t afford. Not to mention the fallout from Delilah when she finds out I’ve invited Nat to join in our fun on a monthly basis.
Nat looks over the selection of Egos again, then picks up the bottle labeled CAPTAIN KIRK.
“Good choice,” I say. “I think I’ll go with The Han Solo, which should make for an interesting night.”
Nat watches as I pull out two sterilized syringes and set them down next to our selected Egos.
While most consumers either drink their Big Egos with some form of beverage or inject them like insulin shots, neither one of these delivery methods provides the most complete experience. To get the best results, I inject the Ego cocktail directly into my brain stem, where it can go to work instantly on the limbic system, recalibrating hormones, mood, and DNA.
The limbic system is the more primitive part of the brain that supports a variety of functions, including emotion, behavior, and motivation.
“So who’s Delilah going to be?” asks Nat.
“I don’t know. She said she hadn’t made up her mind.”
“You know, you two wouldn’t have even met if it wasn’t for me.”
“I know,” I say. “You remind me of that fact every chance you get.”
I grab a syringe and draw two milliliters of The Han Solo and set it aside, then I pick up the bottle labeled CAPTAIN KIRK and insert the other syringe.
“It’s kind of weird, isn’t it?” says Nat. “Pretending to be someone else?”
I watch the amber liquid fill up the syringe, thinking about the hundreds of Egos I’ve injected over the past three years. “You get used to it.”
But when you think about it, people pretend to be someone else every day.
Gay people who pretend to be straight. Depressed people who pretend to be happy. Smart people who pretend to be dumb.
People are always pretending to be someone else to fit in. To be accepted. To be loved.
Men who pretend to enjoy their marriage. Employees who pretend to enjoy their jobs. Women who pretend to enjoy sex.
They all slip into a role. Put on a mask. Be whoever it is they need to be for an hour. A day. A lifetime. Then they slip out of that role and play another one.
People show you what they want you to see. Or what they think you want to see, not who they really are. The reality lies somewhere in between.
Truth is, everyone is just playing a role.
“After a few minutes, it feels natural,” I say to Nat. “Like you were always this ot
her person and you just didn’t know it.”
I hand Nat his syringe. He takes it like I’m handing him a used diaper that’s threatening to leak. “Are there any side effects?” he asks.
“Nothing serious. You might get a slight headache or some initial nausea, but I’ll be here to talk you through it.”
Nat stares at the syringe in his hand like he’s about to put a gun to his head.
“Look,” I say, “if you don’t want to do this . . .”
Just then, Delilah walks out wearing a red strapless dress covered with sequins, red high-heeled shoes, and red satin gloves running up to her elbows with her red hair falling down over her bare, pale shoulders. She stops and turns to look at the two of us, her dress slit all the way up to mid-thigh. Her lips look like she’s kissed a candy apple.
“I’m not bad,” she says. “I’m just drawn this way.”
Nat looks Delilah up and down. “Holy Mother of God.”
Not exactly. But we are releasing The Virgin Mary next Easter.
“You don’t know how hard it is being a woman looking the way I do,” says Jessica Rabbit, who then glides off into the kitchen like a wet dream come to life.
In addition to The Jessica Rabbit, some of the more popular Animated Egos include The Brian Griffin, The Peter Pan, The Betty Boop, The Popeye, The Sterling Archer, The Homer Simpson, and The Tinker Bell. I’ve never been a cartoon Ego, but I hear it’s a little like dropping acid at Disneyland.
I glance at Nat, who looks like a cartoon character with his mouth hanging open and his chin on the floor.
“So what do you think?” I say. “Are you game?”
Nat holds the syringe up and looks at the two milliliters of amber fluid that will turn him into Captain James T. Kirk for the next six hours. “Are you sure this is safe?”
“Absolutely.” I pick up my own syringe and reach around to the back of my neck. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”
CHAPTER 9
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” I say.
“You sure?” says Nat, his face turning red. “Because it sure seems like I should be worried.”
“Yeah,” says one of the two Neanderthals holding Nat upside down by his legs. “He should be fuckin’ worried.”
Where we are is out behind Round Table Pizza on a Friday night during our junior year in high school, with Nat being dangled over a puddle of vomit by the starting middle linebacker and the right tackle for the varsity football team.
I’m not sure how Nat got into this mess. A few minutes ago, we ordered a large pepperoni pizza and then I went to the bathroom. When I got back, Nat was gone, along with most of the other high school kids who had descended upon the place. Eventually I found everyone out back, crowded around Nat and his tormenters.
I have no idea where the vomit came from but I don’t think it matters.
Nat’s always ending up on the wrong end of things and I’m always having to figure out how to make them right. While negotiating with a couple of varsity football goons isn’t something I’ve ever attempted, I’m hoping my letterman’s jacket helps.
Last year, I got on a running and athletic kick and tried out for the soccer team on a whim. Turns out I’m a natural-born center fullback and I never knew it.
Funny how you can spend the first sixteen years of your life with no idea that you had a talent like that inside you. But at least now I know what it is I want to do with my life, though I never would have guessed that being an athlete would be my calling. After parlaying my newfound abilities into a starting roster spot on the varsity soccer team, a whole new world opened up to me. A world of sports and cheerleaders and popularity. Which, in a fortuitous twist for Nat, gives me some added cachet with the other high school jocks.
Still, I’m dealing with a couple of football players, not fellow soccer players or the number-one doubles tennis team. Football players are a different breed of jock altogether. And in high school, your status and your identity is a reflection of who you hang out with.
Just before adolescence, the prefrontal cortex undergoes a flurry of activity, leading to the formation of an identity and the development of the notion of a self. So high school is where burgeoning men and women often work out their identities for the first time. The problem is that in high school, labels and identities are more often thrust upon you than asked for.
Jock. Brain. Nerd. Druggie. Rah Rah. Outcast. Popular. None of the Above.
This last one is almost worse than being labeled a nerd or an outcast. At least then you know who you are. If you’re labeled None of the Above, you might as well be invisible.
But in Nat’s case, I’m thinking that being invisible would probably be in his best interests.
“So what happened?” I ask.
“What happened?” says the middle linebacker, a juiced-up troglodyte who’s probably compensating for his genetic shortcomings. Let’s call him Big Steroid, Little Penis. Just not to his face. “The problem is that asswipe here has a big fuckin’ mouth.”
“A big fuckin’ mouth,” echoes the right tackle, a throwback to Paleolithic man with the IQ of a popular sexual position. Let’s call him Sixty-Nine. Same rules apply about saying that to his face.
Though I’m guessing Nat didn’t follow the rules.
“Kick his ass!” yells some guy from the crowd, which isn’t helping the situation.
When faced with a couple of high school football players who together weigh more than a quarter of a ton, it’s best if you deal with them the same way you’d deal with a couple of angry silverbacks.
First, avoid making a show of dominance or assuming the role of the alpha male. That’s a common mistake. You don’t want to beat on your chest or fling shit at them. That’ll just make them angry. Instead, you should use reassuring and familiar vocalizations to avoid antagonizing them. Gorillas keep in contact using belch vocalizations, but I don’t need to start burping to gain their trust. I just need to sound like them.
“What did the dumb fuck say?” I ask.
“Hey!” Nat reaches down with his hands to try to support himself without touching the pool of vomit. “I thought you told me not to worry.”
“Shut the fuck up, Nat,” I say.
You should also make sure you position yourself so that you’re either below the football player or at the same height so they don’t feel threatened, which isn’t a problem considering they’re each a good four inches taller than me.
I can already see their posture changing as they grow comfortable with my presence. But if the football players show any sign of agitation, you’ll need to convince them you’re not dangerous by casually dropping down to one knee to tie your shoe, turning your body sideways and looking at them out of the corner of your eye. Which I do, just to play it safe.
“So what happened?” I ask.
Apparently, the two silverbacks bumped into Nat and were very polite about the entire encounter, to which Nat promptly called one of them a douche bag and told the other that he had the vocabulary of a Dr. Seuss book.
Nat’s brain doesn’t always consider the consequences of his mouth.
“Bad idea,” says Big Steroid, Little Penis.
Sixty-Nine nods and shouts his assent amid a spray of saliva. “Bad fuckin’ idea!”
If the football players give a screaming charge, don’t run away. They’re just trying to assert their dominance. Instead, stay hunkered down, scratch yourself in a nonchalant manner, and remain calm. If they make contact with you, curl up in a ball. There’s the chance you might get thumped or bitten, but chances are you’ll walk away with a great story to tell your friends.
Sensing that the two silverbacks are accepting me, I stand up.
“Any chance we can work something out?” I ask.
I almost said negotiate, but when dealing with high school football players, you want to avoid using big words. It makes them defensive and more likely to channel their inner primate. So try to dumb it down. Stay awa
y from any word that contains more than three syllables.
“What’s there to work out?” says Big Steroid, Little Penis.
“Yeah,” says Sixty-Nine. “Payback is payback.”
You can’t argue with that kind of logic. And clearly, my soccer letterman’s jacket isn’t throwing around enough weight. So it looks like I’m going to have to switch to bribery.
“What if he apologized and offered to buy your pizza?” I say.
The two silverbacks look at each other and then down at Nat.
“Kick his ass!” yells the same guy from the crowd, which, sensing a nonviolent resolution, has started to break up.
“Two pizzas,” says Big Steroid, Little Penis. “Extra-large. With everything.”
“And garlic Parmesan twists,” says Sixty-Nine. “Twelve pieces.”
“Done,” I say.
The three of us all look down at Nat, his hands on either side of the puddle of vomit.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “What I said was unmerited and inappropriate.”
The two football players don’t let go, so I hold my right thumb and index finger up about an inch apart, hoping Nat gets the message. He does.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m a dumb fuck.”
“Okay then. Apology accepted,” says Big Steroid, Little Penis.
Ten seconds later, Nat is standing next to me tucking his shirt back into his pants while the two gorillas follow the disappointed crowd back into Round Table.
“Thanks, bro. I owe you.”
“No.” I point to the two varsity silverbacks. “You owe them.”
We stand there a moment, neither one of us saying anything, until Nat finally breaks the silence. “How did you do that? It’s like you used Jedi mind tricks or something.”
That’s not too far from the truth. The mind of a high school football player is about as easily manipulated as that of an Imperial storm trooper.
“You just have to play the role,” I say. “Be the person you need to be when the situation calls for it.”
“Like when Han Solo comes back to save Luke so he can blow up the Death Star?”
Nat’s always boiling life lessons down into Star Wars analogies.