The nirvana effect, p.2
The Nirvana Effect, page 2
More recently, however, his ire had turned to a resigned sadness.
People were free to live their lives however they chose, and if someone’s quality of life was improved by the chip, then he would accept that. But there was no way in hell he would ever get a chip sewn into his own flesh and blood at the delicate spot where the spine met the skull.
Aaron reached his exit quickly and then took Santa Monica Boulevard into Beverly Hills. Every week, he witnessed more businesses shuttered on the long, commercial strip that once drew big crowds to shopping plazas, popular restaurants, trendy nightclubs, fitness facilities and car dealerships. Today, he noticed a newly closed clothing boutique. (Who needs to worry about fashion when the physical world barely matters?) Some of the old storefronts were taken over by groups of homeless people, while others hosted shady, pop-up enterprises selling black-market chip technology that stole or mimicked Dynamica’s signal feeds.
Male and female beggars created obstacles in the street, stepping in front of the sparse traffic, holding up cardboard signs pleading for money to maintain their chip subscriptions and shouting offers to do anything for renewal funds. Aaron moved around them without slowing down. When stopped at red lights, Aaron had to keep an eye out for ambushes from quick-moving criminals – sometimes gangs of teenagers – who would try to break into the back of his truck and steal his equipment. The cargo area had a thick padlock, but that didn’t stop attempts to break inside. The police, hopelessly outnumbered by the rise in petty crooks, could not be counted on to show up and save the day. The ranks of law enforcement diminished as the chip’s popularity grew, and Aaron couldn’t help but wonder if more of L.A.’s finest were staying home to play cops and robbers in their head rather than place themselves at risk on the city streets.
Construction crews, too, had been abandoning their posts, resulting in stretches of roadway in a permanent state of partial shutdown. Trash pickup was equally unreliable. Aaron regularly swerved to avoid garbage and potholes, as if maneuvering through a minefield.
The most popular addresses on Santa Monica Boulevard belonged to Dynamica. The company’s nationwide network of chip installation clinics drew long lines of ticketholders on their big day, assigned to receive what the company’s marketing professionals touted as ‘The Nirvana Effect’. In less than two hours, a chip could be installed and linked to the satellite feed. Chip types came in a variety of offerings – from standard to premium to ‘gold’ – with an array of subscription packages to choose from. The first three months of service, known as ‘the starter kit’, came reasonably priced, and then subscription costs soared soon after to coincide with the inevitable consumer addiction.
Stopped at an intersection in front of a Dynamica clinic, caught in a rare moment of cross traffic, Aaron studied the happy, excited faces of customers lined up at the entrance, awaiting a life-altering change. This particular Dynamica clinic had taken over a large space that previously belonged to a Cineplex movie theater. You no longer had to go to the movies to see Spider-Man when it was much more exciting for Spider-Man to come into your head and take you on an adventure of your choosing.
Unlike the rest of Santa Monica Boulevard, this stretch of block boasted fresh paint, vibrant colors and a clean sidewalk. For a split moment, Aaron observed a cheerful, chatty woman in a long skirt who resembled his wife, Wendy. Her long brown hair and lively eyes reminded him of the way Wendy once looked, years ago, when she had the spark. It filled him with a profound sadness.
Aaron looked away and kept his eyes on the road for the rest of the drive to Beverly Hills.
Beverly Hills remained in better shape than its surrounding neighborhoods, but not anywhere near as lush and picture-perfect as in its recent past. The crumbling of Los Angeles was extending into the upscale areas. It started slow and gradual, then turned swift and deadly, like the spread of cancer. Environmental indifference had reached the wealthy, who retreated into custom designer pods in their homes, paying top dollar for the gold chip and unlimited signal access. For many Beverly Hills residents, showing off an extravagant façade to their neighbors no longer mattered.
Thankfully, a few people still cared about appearances, and some of them remained Aaron’s clients.
The saddest sight for Aaron, just before he reached Madison Reddick’s mansion, was the local high school. The once handsome campus with its surrounding sports fields had become a shuttered, abandoned building surrounded by stray trash, dead grass and silence. Once Dynamica introduced stay-at-home chip schooling – a huge cost saving for the state of California – physical schools began shutting down. The arguments in favor of the transition pointed to the fairness of every student receiving an identical education, from the same curriculum feed, regardless of neighborhood, family income or other differentiating factors. While it sounded promising in theory, a singular experience eliminated a diversity of instructors and teaching methods, while reducing the creativity and interaction enabled by a classroom setting. Experiential courses like art, music and theater that did not effectively translate into one-way chip downloads were dropped from standard education and halfheartedly made available as a smattering of ‘extracurricular’ activities.
Aaron drove past the homes of two former clients – residents who previously cared about their lawns, gardens and plant life and now no longer gave a shit – sighing at the ugly sights they had become. He finally reached the stubbornly beautiful and majestic estate of Madison Reddick. He pulled up to the front gate and entered the code that Madison had trusted him with, enabling Aaron to conduct his weekly maintenance even if the eighty-one-year-old entertainment industry mogul was not at home.
The entire trip, door-to-door, had only taken fifteen minutes. When Aaron first started serving Madison as a client, the drive took about forty-five minutes on a good day, and sometimes up to an hour if traffic was backed up.
Yet somehow, someway, this shorter commute felt longer to Aaron. He was too aware of his surroundings.
Aaron parked, opened up the back of his truck and got to work. Vibrant plant life decorated every side of Madison’s mansion, a leafy pleasure to the senses. Aaron trimmed and pruned, treated the soil, spread compost, cleaned up the flower beds, checked the sprinklers and irrigation control, applied protection from insects and disease, controlled the weeds and arranged some new life and color to brighten several areas that were beginning to bald.
After a solid three hours of work, as Aaron was packing his truck, Madison called to him from a tall, open window with billowing curtains and invited him inside for a glass of tea.
This had become a tradition.
Aaron understood it. Madison was lonely. Unlike most of the others on his block, he still craved human interaction.
Aaron smiled and waved his acceptance. He was tired and dirty, but you don’t say no to a man who provides a considerable portion of your income. And Aaron liked Madison – they were on the same wavelength, literally. They did not surrender their brainwaves to a chip.
“What flavor would you like today?” Madison asked Aaron as he entered through the oversized front door. Madison rattled off a selection of exotic teas, leading Aaron into a grandiose den surrounded with plant life, framed art and stuffed shelves of books, compact discs, vinyl, DVDs and Blu-rays. It was an unusual sight – no one collected physical media anymore.
Aaron made his choice – ‘white mango’ – and sat in a large, soft chair that immediately felt good against his aching back. He apologized for his sweaty smell, and Madison laughed. “If I wanted a pretty scent, I would chipfeed it to my neurons,” he said sarcastically. He was breezily indifferent to Aaron tracking dirt into his house. He didn’t care about their difference in class status or age. Madison, at least fifty years older than Aaron, was a retired entertainment executive who had done it all – produced hit movies, managed pop music superstars, created long-running television series and even dabbled with stage musicals.
Famous decades ago, Madison was now irrelevant in the modern era. The entertainment industry had essentially shriveled up since the introduction of the chip. People could experience the euphoria of an exciting feature film or music composition without enduring the actual art. Now it was as easy as the touch of a button on a mobile device.
Madison delivered a tall glass of cold tea to Aaron, who gratefully accepted it and took a healthy gulp. It hit the spot.
“Real human labor and work ethic,” said Madison, admiring his visitor. “I deeply appreciate it. I do. Everything is so automated these days. But you bring a personality, a passion, a creativity that a cluster of technology could never achieve. You’ve continued to stay off the chip?”
As Madison asked the question, he lowered himself into a nearby chair, which signaled this would not be a short conversation. He had trapped a real live human and would make the most of an opportunity for authentic dialogue.
“I will never put that thing in my body,” Aaron said. “It’s not how I want to experience the world.”
Madison sighed. “And I thought it was bad when everyone had their nose buried in an iPhone. We should have known it would get worse – far worse. But maybe I’m just a relic of the past, an old geezer clinging to physical things.” He gestured to his walls. “My art collection, my antiques, my Persian rugs and elegant furnishings. I spent so much money on tangible items that I can touch and feel, and now it’s all worthless.”
A sad smile crossed his face. He was still a handsome man. His clean-cut appearance was at odds with social norms. He was dressed in a maroon polo shirt, neatly pressed slacks and new loafers. He was freshly shaven with short, wavy gray hair carefully styled with gel. He wore round designer glasses with thin metal rims.
“I get it,” he said. “I understand what happened – to people, in general. Real life is shit. Who wants to face it? The crime and disorder, the sad state of politics, a spiraling economy, the lack of ethics and moral fiber. We’re all just wanderers. There’s no longer a sense of community, of personal values. No individual expression. Everything is a one-sided download. Nobody wants real feelings anymore. Our real feelings are bad. So we feed off fake feelings from Dynamica Incorporated. Order me up some exuberance!”
He stared into the ice in his drink and added, “We’ve lost the art of being human. We no longer communicate in any meaningful way. The young people, they don’t even know human interaction, they can barely speak in complete sentences. It’s like they still haven’t found their voice. This new generation – everyone is growing up fat and lazy. Do you know that for the first time, life expectancy in this country is declining? It’s a statistically significant amount. We’re living shorter lives. Of course proponents of the chip say, ‘Yes, it’s a shorter life, but higher quality because of the pleasures of the chipfeed.’ What total nonsense. We are our bodies, we must take care of our physical health.”
“I need to do more to stay in shape,” said Aaron. He was a former high school and college athlete, distanced from his peak condition.
“Your work keeps you fit, it keeps you active. You’re in good shape. I work out every day in my gym. I go on long walks. I do laps in the pool. That reminds me, anytime you want, you are welcome to use my pool. I mean it. I promise it’s more refreshing than the swimming options in the chipfeed. You know they have one for the backstroke? Such nonsense! You can do your own backstroke for real at my house.”
“Thank you,” Aaron said. He was indeed tempted to bring his swimming trunks next time. All of the public pools around L.A. had closed, and the public beaches were in poor shape.
“Despite all of this,” said Madison, “I do have hope. Sometimes things have to get really bad for the pendulum to swing the other way. I have my sources – and they say the government is in serious talks with Dynamica. We should see some intervention soon. I don’t know the nature of the conversations, but one possibility is more regulation, more oversight of this nationwide addiction and its health effects. Or maybe they’ll load it up with taxes. Make it less affordable. It’s too easy to be a do-nothing these days. You have people who are playing the system. They live on the government’s Survival Subsidy because it gets them a minimal lifestyle in the physical world: basic housing, food and health care, and everything else goes toward their Dynamica subscription.”
Aaron nodded, thinking of his roommates. He had witnessed their slow slide into a minimal, lethargic presence hooked on chipfeeds.
Madison stood up. He walked over to a large picture window with a scenic hilltop view of his Beverly Hills neighborhood. “Look at this. No people, no cars. Looks like a goddamned still-life painting. I think I’ll go stir things up. I’m going on a motorcycle ride. I’m going into the mountains and make some noise.”
“I should be heading out,” said Aaron, putting aside his empty glass. “Thank you for the tea.”
“Any time,” Madison said. “You’ll be back next Tuesday?”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
At the front door, Madison handed Aaron a black and white booklet. “Here. Take it. You should read this.”
Aaron accepted it and looked at the cover, which said Real Earth Movement in big letters with a simple graphic of a globe. The tagline underneath said Chip sense is nonsense.
“Yes, a paper product,” Madison said. “We operate off the grid. Do you think there’s any privacy online? Of course not. This is information about a group – a movement – of citizens resisting the chip technology. We’re advocating for a deeper appreciation of real-world experiences. People need to return to the purity of a natural life. We need to cut the connections with Dynamica and hit them with stronger controls. We can’t afford to accept this new norm. I hope you will join our movement. There’s information inside on where to find us, who we are. I’m one of the biggest sponsors.”
Aaron nodded. “I’ll look at it. I’m not one for organized groups…but I am sympathetic to the cause.”
Before Aaron departed, Madison gave him an abrupt, tight hug. “Thank you for being real, my friend,” he said.
“I like being real.”
“Perhaps we’re the last of a dying breed,” said Madison. “What happens when virtual reality becomes the new norm? And you and I become the alternate reality?”
Aaron had to shut his eyes for a moment. Madison’s innocent musing stung. It hit closer to home than the old man could realize.
* * *
On his way home, Aaron made his weekly visit to his wife, Wendy. He brought fresh flowers – red and pink roses. She could not see, feel or smell them, but he hoped that somehow she would sense their presence.
He signed in through the front entrance of Tranquility Stay, validating his identity with a thumbprint and face scan. He took the elevator to the seventh floor, walked a long corridor and reached her resting place. He punched in the code for patient #25176.
The room was small and narrow. It was just big enough for her see-through Living Casket, a tangle of tubes and wires connected to her vital organs, and a space for one to three guests to visit with her, observing her unchanging presence in suspended animation.
She looked peaceful.
Aaron set the roses on the clear casket, above her chest, where her arms remained folded.
Her condition made him feel sick inside all over again. She was dead and alive, stuck in a self-imposed eternal bliss or perpetual damnation, depending on whom you asked.
Once, many years ago, she had been full of life and energy. When Dynamica introduced the chip technology, she welcomed the opportunity to experience artificial sensations and emotions as an occasional recreation, despite her husband’s misgivings.
She got hooked and her personality changed. She was never the same again. She tried to go cold turkey but swung hard the other way. She abandoned her job, her friends and her family. Their marriage collapsed. She craved the chip’s effects above all else.
When she was off the chipfeeds, she was depressed. The declining state of the real world didn’t help.
She got hooked on the stronger, riskier, black-market chipfeeds. During one of their arguments, in a fit of rage, she told Aaron she wanted to escape into a chip high and never return. He yelled at her to go ahead, she was already halfway there.
She disappeared soon after. He went crazy trying to find her, fearing that she had gone on a binge and become unaware of her natural surroundings and possibly gotten hurt.
When she returned, she locked herself in the bathroom to avoid him.
Then she did the unthinkable. She downloaded an irreversible chipfeed, sold illegally, that sent her brain into a nonstop loop of ecstasy without ever waking up. This new ‘suicide drug’ dominated the headlines as authorities tried – unsuccessfully – to remove it from circulation. Thousands bought it.
Wendy entered her stimulated imagination and never came out.
As the number of victims of the ‘suicide’ feed piled up, enterprising new companies offered mausoleum-like storage spaces to keep these ‘patients’ on life support until a cure could be found.
Aaron looked down at his wife and wept. He felt the weight of being surrounded by hundreds of lifeless individuals in self-induced comas made possible by the ‘exciting advancements in technology’ brought to the population by Dynamica Incorporated. When his wife first underwent the chip installation process, he had been both upset and mildly intrigued. But after seeing the effects on her and others, he swore to never allow the evil, coin-sized demon into his body.
He hated it, even as it produced a thin smile across his wife’s lips.
“Cure? There’s no cure,” said a leading medical expert interviewed recently on the news. “You have two choices. You can pull the plug and bury them or allow them to live in a state of never-ending stimulation that, ultimately, is meaningless.”
