Sony Hints at Next Generation of Wearable Computers 10 страница



“‘Through the forest have I gone, But Athenian find I none,’” she says, from actual neuron memory I bet. When she leans down over me and says “‘Weeds of Athens he doth wear,’” the squip says, Now!

“Rrragh!” I snap, biting at Christine’s nose.

“Jesus!” She pulls back. I stick my tongue out and loll it around, panting under her. “Hua-hua-hua.” She smiles at first, then gets deadly serious. “What’s wrong with you?” She stares down at me.

I scrunch my eyes up. I have to look cute. “Grrr?”

“Mr. Reyes! Jeremy is messing around,” Christine tells on me. She frickin’ tells on me. Reyes wakes up as she elaborates: “He’s, um, acting like some sort of dog or animal.”

Reyes chastises me: “Get up, young fool! Redo the scene!”

THAT WAS A SUREFIRE PLAN. THIS GIRL’S TOUGH.

Yeah, apparently. I return to the curtain, start the scene over again and do it so many times that by the end of rehearsal I can handle it without the squip. Christine doesn’t smile once for the rest of the day and Jake Dillinger isn’t too happy either; “Stay away from her,” is all he says, with a big hand planted on my shoulder, as I await a run-through by the curtain.

That didn’t really work out as planned, huh? I consult the squip as we walk home.

NO, IT DIDN’T.

I hate rejection. Like, sometimes I wonder why I fear it so much, but then when I meet it head on, I decide that it’s good for me to fear it, because I hate it. I hate it with my soul.

IT’S NOT THAT BAD. REJECTION IS ENTERTAINING!

No, it’s not.

OF COURSE IT IS. IF YOU VIEW YOUR INTERACTIONS WITH FEMALES AS PROSPECTIVE ENTERTAINMENT, REJECTION CAN BE JUST AS FUN, IF NOT MORE FUN, THAN GAINING ACCESS. ONCE YOU TAKE THAT VIEW, YOU’LL BE OUT THERE LOOKING FOR REJECTION, AND FEMALES WILL FLOCK TO YOU BECAUSE OF THE ANTIFEEDBACK MECHANIC OF PHEROMONES. BUT THAT’S HIGH-LEVEL STUFF.

I’ll work on it.

IN THE MEANTIME, YOU ARE RIGHT. OUR CUTESY TACTICS WITH CHRISTINE FAILED. WE’RE GOING TO TRY ANOTHER PLAN.

What’s that?

WE ARE GOING TO GET TO HER BY HOOKING YOU UP WITH AS MANY GIRLS AS POSSIBLE, MAKING HER JEALOUS. AND WE ARE GOING TO START WITHCHLOE.

Woo-hoo! Deal.

I jump up in the field and kick my heels together.

LET’S NEVER, EVER SEE THAT AGAIN, OKAY?

Thirty

Chloe, Chloe, dum de dum dum. I call her with the squip off, testing myself, seeing if I can do it alone. I dial the number, which I eventually stored in my computer under a file called “peeps,” in a special way. This was Michael-recommended, way back: first I press the 1, then the 1-7, then the 1-7-3, then the 1-7-3-2, hanging up each time so that the momentum just builds and builds until there I am, connected to Chloe’s cell, chatting with a girl whom I used to be afraid to look at.

I forget what day it is, really. The squip keeps track of all that.

“Hi, Jeremy?”

“Yeah, uh, hello, it’s—how’d you know it was me?”

“Well, I have everybody’s number stored in my celly, so if someone calls and it’s a new number, there’s very few people it could be, and I figured you would call soon.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah…this number is closely guarded.”

“I bet.”

“That’s a joke, Jeremy.”

“Riiiight.” I consider trying to laugh, but edit that out. “So what’s up?”

“Not much, what are you up to?”

“Jus’ chillin’.”

“Me too.”

“Yeah.”

Who’s supposed to talk now, me or Chloe? I forgot who talked last. I guess it’s my turn: “So, listen, I wanted to know if you want to hang out sometime this week, you know? I can get you more frozen yogurt or—”

“Party.”

“What?”

“There’s a party at Jason Finderman’s house because his parents got busted for money laundering, so they’re in, ah, Barbados?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So it’s going to be this Saturday and he has a pool and the whole deal.”

“Wow. Is it like, bring your own liquor or whatever?”

“I don’t really care…I’m rolling. You rolling?”

Very luckily, I know what that means. Thank you, squip. “Hold on a second, Chloe.”

I turn the squip on and ask: Can we roll? You know, do ecstasy?

I DO NOT RECOMMEND IT. I HAVE TO BE OFF FOR IT. IF YOU DO IT, YOU MIGHT HOOK UP WITH CHLOE, BUT YOU MIGHT JUST—

“Okay, sure, I’ll do it,” I say back to the phone.

“Really? You will? With me? Aww, Jeremy, you’re so sweet.”

“Heh, yeah, rockin’, you know.”

“Rockin’?”

ROCKIN’?

“I was talking to the TV.”

Chloe laughs. “So these are twenty-five dollar rolls. Can you give me the money at school?”

$25? WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO GET SOME MONEY—

“Sure, I’ll give it to you,” I say quickly.

“And here’s the important question…do you have a car, Jeremy?”

“Yeah, oh sure. I’ll definitely have one for this party, absolutely.”

WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO STEAL ONE FROM YOUR PARENTS, OR BRING MICHAEL.

I’ll bring Michael anyway. We’ll handle it.

“Okay, great, so does that mean you can, like, drive me home after the party?”

“Sure!”

“It’s gonna take a while for the rolls to wear off, but I have to be home by dawn-break, y’know?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“So we’ll meet in school and you’ll give me the money, okay?”

“Great.”

“See you, Jeremy!” And she hangs up. Damn, that girl knows how to take charge. Now all I need to do is get money and a car.

YOUR MOM’S PURSE IS BY THE DINING ROOM TABLE. SHE WON’T MISS $25.

That’s the easy part. We’re going to want Mom’s ride too, right? (Mom has a decent ride, a Nissan Maxima. Dad’s is not so good.)

YES. GET READY FOR A LESSON, JEREMY. DRIVING’S EASY. LIKE THE VIDEO GAMES.

I’m up for it.

Thirty-one

I get Chloe her money in school, where everyone is talking about Jason Finderman’s party. It’s weird, now; it’s like I automatically know what’s going on, like I don’t have to sit forward and analyze it or agonize over it; it just comes to me. I pass people in the hall—not lots of people, just a few important ones like Rich and Brooke—and they fill me in on everything that’s happening: Anne did this; Jenna did this; this party is this weekend; this guy got in this car accident; this kid has herpes. And while I’m talking to them, other people pass me by, people like Michael Mell—people at his status level—and they look at me the same way they look at Rich and Brooke. As a superior.

Simple things, that’s what the squip is fixing. Clothes are first. You need certain clothes and the best way to decide which ones is to have a computer do it for you. To do fashion any other way would just take too much time—I don’t know how squipless people do it.

Then, it’s really good to get to school early. You chill out on the steps a little, see who’s coming in, see who’s in a rush and who’s not, see if anyone wants to smoke or drink or have a cigarette before school—although they’re all dummy cigarettes to me. (The squip says cigarette smoke impairs its did this; this party is this weekend; this guy got in this car accident; this kid has herpes. And while I’m talking to them, other people pass me by, people like Michael Mell—people at his status level—and they look at me the same way they look at Rich and Brooke. As a superior.

Simple things, that’s what the squip is fixing. Clothes are first. You need certain clothes and the best way to decide which ones is to have a computer do it for you. To do fashion any other way would just take too much time—I don’t know how squipless people do it.

Then, it’s really good to get to school early. You chill out on the steps a little, see who’s coming in, see who’s in a rush and who’s not, see if anyone wants to smoke or drink or have a cigarette before school—although they’re all dummy cigarettes to me. (The squip says cigarette smoke impairs its analytical reasoning powers.) You don’t get hit with nerd penalty points for being there early.

Also, you never rush anywhere. If you run to class, you’re showing the world that class is more important to you than you. So you walk, but you don’t slink. You walk purposefully, with your chest out, thinking in grunts so that you maintain that base-level competitiveness with other men. You view high school as a death-match jungle arena, because that’s what it is.

If you see a girl and she makes any kind of eye contact with you, you have to smile at her. The squip explained that to me this way: OKAY, JEREMY, HOW DO YOU KNOW IF A GIRL LIKES YOU?

Um…

LET ME GIVE YOU A CLUE. WHAT IS THE SENSORY PERCEPT THAT HUMAN BEINGS EMPLOY MOST TO ENCODE THEIR SURROUNDINGS?

I’m sorry?

HOW DO PEOPLE VIEW THE WORLD?

Uh, the news?

EYES, JEREMY. THE EYES. DIDN’T YOU EVER HEAR THAT EXPRESSION, “THE EYES HAVE IT”?

No.

WELL THEY DO.

What do they have?

IT, JEREMY. THE EYES TELL YOU WHICH GIRLS LIKE YOU.

Okay, so I have to look at girls?

NO, YOU HAVE TO SEE WHICH GIRLS LOOK AT YOU.

Ah. None of them do.

SURE THEY DO. YOU JUST DON’T NOTICE. OR IF YOU DO CATCH ONE LOOKING, YOU LOOK DOWN AND DON’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT AND YOUR FAILURE TO ACT PAINS YOU SO MUCH THAT YOU FORGET ABOUT IT IN FIVE MINUTES.

That sounds right.

SO FROM NOW ON, I WANT YOU TO CHECK TO SEE IF ANY GIRLS LOOK AT YOU. AND IF ONE DOES, YOU HAVE TO SMILE AT HER.

That’s hard.

OF COURSE IT’S HARD! WHAT, YOU THINK THIS STUFF IS EASY? WHEN YOU BECOME SEXUALLY AROUSED, YOUR DICK GETS HARD TOO, DOESN’T IT?

Theoretically.

NOT THEORETICALLY. I’M THERE WHEN IT HAPPENS. SO THE POINT IS SOME THINGS ARE HARD IN THIS WORLD, JEREMY. GOOD THINGS.

Right. So if—

YOU MUST LOOK AT ALL THE GIRLS WHO PASS YOUR WAY. DON’T STARE AT THEM, JUST SCAN THEM VERY CAREFULLY, SUBTLY, TO SEE IF THEY ARE EYEING YOU. AND IF THEY ARE, SMILE AT THEM IMMEDIATELY, AS IF YOU CAN’T HELP IT, THEY’RE JUST SO CUTE. THAT’S HOW YOU DISTINGUISH YOURSELF IN THIS WORLD: INSTEAD OF BEING THE GUY WHO LEERS AT THEM, YOU’LL BE THE GUY WHO SMILES AT THEM. IT’S GOING TO TAKE A LOT OF WORK BECAUSE SMILING USES THIRTY-SEVEN MUSCLES, BUT I’LL BOOST THOSE MUSCLES FOR YOU.

Okay.

IF YOU DON’T, YOU’RE NEVER GOING TO GET LAID. IT’S THE FIRST STEP.

And so I smile. At first I end up with these crooked, premature smiles that look like I have spinach stuck in my teeth and I’m trying to roll it out with my lips. But I get better with practice, to the point where I can bend over at the water fountain, see which girls are looking at me (since I’m at their level) and smile with water sloshing off my teeth, like an Oral-B ad.

Oh, yeah, I have an Oral-B electric toothbrush now, one of many consumer adjustments. I started buying Crest Whitening Strips too, which I wear in my teeth while I do push-ups in front of the TV. They work wonders. I also got Tegrin antidandruff shampoo, the strongest you can buy without a prescription. It’s dark green and smells like tar, but even it doesn’t cure my dandruff until the squip tells me to use my nails in the shower and gouge at my scalp to get the Tegrin to my guilty skin cells. I spend a lot more time in the bathroom now.

In this enviable state—cleaned up, decked out, well dressed, flake-free, and at once socially hyperconscious and totally at ease—I give Chloe $25 for my roll. It’s a particularly fine day because at the start, in math, we solved the attendance problem.

“Caniglia,” Mr. Gretch said.

“Here.”

“Duvoknovich.”

“Here.”

“Goranski.”

“Here.”

“Heere?”

“Yo.”

It was so simple. Mr. Gretch didn’t mind and everyone in the class sort of shuffled around to look at me, saying “Yo” from the back. I smiled at them. I don’t know how I didn’t think of it before. IT’S NOT YOUR NATURE, the squip said.

About two minutes after that, Jenna went into her thing about “Elizabeth let four guys do her on the bus” and I had the balls to say what I’ve always wanted to say, deadpan: “Shut up, Jenna. We know ‘Elizabeth’ is like your Spider-Slut alterego or something.”

And Anne laughed and laughed and Mark Jackson laughed and Mr. Gretch didn’t hear and Jenna, at least for a few seconds, really did shut up.

Thirty-two

“So, Michael, you want to go to a party on Saturday?” I ask him out of the blue. I don’t know how much “blue” can be established in ten days, but it seems like a lot. Michael’s playing handball by himself against the mural outside school with his headphones on, not listening to anything.

“Hey, Jeremy,” he says.

WHY ARE YOU STILL DEALING WITH THIS GUY?

Hold on. “Yeah, so you want to go to this party?” I assume. I mean I just assume. He could answer.

“No.” He holds his ball, looks at me. “I got a question for you, man. You remember medieval Legos?”

“Sure.”

“Remember how we lost the original trees so we had to use palm trees outside the castles even though it was supposed to be a deciduous European forest?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember that anachronism?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Just checking. I thought you were maybe doing a revisionist thing with your nerd—”

“C’mon, man—”

“Now that you’re a swinger and all.”

WE ARE SWINGERS. HE’S RIGHT!

I smile. “It’s not like that. Really. I want you to come to this party.”

“F_c_ you, Jeremy. You still haven’t apologized for ditching me at the mall.”

“Yes I did!” I say. “And if I didn’t, I’m apologizing now. I apologize for not apologizing. This whole party is an apology.”

“You don’t want me at any party. You want me to drive you to that party.”

“No, man! I’m going myself.”

“How?”

“I’m gonna try some drivin’ skillz.” I imagine a Z.

“Jeremy…” Michael’s voice gets quiet. “If you’re gonna be stupid, I’ll take you in my car. Don’t get killed.”

I look at Michael’s ride, parked in the parking lot like a used condom. Not used properly. I don’t want anyone seeing me in that thing.

CORRECT.

“C’mon man, I can drive. I want to drive myself.”

“No you can’t, Jeremy! You’ve never done it in your life!”

“So how hard can it be, man? C’mon, man.”

Michael holds the handball close to his chest. “If you’re going to do something that stupid,” he says, “then I’ll go with you, just to make sure you don’t die or anything.”

DON’T BRING HIM.

Nope, I’m bringing him. I want him along on this one. I’ve wanted him along the whole time, but now I finally have the clout to bring him.

STRONG PARAMETER MISMATCH.

Well, it doesn’t matter. Didn’t you say I could include him in my new circle once I made it?

STRONG PARAMETER MISMATCH.

Shutdown.

“Uh, I assume that’s a ‘yes’?” Michael says.

“Yeah, you’re coming.” I reach out to slap his hand; he responds the way we used to slap—flat-handed—so I show him the new way, the curvy way the squip showed me.

Thirty-three

THAT LOOKS GREAT! the squip exclaims. TOTALLY EFFECTIVE!

I look in the mirror at my naked body. It’s more buff than I ever imagined, two weeks in, and totally hairless—the squip made me use candle wax to get out the five or so hairs that it found near my pecs. Unfortunately I can’t focus on anything other than the two straight marks that line my thighs, below my abdomen. The squip convinced me to paint these, a V around my crotch, outlining those “sartorius” muscles that didn’t develop so well in my exercise program. I did them with a Sharpie; they’re smooth and uniform, as if I were an action figure with bendable legs. It’s stupid.

NO, IT’S NOT. YOU RESEMBLE ASHTONKUTCHER. REMEMBER, ASHTON KUTCHER BEST REPRESENTS THE SEXUALITY THAT ENTHRALLS PRESENT-DAY FEMALES.

Right. Boyish yet…what?

BOYISH YET CASUALLY SUPERHUMAN. YOU READY TO GO?

I put my party clothes on and start down the stairs. It’s nine o’clock, Saturday night; Mom is off somewhere with her legal briefs and Dad is watching football in the kitchen.

“Okay, so I’m out,” I tell him as I pass his setup: my Dad, a chair, a beer, peanut butter, Oreo cookies, and the TV arranged for maximum comfort, like a science experiment.

“Huh,” Dad says. “Well, have a good time and all.” He breaks his concentration to actually look at me while he dips an Oreo into the peanut butter. It’s a Peanut Butter Oreo anyway. “Seriously, have a great time. I remember my first real party.”

“Heh, yeah,” I look down. PERFECT. BE INNOCENT. “Michael’s going to be here any minute so I’m gonna go on the porch and wait for him.”

“Huh.”

I stride out of my house and immediately crouch, ninja-style. GREAT. TO THE DRIVEWAY. I crab walk down the porch, clutching the side of the house, careful not to trip over the coiled hose. I’m at the edge of the kitchen window; Mom’s car is in front of me, sleek and inviting, lit by the one fake gas porch light and the streetlamps out beyond the lawn. I’m going to replace it with Michael’s car once he gets here so Dad’ll be less likely to notice a car missing if he decides to pee outside, which he does sometimes after football.

CALL NOW.

I pick up my cell phone, phone home. I can hear Dad moving from the kitchen to the living room, grumbling. Just before he would pick up—three and a half rings—I hit the beeper on the keychain I took from his pants while he was having private time with Mom (he always leaves his pants in the hall). Beep boop beep, the car says.

HANG UP.

I click the End button just as I hear Dad say “Hello?” He’s in the living room, annoyed, deciding whether or not to dial *69. Since I know he’s away from the kitchen window, I scamper by to the car door, open it up and sit in the driver’s seat. Awesome.

AWESOME. NOW THE EMERGENCY BRAKE.

It smells like Mom in the car. I clutch the brake between the two front seats with my fist, press it in and set it on the floor. Mom’s car—my car, whatever—starts rolling down the driveway; I freak and slam the brakes. The wheels make a little skidding noise.

JEREMY. DON’T LOSE IT NOW. EASE BACK ONTO THE ROAD. EVERYTHING’S FINE.

I lift my foot off the brake, letting the car ooze comfortably back down a dozen more feet. TURN, TURN. I do as I’m told. Amazingly—just like in Test Drive—the car turns sweetly backward onto my street, Rampart Road, and I execute what looks like a pretty competent parking job next to Ms. Daniels’s house. A BORN DRIVER. I KNEW YOU COULD DO IT.

I look at the driveway. I ran over some grass but, all in all, it was an excellent gambit. Now I just have to wait for Michael to show up. I turn on the radio, twisting the keys in the steering column toward me, the “safe” way, the way I was taught to, so I don’t start the engine. I power down the driver’s side window and look out at airplanes in the sky. And satellites. The squip tells me that most of the stars you see are actually satellites.

THAT ONE’S CLASSIFIED. GREEK MILITARY.

The Greeks have a satellite?

SURE. THAT ONE’S FOR AT&T. SO’S THAT ONE. THAT’S JAPANESE.

What about that one?

THAT’S SIRIUS. A REAL STAR.

After five minutes (each minute is cold, but also sharp), Michael’s s_ _t car rolls up to my house. He’s expecting me on the porch, not out here, so I I look at the driveway. I ran over some grass but, all in all, it was an excellent gambit. Now I just have to wait for Michael to show up. I turn on the radio, twisting the keys in the steering column toward me, the “safe” way, the way I was taught to, so I don’t start the engine. I power down the driver’s side window and look out at airplanes in the sky. And satellites. The squip tells me that most of the stars you see are actually satellites.


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