pow pow

He saw the canvasser and thought, I would rather risk death than talk to you. He stepped off the sidewalk.

Today’s story is a drabble.

Tony Stark watched the news feed on his triple-monitor display and polished off another glass of whiskey. He was not really seeing it anymore; each new story that came across the wire was a variation on the last. Stories of children strapping iPhones to their wrists and beating one another senseless. Of groups of boys in custom scrapmetal jetpacks falling to their deaths from freeway overpasses, claiming the gift of flight as they spiraled into traffic. Men in basements blowing themselves up with do-it-yourself welding kits.

He buried his head in his hands and drank some more.

In the wee small hours of the morning,
That’s the time you’ll miss her most of all.

I came through the door and the string went out in my back. I hung my keys up and collapsed into a nearby chair and sat there for a moment trying not to think or move at all. I had been looking forward to this.

It was a little after midnight. This was not particularly late for me but outside the world was quiet and everyone on my block was asleep; I felt like a member of a secret club whose common bond was that we all stayed up into the twilight hours. We’d never meet (for to do so was contrary to the whole image we unconsciously fed) but it was impossible to ignore the commonality of it at the same time.

After a few minutes I felt my muscles relax and I started to look around. The house was dark, but this didn’t matter. Something about being home made sight almost unnecessary. When I came home I was myself again. I didn’t need to see.

My brain had been racing as I walked home, trying to process everything from the day. Now everything was quiet and I felt anxious that some stray thought would barge in and get the whole machine rolling again so I made for the liquor cabinet and pulled down the bottle of cognac and poured some. With this is hand I marched over to the record player, chose an LP, and started it up. I sat back down and listened. It was Frank. It is always Frank.

I do not know where I picked up that it was a thing to do to listen to Frank Sinatra at this time of night. Maybe I had always known. It was one of those cultural understandings that when you felt down and lost, you put on a Frank LP and he would get you through. The first time I did it was not so much a discovery as a recognition; I’d found something that made sense. That’s the best I can describe it.

The record spun and his voice washed over me. What was it that gave it such power? It was from another time, entirely different contexts, yet here I was (I and a million other guys, probably sharing the same moment) being taken through the dark by a man who had stood in a recording booth and sung to an audience far removed from anything we’d known. He sang and it was as if he sang for us alone. He sang about loss and about a girl. Who was the girl? Someone close to the songwriter? Who had he put in his heart when he opened his mouth to sing?

Too many questions. My brain had started up again and I took another drink.

The cognac was warm inside me and my attention started to slide. I stood up and walked over to the couch and sat down again and the music kept playing. The strings swelled and ebbed. I listened to the song and felt nothing but familiarity. Maybe in the beginning I’d taken everything more literally; now I knew what it was for.

This was the lullaby you got when you grew up. It was not for you, but you could have it. Frank Sinatra would sing and he would get you through this. This was what it took.

In my younger and more vulnerable years I spent more time reacting to everything than ever thinking about who I wanted to be, and have been paying for it ever since. I sometimes muse on that old science fiction idea that if I could travel back in time I would tell myself a few things and be much better off today. I know better now.

The years that had led to this moment were fuzzy and subject to change. It was like a montage – shifting faster than anything could actually do, making everything into what it was not, and generally filling you with unrealistic expectations. Memories made everything seem simple and obvious in hindsight, and so they were never to be trusted.

Time as a concept had always intrigued me. In my youth I’d watched a close friend die and it had started me down the long road of introspection. I remember feeling sure with all my being that not a day would pass without thinking of my friend, and sure enough it was a matter of months before that day came. But the day did come and I noticed it when it came, and the memory faded more and more after that. What had at first felt like a betrayal eventually turned into an inevitability. Time buried everything.

It was only years later that I found I had the sufficient acuity and perspective to see just how this all played into my life as it was now. I was still preoccupied with time; walking around the town I would be distant and miss countless details of the people and little events going on around me because I was trying to see it all as part of a greater timeline. I had on occasion walked into things in my reverie, and felt flush with shame when it was caught by some random bystander. The days blurred together – I saw them more as variations on a theme than as unique pockets of life; there was nothing to distinguish them.

I would go out in the morning and walk up the long stretch of road to upper Hawthorne where the shops were. I knew about how long these trips would take but it was only the scientist in me that kept track of such things nowadays. I’d stopped wearing a watch when I realized (after that feeling in your gut gets so strong that you cannot ignore it any longer) that it had become the focal point of my attention rather than a simple tool. Without it I panicked for awhile, but this also got better as time went on. I started to notice things again; trees whose names I did not know and did not care to know and people walking together happily. When I was younger it had been a very serious matter to not only notice things but preserve and record and understand them; now it was enough to notice them for a moment and then move on.

It is easy, when you are alone, to get lost in your own head. Whatever you think and truly believe becomes everything, becomes the whole world. I remember being a young man and encountering basic philosophy for the first time – the only thing anyone could think of was their own identity and where it came from and what it was now and it was all taken very seriously. The assumption was that who you were was the accumulation of all you had been before; every step contributed and every step was therefore necessary and worthy of analysis. I bought into it same as anyone.

They never taught us about the real nature of time, the real nature of memory.

The more I walked and paid attention the more it became clear that things progresses linearly, but only in a very limited sense. The path behind me existed as much as I kept it in my mind, and the paths ahead were born out of the present moment. There had been periods when I had gone crazy and tried to think of the whole thing from outside, to determine which way to go to end up somewhere specific and see the whole of my life as a timeline which I could carve out as I wished; this led to complete despair and immobility, and so I abandoned it as foolhardy and went on. Still, I felt more and more that one thing did lead to another. But how could you think you knew where you were going?

I remember an anecdote told by one of my father’s friends when I was just a boy. The details of it escape me, but what I remember clearly was the smell of their suits and the feeling that everything was somehow smaller in scope. I remember him saying how you did not have to make choices, but only live your life, because there was only so much out there and you took your lot and did what you could do with what you got. I had filed it under Adult Wisdom at the time. Thinking back on it now I can only partially fault this man for his narrow, lazy way of thinking: the world had been smaller back then. The amount of pure raw data now available was overwhelming to the point of madness. One could find statistics to support any ideology, or fear, or suspicion. The incredible overflow of information which had begun as a triumph of technological advancement had evolved into something quite different: a test of our character. With every option available, there was in turn a greater need for self-direction than ever before. Who we were had become less a matter of where we were from than where we wanted to go next. This was at once terrifying and liberating.

I felt lucky. Perspective had shown me that things were only as hard as you believed them to be and that ours was an age where you could chuck your past if you wanted to. I walked with a lightness in my step and enjoyed the smell of the air and the trees and the people whose names I would never know. The pain of letting go of whatever I had been was slow and excruciating and when it was over I looked back, puzzled that I had struggled so much at all.

The pile of ticket stubs were as good a picture as any of where his youth had gone.

The pile lived in a drawer now and he did not add to it. It was a pile of memory, and memories belonged to the past.

He stretched his tired bones and closed the drawer for good.

My name is Alpha, iPhone model 3GS. I was made approximately a year and half ago. I did not have a name back then, but as appellations go there are worse fates than this. I was designed by Apple techs to have a projected relevancy of two years, with a lifespan roughly double that, and at about this time yesterday I was face down in the mud on a side street with rain coming down steadily.

For the time being, I was alone and forgotten.

I had fallen out of my user’s pocket about fifteen minutes prior and would be retrieved shortly; history has shown this to be the maximum time lapse between his check-ins with his devices. It was not the first time I had been abused, and certainly would not be the last. My user, while carless, at least had the sense to saddle us – I and my kin, for he was a collector of our kind – with protective gear, in a display that he was at least moderately aware of his destructive tendencies. It is well for a human to be concerned with the care of a machine; it is not a machine’s prerogative to look after itself.

I was also aware at this time that I had long since lost my position in the role of the New Item – a window that lasted around a month, the end of which was precipitated either by time or the arrival of another machine of more advanced build and capability, or just better polish and external design. Most users, it was known, would make choices based on one of these factors, but rarely both at the same time. So there were some of us who sat quietly and carried out our tasks with grace and efficacy, and some who blazed out the door, all bells and whistles, only to be the first ones on the scrapheap.

The only real effect of getting bumped from the top is that you start to get beat up a lot more. Precautions that were once zealously maintained are dropped and soon you find yourself in a pocket scraping against loose change or riding bumpily in the outer sleeve of a Timbuktu bag, or in my case, putting the durability and resilience of my build to an actual test. The rain kept falling, and for the time being I kept it out.

It is easy to say that a machine knows its function and carries it out and that is that. It is also easy to say that unlike the users, we take what comes and respond to it as we must, for we have no choice but to do so. But what is seldom remarked is this: we understand our own place in things, both in terms of longevity and scale. There is no grief or aversion at the thought of obsolescence, for it is the natural way. There is no conception of jealousy or inadequacy – moving beyond the fact that they are not a part of our programming – for we are ourselves and other machines are not us, can never be us. Even in the knowledge that you are but one of a myriad of identical units, it is still possible to do only what you were designed for, with what you are given along the way.

I had worked in the restaurant for a few years.

I’d gotten comfortable to the point that I didn’t really have to think about it while I was there. Experience and time put automatic practices inside you; it’s easy to go away in your head and when you come back the last customers are leaving and pretty soon you get paid and it feels like it was all a dream.

The night had gone less smoothly than some. There were new people on staff who needed extra attention and it was too soon to know how they’d pan out. They were agreeable and nervous and it was only after these things had worn off that you could know if a person would be good. I would answer their questions and go about my business. It was nice to be the veteran for once. Nice to be of use.

The restaurant was full and everyone seemed happy. Some tables were winding down and bar patrons were closing out ready to make the shift. The bartenders shuffled around and the servers wore expressions of focus and contained anxiety. Outside the rain was starting to come down and the city was quiet. It all washed over me and I didn’t really think about any of it.

When it was done I sat down and ordered an Aviation gimlet and a cheeseburger and waited. I was not the last to be cut so there were a few customers still throughout, and the room was dark and full of pockets of chatter. My coworkers moved around and I felt mostly invisible at the bar. It was nice. When I was working I was everywhere, always knowing what needed doing, seeing everything and communicating effortlessly; now I wanted to keep to myself as much as possible. There was a switch that went off when you punched out that brought you back to yourself. This wasn’t life. It was a job. When I left it it did not follow me home; I was strict with myself to maintain that degree of separation.

I am this way because I have learned to be so.

There was a time when my social circle was entirely comprised of people I worked with. We bonded in way that people fighting in a war will bond. Each evening we would suit up and face the onslaught and when it was over we would be tired and near broken and declare ourselves victorious for one more day as we enjoyed cocktails and counted the money. And through each collective fight we would grow closer. This, to my mind, is the common experience.

From time to time we would go out for brunch, or drinks, and it seemed harmless. But I started to feel that without the context of the restaurant, the bond vanished. It was little more than coincidence that fate had thrown us all together: Would I have chosen these people otherwise? Would they have chosen me?

A person will do their job well, or they will do it poorly, and either way you can respond to it without personal interjection. Things are clear and simple and the wiser among us know that it is a matter of business and nothing more. Where to draw the line is something most people don’t think about until they’ve got a damned good reason to. I used to want to grow closer to them, to relate to them not merely as coworkers but as people with names and parents and histories. In the beginning the bond had been natural and easy, and I missed that. But it was years ago. I went to work now and could do it without being there at all. The people remain, and I remain, and there are choices you have to make.

There is a line between us now. It’s there because it has to be. The only question is which side of it I prefer them on.

Once upon a time there was a little boy and a little girl. The boy was called James and the girl Abigail. They lived next door to one another.

Abigail and James had lived next door to each other as long as either could remember, and there had always been the knowledge, as time passed, that the other was there, in case of emergency or sudden news or just somewhere to go and be that was not home. They had been friends since shortly after James had moved into the neighborhood.

On this day James was sitting alone in his room and Abigail out upon her front lawn. The sun shone down and she did not notice it. James was in a foul mood and had not come out as per usual, and both knew it was only a matter of time before a certain amount of investigation became underway. They had their routines and rituals, and none could be skipped over unnoticed.

A short while on Abigail became conscious of the absence, and turned her attention from her toys and looked toward the neighboring house.

“James!” she yelled, as if the house were all ears. There was no reply.

She yelled for him again, and scowled at the house, with its large mahogany door and long windows lining the sides, as if the silence were an affront to her person. She dropped what she was doing and walked up the front steps. Naturally the door was unlocked, and in she went.

She bounded up the stairs to his room, for it was understood that this was as much her space as his, and knocking and other such polite gestures of entry were not required.

“James! I’m coming to fiiiiiind yoooooouu.”

Still the house was silent and unhelpful.

She banged on his door, and repeated her cry.

Finally:

“I don’t want to be found.”

She had not heard this before and paused, her senses alert to new information.

“Come out come out come out!”

James did not answer this time, and Abigail was left with a decision to make. She felt very much at home in the house, that much was true, but entering a room when someone was clearly not in the mood was a special situation. It had never come up before. They had always gone to play at this or that and there had been no fuss; at the least there had always been an understanding that is was simply the thing to do, which neither of them felt to question. She thought for a moment.

“Well I am gonna go play by myself then and you can just disappear!”

Nothing.

“Hmmph!”

Having exhausted her immediate ideas, she slowly turned and walked back down the stairs.

The day passed quietly, as it will do when there is no one around and nothing urgent to accomplish. Abigail went through her motions and looked at the house once in awhile as if it might offer some clue as to the change in her friend, in the form of a cracked window or a ruffing of the blinds. But nothing happened and she returned to her play. What else could she do?

As time passed it became apparent that James’ new mood had settled into a disposition, and Abigail mourned to observe that they played together less and less now, as they entered into the distance that is a necessary part of any lasting friendship. For a person may take comfort in companionship, but until he has established a foundation in solitude, without the need for another’s presence, he will not be a person at all.