He asked a rusty sign that sagged on its collapsing hangers. “Maybe this is similar to what they call the ‘struggle of the soul’ in Storyworld.” David knew a soul wasn’t a real thing; the theory had been created and infused into Storyworld to provide thematic depth. Moral dilemmas in the characters’ lives always gave David a sense of twisted pleasure to observe.
“Moral dilemmas aren’t real. Only efficiency insights.” Uncomfortably, the unwanted theory seemed to fit with his present internal struggle. His sporadic thoughts. Bursts of something that might be guilt. There was something about his current philosophy that did not seem to fit perfectly with the internal needs of his being. Unaligned. David felt artificial.
“You know what, David?” He realized something. “So few people in your life accept you in a stable way.” He listed out some examples as he wandered.
“Uriah—retire his scum—mocked my passion with Bathsheba. Bathsheba—well, I paid for her, never got to ask her if it was mutual affection.”
He thought about the kind owners of his self-improvement center. “Maybe their friendliness is a front. Their banter a part of the business model.”
He thought about work. “My team at work is transient and always in flux.”
He kept wandering. “Gayle has never appreciated my heroism, and all I get is derision from the other managers on the Lave Labs team.”
This is where the feeling of being aimed in the wrong direction is coming from, he concluded. Poor affirmation.
The walls around him were dirty, moldy, dusty and stained, but he meandered foolishly onward. He thought about his passions in life and the desire for connection. He thought of his busy career, which followed him into the silent moments and disrupted even these brief moments of solitude like a constant clanging bell. There was so much noise in David’s head. Clamping his hands around his skull, he tried to silence the noise. “Management shut my brain off!” But of course no internal manager shut the thought processes off.
David heard the voice of Selfie in his mind’s ear. “I’m here with you always, David.” David thought back to his aggravating encounter with Selfie just that morning. Selfie, his constant morning companion and usually reassuring presence. This week, he’d started to feel a need to get away from the computer image of himself that always did his thinking. David had yelled at Selfie to shut up. Legitimately yelled. That was unlike David. He crossed himself habitually with the sign of the X. He needed to ask Selfie’s forgiveness. “What am I becoming, Selfie?”
“Not your more perfect self,” Selfie would’ve retorted.
David recalled a lecturer teaching, “The Mindmonk Order calls it the ‘Selfie’: a corporate conscience. Selfie assists the brand in shaping and conditioning perfect human-doings. Selfie ensures that the Productzen is always connected with their career path.”
Recalling this lecture usually motivated David, but not this morning. “Downward mental spiral.” He stomped his feet, trying to shut his brain off. Something was still off. The logic that normally directed his life now baffled him. The simple catchy phrases of Mindmonk worship, which he attempted to chant as he walked, didn’t answer the complicated need for this something that he couldn’t put his finger on.
Also, Gayle stirred up new and sensual feelings inside of him. Something even beyond the lustful desire for her sexiness. Something was off. CEO Saul’s marketing team had filmed him and Gayle in a series of staged shoots to mark their new PPRE relationship. The marketing campaign, coupled with the recent exposure from the restaurant episode, had culminated in a tantalizing story. The story was racing through the interwebs with the tenacity of a sentient pathological virus. It made David giddy with excitement when people recognized him on the streets. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it felt great. The entire project was a huge success; the news sharks’ viral vines from several days ago had been completely debunked. His own PPRE account’s freedom bill and personal energy consumption grocery budget had been paid for by Nnect’s corporate marketing sponsorship.
The buildings around him were darker, grimier, and neglected. If David had looked up, he would have been lost. A rodent ran under his feet. He didn’t see it. He went from positive to negative in heartbeats.
His mind screamed, She hates you.
But CEO Saul himself came to the restaurant to save the PPRE project, so take it all.
The PPRE is a huge success. Thank you very much.
I still can’t believe I was able to convince the CEOs to go along with my story at Cookless restaurant.
You’re a worthless ignorant test rat that knows nothing of the world.
You’re a hero like those in Medieval Storyworld.
“Your conversational mind is invasively noisy today,” David said. “Think of JOY: jobs of yours,” he told himself out loud. “By the human stock, Twenty-Three, stop trying to find some dark side to life. Why do you insist upon looking for phantom fears in the emptiness inside of you?”
“Shuta-up, ya crazy suit,” A mottled woman under a garbage bin shrieked. The dented bin rolled noisily to the side as the zombie of a woman began to stagger toward him with outreached arms and a covetous grimace.
Startled, he ran down an alleyway to hide from the hideous creature. He tried to recite an appreciation slogan, but it fell short of changing his negative spiraling attitude. “Stock be nimble; stock be doing. Stock your accounts before retirement day.” He was grossly out of tune and was stilled very scared of the pursuing voice.
“Bun bun, come hirrr,” the woman shrieked.
Dust shook off the cracked brick as he anxiously sprinted between the two buildings. Bursting from the alleyway, he stopped to catch his breath and started to look around at his surroundings. “Shit. That person was a creep. Think I lost her?” The din of pursuit had faded.
A rusted sign hanging above a desolate storefront read reorient, reimagine, and transform the way you think. think of the success and not the emptiness, uneasiness, and loneliness. Yes, that must be it, David thought, trying to encourage himself. After all, today was a gloriously sunny day, dimmed only by the zipping air traffic above the winding byways.
And for the first time all morning, he was able to turn off the irritating internal search for the thing that was disturbing his usual calm demeanor. Searing pleasure burst from the brand on his arm and down his spine. He swayed on his feet and fell to the ground in pleasure, the workie at last rewarding his enlightened JOY outlook. “Yes, yes. Joy take me.” He yelled as the workie swept over him. He’d been secretly waiting for a true release all morning but had not been able to activate the sapphire-blue brand while such an internal struggle and lack of clarity stressed him. The desire for the workie led him like a desperate addict, ever in search of the familiar rush of pleasure. The workie tantalized his mind and beckoned his thoughts back to the safety of compliance and conformity. Like the hunger that stirs deep inside a famished person, the need ached to be satisfied.
As the tattoo’s stimulation raced through his body, he stood and held a nearby rusty signpost for support to keep the adrenaline rush from knocking him off his feet. But unbeknownst to David, his searching thoughts of discontentment and uneasiness over the past few days still lurked deep in his being as surely as the deadly armband was secured around his right arm. It waited for another opportunity to press in on his mind.
The workie passed. His trembling knees solidified. His hands rested on his knees, and his head hung like a sack between his quivering legs.
Dirt. “Why are my shoes dirty?” He looked up from his feet and saw dirt and decay. He really saw it this time, and it scared him more than the creepy woman.
David stared in shock at the dust on his shoes and then at the shabby district he was standing in. “Oh my CEO.” He huffed, pulling out a sterilizing cloth and putting it over his mouth. “This much grime cannot be healthy for any proper employee.” He must be in an unsterilized part of the city. He had seen places like this from the Gravetless and had hear
d this was where garbage—Orns’s hapless employees and jobless humans—lived.
Looking up toward a fading black signpost, David realized that he had wandered to a district he had never been to before. In his defense, Xchange was a massive metropolis; there were many districts that an individual would never see in an entire lifetime of exploration. And there was never a reason to explore the world, because searching was a sign of desperation. There were so many opportunities to better oneself or to purchase a plethora of items that justly distracted one from wasting time. The day was bright and sunny above this city street, but light did not reflect or bounce off the dismal faded structures as efficiently as his normal locals. It was uncharacteristic for David to wander so absentmindedly to unknown places; he almost never veered from his structured and successful routine.
He looked worriedly at his time device. “Almost time to get back so I can sleep, refuel, and mentally prepare for the grind.”
This street was characterized by a quiet emptiness, which made David uneasy. It was lifeless and hollow compared with the commercial cheer and lively business found in the normal sections of town. “Why so empty? Where is everyone?” People from the neighborhood must be at work elsewhere or be asleep. A building nearby had a sign that read off-campus orns personalized objectification reality show placements; another read satellite office of ssential and orns human construction gear.
“This street must be empty during the day because many of these Productzens are night shift workers,” he surmised.
Often, low-paid employees worked night shifts or odd-hour shifts, anything inconvenient for proper human-doings. Construction, for example, needed to take place when it would not interfere with the daily work schedule of the Majors. The Orns brand also sold viewings of their dangerous and thrilling real-life sports and reality shows. Their many Storyworld actors acted out fantasies for spectators and bored workers. The Tertain technicians who programmed Real World typically worked nights because Productzens who entered the computer universe of “Real Life” did so after normal work hours. These services filled the lives of many human-doings who were caught in the “purchasing life cycle.” If you were a Spender, you eventually ended up watching the endless reality, fantasy, or game shows. Spenders were prone to go on uninhibited buying rampages that irrevocably destroyed any chance of proper retirement. David was a Saver. He lived a balanced, productive life. He owned only one annual subscription, to Medieval Storyworld. He did not participate in Real World; living in fantasy digital reality was not for him, even if it felt and looked real. And he only bought the occasional event programs to the other Orns and Tertain shows.
“That’s why I am getting blessed with success.” He looked around and renewed his convictions. Seeing the destitute part of town made him shiver.
David started walking, attempting not to break into a sprint, out of this district. Now that his mind had cleared, he needed to get back to work. To his right, down a side alley, was a sign that said hospital in white and red letters. It hung lopsidedly, and the lettering was faded. David had heard how the old medical system made people pay for health care at such places. Orns did not offer medical care unless they needed you healthy for a purpose, and stock sold to Orns otherwise had to spend the freedom scraps they were given on old-fashioned health care.
“Poor bastard stocks,” he bemoaned their status. David had full health care through Nnect.
The significant difference between Orns and the Majors was the Betterment and Right of Safety Clause, which stated that “a human-doing’s dignity is important”; products of the Majors never needed to do anything physically or mentally harmful to their bodies. Every human-doing had the company-given rights of safety and health optimization. a healthy human-doing can live to contribute another day was wisely written on the entrance to the human resources office in the Board Building.
David took this philosophy seriously. As a rule he did not stick his neck out for others.
The Majors offered self-improvement plans, which encouraged regular Mindmonk sessions. The Majors also encouraged physical fitness by compensating active employees with freedom bonuses or complimentary sessions at Thrive facilities. Looking good and feeling better went hand in hand. It was a dream come true.
Orns couldn’t care less about human rights. They took advantage of the weak, the elderly—basically anyone that they could get their hands on. David had seen people with white hair working the dumpster shifts before the town had thoughtfully ordered Orns to put up a visual barrier that blended with the modern architectural style of the human storage unit complexes. Utopia needed to be legislated after all.
Orns provided none of the human rights protections, so older or poorly maintained Majors employees who could not successfully provide for themselves or buy themselves or keep up with the active office space lifestyle after the age of forty-five were scooped up by Orns to work the physically and mentally debilitating construction jobs, distasteful sewage jobs, dangerous sporting industry jobs, and harmful fantasy show jobs, all without proper support from uplifting mental, spiritual, and physical health insurance policies. It was a world that David swore to never to get involved with. I will be free. The pleasure drinking bars in the MCMs were full of complaints about the working conditions at Orns.
“But there is a bright side and a real need satisfied by some bad habits and darkness.” This was what the Thrive Upbringing mentor had said about Orns. “Orns offers pleasure to humanity. It is a gift from the darkness. Human needs are fulfilled at a price. This is part of the balance of the world.”
It was true. Balance. Orns filled a legitimate human-doing need. Many, many of his fellow Productzens spent their hard-earned freedoms to entertain themselves and enjoy the rare pleasures of Orns. Orns offered what normal brands didn’t dare provide. Human-doings, including David, were fascinated by its dangerous, sexual, and arcane product offerings. It was humanity at its best and worst.
For example, the Storyworld club that David loved had originated in the Orns Storyworld. No other company would put thousands of unbranded products into a huge world and recreate history for the pleasure of the paying viewers of Xchange. Some individuals even claimed to enjoy working for Orns and would boast about their involvement in various products. David believed these bragging individuals were lying to themselves. But that was beside the point.
Despite all the good that Orns did, it seemed to him that something sinister, which David intuitively sensed, lurked behind Orns’s encouragement of Productzens’ addictive spending habits. It seemed that this disrespect for the human person violated some innate dignity, but who was David to know anything about that? At least the Majors supported human-doing respect. Balance was important. Thank the stock some humans did the dirty work so David would never have to. He blessed himself habitually and rubbed his tattoo, warding off the evil thoughts.
David sauntered back down the road, looking for something he recognized to guide him away from this human storage unit district for Orns and lower-level Majors’ products. He walked past shop outlets and human storage tenement blocks and pubs. Ratchet music poured out of one such pub; peeling red paint fell to the pavement.
Pubs. It was said that pubs had been all the rage back in the day, before Xchange had been formed and prior to the economic wars. Pubs only for the purpose of consuming poison (alcohol) were for people who did not want to succeed. That’s what Selfie had always told David.
“I need to find directions.” Stopping across an empty street from a quiet pub named Irish, he considered entering. He was not sure what an Irish was—it must be one of those monsters from before the financial meltdown and successive establishment of the great Xchange civilization.
The workie had worn off at this point, and David was thirsty and needed directions. Asking for help is weakness but where to get a drink? His corporate conscience told him to suck it up and to get out of this filthy neighborhood. Nothing but addiction could come from a place like this. “But I thirst
. I thirst,” he complained to his conscience. The desire grew like an itch.
He was tempted to go into this pub called Irish. “Just one moment won’t hurt my reputation,” he told himself. I thirst. “Damn my good stock upbringing,” he declared, and his thirst got the better of him. “I am going to see what this pub thing is all about.”
David pushed open the flaking green-painted door and walked cautiously under the stone archway. The old manual hinges were rusted, and they creaked when the door opened and closed begrudgingly behind him, squealing like pigs. The dim interior of the pub was characterized by dark wood. Cleanly arranged bookshelves and old artifacts, such as a painting of a rustic man relaxing at a secluded hunting lodge, hung on the walls. The ambiance was somber. Odd, outdated burgundy cushions overlaid wooden benches and stools, not Comfort Gel seats created by Thrive and Ssential. Most of the stuff in the room had no brand name.
“Peculiar,” David said to himself as his eyes adjusted. “I wonder who would make something for the sake of making it and not to advertise as well. Pretty old fashioned.” No wonder such establishments were losing popularity to the more advanced clubbing theaters and scenes.
“What will it be, son?” A gruff voice came out of the dimness behind the bar.
“Oh, I am not born of a free person and am no one’s son. Just a son of the stock,” laughing politely, David retorted.
“Everyone needs a dad sometimes, son. In here, you’re all my kids.”
“Do you need an education?” The blunter the feedback, the more respectful. “That word is primarily acceptable in Storyworld and history lessons and with free people, the family unit concept being disbanded and all. We don’t really use it much in common vernacular.” David decided to humor the man and just settled with an explanation instead of a humiliating correction. After all, he needed things from the staff. A drink and directions. “That kind of speaking is backward is all. Xchange has moved past family structure.” He laughed and added, “Thank the stock for that. Am I right?”
A Tale Of Doings Page 28