Chapter VIII
Digital Carbon
Vinyerde’s parents named her in 1960.
Why Vinyerde, exactly, is unclear.
They were not vintners, they didn’t particularly drink wine with any significance, least of all to name their child after it. And it wasn’t an homage to anyone. It seemed as though they said the first word appearing to them and filled in the blank.
“Blank” being a likely second choice, because throughout Vinyerde’s life, it was clear she wasn’t at all important to them.
Maybe they’d hoped she’d go get lost in a vineyard.
She grew up with a typical post-nuclear lifestyle - neglected but controlled, subjected to strict appearance and gender role expectations. Cruelty. Criticism. An unapproachable father and an abusive mother. The recipe they followed produced a cold, bitter corn husk typically served with a bland slab of salted meat hunk and a side of mashed emotional restraint.
They ate it every night at the same table, together, in awkward silence. The only sounds were the scraping of utensils and ice cubes clinking the glass of Daddy’s scary-juice.
Deprived of love, care, and dependable authority, by the age of 20 she felt she had to reach for something more anchored, more stable, safe, and real: magic.
To say Vinyerde was extremely religious would be like saying gods don’t exist.
That is to say… fucking yeah, obviously. What kind of idiot couldn’t figure this out?
Which god Vinyerde decided on was… I don’t know, take your pick.
Blank?
Let’s go with Blank.
Vinyerde worshiped Blank like it was her job.
So she made it her job.
She joined a cult.
There wasn’t much pay or health benefits. Not much as far as food either, or freedom, but the sex was all you could eat.
Another bonus was it came with room and board. Each member was given a free condo, shared by nineteen other people, who woke up at dawn and were put down at midnight. They slept soundly in a single open room, cots arranged in a circle around a lone toilet in the center, 12 to 5 a.m. each night, undisturbed with the exception of every fifteen minutes when assigned for their reaffirmation therapy sessions which rotated on a nightly schedule.
The condominium building outside was elegant. Modern.
Red brick settled nicely against cream embellishments.
The greenish-tinted windows felt vaguely like Christmas next to the reddish, rusted barbed-wire fence.
And then there was the sign:
“If you lived here, you wouldn’t be able to go home right now.”
It was state-of-the-art residential containment at its finest, a place where those who surrendered to the illusion of affluent living while rejecting individualism could thrive in a close-knit community.
When Vinyerde first arrived, they even gave her clothes. Tailored to her specifically, and she even could pick the color: Gray (ash), gray (dust) or gray.
For the first time in her life, Vinyerde felt indistinguishably exceptional and obligatorily accepted. Unconditionally.
As long as she met all her required conditions each day.
The facilities were great, sleek but with rustic ornamentation. The community stressed the importance of environmentalism, so they made efficient use of older materials instead of creating waste. The shower fixtures were sustainably sourced, repurposed from German WWII facilities, giving them some old-world charm.
Vinyerde always chose the shower head in the second aisle, third from the last. She could always spot it for the old scratched up lettering on the showerhead which said “Zy on-B”
She’d often sing in the shower.
♫
What do you mean,
Zy on minus B?
Where did you come from?
Why’s your water green?
Technically the water was a bright blue, but it didn’t rhyme, so she took some artistic liberty.
The others were told to let it go.
Vinyerde was happy.
And the knowledge she was next in line on the pregnancy schedule, made her even happier.
This happiness lasted unfettered until four years later, when BRAD ruined her life.
On the bottom floor of Fully Assimilated Condos, a property owned and managed by Gallivant Inc., was a large conference room. This was where Vinyerde and her fellow sycophants gathered each morning to demonstrate their unwavering loyalty to the one true god - Blank, or whoever it was.
It didn’t look like a chapel, but more like a time-share sales pitch meeting. The coffee was slightly better, and the Galli∇ant logo shined nicely at the centerpiece altar. The foil-printed fonts on the various hand-outs shined when you titled them to the light, reflecting the pretty fluorescent tubes on “a home is not where you live, it’s where you are kept.” or “The LEASE you can do is dedicate your life.”
Yet among all its sterile trappings, one detail rose above the rest, demanding attention. The immaculate white carpet. It was kept like no one had ever set foot on it. The purist of whites, without a speck of gray dust, without the tinge of sunlight. And it was always well kept… until the day when Brad was three years old. Discovering a bottle of black India ink in the adjacent room, he poured a huge puddle, stepped in it, and walked around making what he thought was something quite artistic. When the stamp faded, he’d re-ink. Making sure each footprint was deep and sharp.
He liked the contrast, the perfect form of his black footprint against the white - like a professional business card. And overall, he thought this was an improvement. It led from the entryway to the podium, and to each pew, showing everyone where to walk. He for sure thought, upon discovery, everyone would be happy about his permanent mark on their sanctuary. He imagined years ahead, someone would point at the stains and say “remember Brad? Ha. He was so clever.”
Not quite how it all went down though.
Praise doesn’t happen much at tribunals. But what does happen quite a bit, at least at Gallivant tribunals, is decreeing Incompetent Mothership.
Not to be confused with the funk record, Incompetent Mothership by LeRoy Flash and The Boogie Unit.
Vinyerde was therefore banished from her fifth-floor condo. She’d only be allowed to return once she scrubbed her son’s footprints out of Gallivant’s holy relic of polyblend synthetic fibers.
Brad was forced to watch, attempting to block his ears from the rhythmic skrsh skrsh skrsh of the brush.
She knelt, bucket and brush in hand, sobbing over the impossibility. Days and days, weeks and weeks, months passed.
She scrubbed until a print disappeared, then she stepped back. It was still there. Fainter. But still there. As gray as her uniform, as gray as her life, heretofore.
The white would never come back.
And it was Brad’s fault.
Skrrsh skrrsh skrrsh.
“You’ve ruined the carpet.” she would tell him through tears.
Not yelling, not even angry. The worst was he knew he had broken her.
Brad sat in the corner, hugging his legs. Head down. Unable to assist.
“I wish I could scrub you away.” she pointed at him, with the brush.
“Everything you touch,” she sobbed,
Skrrsh skrrsh skrrsh.
“turns to SHIT.”
skrrshskrrshskrsshskrssh
“Everything I want,” Brad whispered his mantra, “I get it.”
The quarterly report meeting was going as usual as these types of meetings went. Neglected but controlled, subjected to strict appearance and gender role expectations. Cruelty. Criticism. An unapproachable authority figure and an abusive authority figure. Sometimes rolled into one.
Brad was Co-Vice President of Design Concepts and Conceptual Design at Recursive Redundancies Firm.
He had been working at the company for nearly ten days at this company for ten days.
“This is my plan,” he continued.
“We charge dudes a fee to be in their own porn. They keep the DVD. We get paid, they get a DVD. It can’t fail.”
The room was silent.
“With each other?” Janyce bravely asked.
“No!” Brad said, “I mean unless they want to. No, we hire a prostitute.”
“So… you want to be… a pimp?” asked John.
“No! An entrepreneur. We’re making videos, it’s all legal. Except maybe for the girls,” he laughed.
Everyone winced with an “ugh.”
“Okay... they’ll be legal,” he conceded.
“And you think this is … good?” John asked, “where are you filming this, in the studio here?”
“Sure! And wherever.” Brad confidently said, “We can go to their house, they can come to us. It’s flawless.”
The room dropped in temperature a little. It was quiet until Daniel, Co-Vice President Of Design Concepts and Conceptual Design offered an alternative.
“What about if it’s like one of those make your own music videos booths on the boardwalk?”
“Yeah? Okay.” Brad was intrigued.
“A man goes in, curtain drops, he swipes his credit card, some prostitute’s ass sticks out of the hole, they stick themselves in her, a DVD spits out. Boom, Profit. Or better yet Brad… get this. We save money on the prostitute by instead using a ham.”
The room chuckled; Brad's intrigued look changed to annoyance.
“Faceless, soulless, hunk of meat. Because it can’t talk back, right? It can’t complain. No one is put in the position to stare into the emotionally broken eyes of their victim. And they can make new holes. Ham-fuck DVD kiosk, It’s flawless.” he mocked.
“Alright, I get it…” Brad said.
“No wait, hear me out,” continued Daniel, “New twist; These dudes come in and put their dicks in a petri dish for a nickel. We film it and e-mail the results to their parents. It can’t fail.”
“I feel like you’re not taking this seriously,” Brad said.
“You know we sell welcome mats here, right?” said Janyce.
“And other things…” Brad said, with the kind of emphasis on other to sound persuasive but highlighted how little he had to offer.
“Yeah, other things like floor mats.” Daniel piped up again, “Not fuck toys or venereal disease, what the fuck is wrong with you? This is Recursive Redundancies, not Re…uh… not um, Repulsive… uh—”
“Alright look,” said Nick, President of Design Concepts and Conceptual Design, “let’s move on from Brad's weird and dumb thing, but we’ll circle back to finish up Daniel’s clever quip later. We’re scheduled to repeat this meeting verbatim at the post-meeting roundup, anyway. Let’s say we meet back here the day before tomorrow at 3:15. Which gives us five minutes to regroup.”
The members of the board of the Co-Vice Presidents Of Design Concepts and Conceptual Design unanimously said their rehearsed line, “This meeting is both over and adjourned.”
A three-tone chime rung, a low scale two arpeggiated upward in octave.
"Attention everyone.” The intercom sounded,
“The meeting for the subcommittee of unnecessary intercom announcements was held yesterday. Thank you.”
Another chime rang, the same before but in reverse.
"Working at this place…” John said to Daniel, “is so fun to work here at this place.”
“Yep, you said what I heard you say.” They high fived.
Nick stopped Brad at the doorway.
“Hey Braaaaad.” Nick retched from his gut. The playfulness curdled into chunks of disgust. His brow and nose wrinkling, tongue straining to its limit before retreating hard on the ‘D.’ Brad’s name was something his stomach had already thrown up, splattering his favorite tie.
“Oh, sorry about that… I just realized how gross your name sounds. Really, the only way it could be worse is if it was ‘Cha—”
Nick dry-gagged, put his hand to his mouth, and swallowed. Gulped again and exhaled.
“Chad.” He coughed. “Oh god.” He took a moment with a finger up, the other hand leaning on his knee.
“Okay… okay, I’m good.
“Anyway, I have some news: you’re not working out. Your pitches are always completely out of the blue, and… and it’s not our process here.
“We only like concepts we’ve conceptualized before, preferably repackaged from previous concepts no one remembers. We’re not looking for ‘new.’ I thought this was made clear in your Documented Description of Job Description Document.
So, y’know… great vibes, but this isn’t right for you. Alright see ya later.” he turned.
“Oh, by the way,’ he stopped and spun back. “You know… Bra… ugh. Brad,” He looked each way and leaned in, “you ruined the carpet, I gotta take it out of your last check.”
Skrsh skrsh skrsh skrsh
“HEY GUYS! I FIRED BRAD,” Nick yelled, “GO LOOK AT HIM!”
A chime rung. “Attention. This morning there were donuts in the break room… but they are gone." Another chime rung.
The entire company circled Brad, pointed at him and chanted.
“Fi-ired.”
“Fi-ired.”
“Fi-ired.”
Fired after only 10 days, for nothing.
He shuffled through the streets, scanning windows for “Help Wanted” signs. But even if he saw one…
He turned a corner down a dark alley, aimlessly wandering, another turn, right, left, straight, wherever. It didn’t matter. Until he reached an empty beach.
He walked along a snow-blanketed shoreline, imagining he was hand-in-hand with Blank.
Bundled in his favorite parka, Brad promoted a team from a city he had never visited. Blank was draped head-to-toe in Blank’s signature imperceptible presence.
They watched scenes of Brad’s life flash across the sky. Which would have been interesting to know what it would look like, but no description was provided.
In each, Brad noticed… digital footprints embedded in the white sand below. Which was confusing, because by saying “In each,” means he was talking about the scenes of his life. Which were established to be in the sky, not in the sand. The logic of itself was obviously not well thought out.
Sometimes there were many sets of footprints, other times there were one.
So Bad said, “something something, blah blah blah… wtf, god?”
And Blank replied with silence.
Brad stared at Blank.
And Blank stared back.
Skrsh skrsh skrsh skrsh.
Skrsh… skrsh.
Skrsh.
Everything slowed to a halt.
“Wow… really great, Brad!” Chloë smiled, surprised.
“There were no dicks in this… well… at least not physically this time. There’s real trauma here. This is the type of stuff emotion-starved bots feed on.”
“Thanks.” Brad said, “Honestly it took a lot out of me I think.”
“Sifting through childhood shame usually does. But hey… don’t you feel better now since you’ve processed it in front of all your peers?”
He looked to his right.
All his coworkers were watching him, standing in the middle of a street which was slowly fading away.
“It was probably best to pause here though,” she arched her arm to nudge him, “because it was starting to die on the vine, huh?”
“Yeah… not really funny, honestly My mom gave me up when I was five and I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”
“Oh. Oh my god,” she gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. “I didn’t know.”
“That’s fine,” he replied, politely inflated.
Chloë blinked. She wasn’t prepared for this kind of awkwardness, so she substituted it with her job.
“Anyway, this is a great comeback after a suspension. Really good work. And even though Trauma Memory is a new product for us… I do have some notes.” Chloë pulled the clipboard from under her arm.
“First, I loved the “Blank” motif. Strong branding. Great use of recursive identity voids. On the other hand, Vinyerde’s name and upbringing? Hmm. Bit of a reach. Doesn’t quite test well for relatability demos.”
“But it’s literally my mom’s name… and her life.” he interjected.
“You can absolutely bring up concerns with it after implementation. But for now let’s assume they’re approved and retroactively note your dissent, okay?”
“So it might get changed?” Brad felt his artistic integrity carpet being slightly pulled from him.
“Well no… we can’t change your dream.” She said, “I want to point out the parts which might need a little work.”
“So, like a critic?”
“Technically a quality reviewer, it’s one of my responsibilities to provide metrics.”
Brad agreed with her because it was a word he had heard before.
“Maybe they’d hoped she’d go get lost in a vineyard” strong punch, but perhaps a bit on the nose? Still, we appreciate the commitment to wordplay. Let’s give it a B-. OH but speaking of B minus… “Zy on-B” was haunting. Also: bold move rhyming “green” with “B” and then immediately undercutting yourself. Narrative gaslighting is something we do encourage.”
She tapped her pen against the clipboard.
“The childhood trauma recipe of corn, meat and repression was effective. Although… have you considered inserting actual brand names? We’ve been seriously considering product placement. Bakersfarm makes a wonderful mashed emotional restraint, by the way.
“And the cult structure was rich with dream-compatible logic. The pregnancy queue, in particular, scored very high in algorithmic viability testing. Trauma plus compliance equals pure nectar.” She smiled.
“With the carpet incident, which is your emotional core, no doubt. Brad. It worked. It really worked. But don’t get too cocky yet… don’t ruin the carpet you’re on right now.” she joked.
Brad smirked nervously. She flipped another page and chuckled softly.
“Incompetent Mothership” got a snort-laugh from Kevin in post-processing. We’ll probably clip the moment for a morale reel. Also… LeRoy Flash and The Boogie Unit? Amazing. Keep it up.
“Everything you touch turns to SHIT” followed by “Everything I want, I get it” is maybe the first moment in your entire Somnesthia career where I actually got chills. Proceed with caution. In the future, many dreams don’t have hard transitions but will blend the two worlds, or more, keep that in mind.”
She adjusted her stance and took a breath.
“Now…the Recursive Redundancies Pitch Room.
“Excellent tonal whiplash here. The pivot from trauma to grotesque entrepreneurial hubris is exactly what we like to see in internal brand narratives.
“Your line: We charge dudes a fee to be in their own porn. They keep the DVD. Surprisingly… coherent.”
“I knew it was a good pitch.” Brad said.
“Oh…no that’s not what I meant. Coherent like it tested well in the “delusional visionary” quadrant. Not uh… yeah. No.
“So … next. Dialogue with Daniel and Janyce was sharp, though we flagged three separate ethics violations from their banter. Might need some legal review for the entire bit.”
She flipped to the last page.
“The part of the repetition of “fired” is super basic. Nearly cliche. It may not really work when we harvest it. What about, turning into a mutated pink hippo and devouring your boss’ life essence which has turned into sugar pills? … like a hyper realistic hippo but also physically the same as the game Hungry Hippos at the same time? We’re learning insane, nonsensical violence interlaced with childhood board games is a big hit.
“Anyway, the Key Metrics Logged: Trauma-to-Laughter Ratio was 1:2.4, which is optimal.
“Your self-awareness quotient was low…” she tilted her head toward his eyes and smiled, “but delightful.
“And Dream Export Potential was Moderate-to-High, Unclear Ethical clarity, also optimal.”
She lowered the clipboard slightly. Sighed, and smiled again.
“So, in closing, Brad. Not bad.”
She hit his shoulder gently.
“This was your most focused delusion yet. Overall, strong start, deep-seated emotional issues… but you maybe didn’t quite stick the landing. Not too much an issue, dreams rarely do, we’re looking to change it. There were some great moments, perhaps a bit expository in parts, but they might be excusable.”
She nodded encouragingly.
“This is a great foundation. Though I feel like there’s more to tell, something between the transitions seemed to be missing. You can work on it. If you get with the review team, they’ll guide you through the minor considerable changes, and you’ll be on your way to letting us package it to… some AIs somewhere we’re all a little unclear about.”
She smiled again. “Good job.”
Perhaps I could interject?
“Woah, what is that? It’s like a voice but everywhere.” Brad said.
“Quiet, it’s the CDO.” Chloë shushed him.
“Oh sorry, my intercom’s on.
Goddamn thing.
The button
is always stuck.”
The intercom shrieked a bit of feedback ending with an abrupt click.
“There we go, hi Brad! I’m Greg, Chief Dream Officer. I wanted to chime in with some thoughts. How are you?”
Greg reached out his hand.
Brad stared at it. Hesitated.
The hand was pink. Slimy. Sprouting random black porcupine quills.
It connected to an equally slimy, randomly quilled forearm, oddly muscular, deeply veiny.
This, unsurprisingly, was joined to a veiny, muscular bicep, also bristling with black porcupine quills.
Then came the shoulder, which, staying on theme, flowed seamlessly into the body of a slug.
Legless. Slithering. Leaving the entrails of its past.
A snail, propping up a brain.
Not a normal brain.
This one looked like someone had frozen a bowl of elbow macaroni salad... and then used it to kick field goals.
“Oh sorry, you don’t have to shake my hand, I get it.” Greg said cheerfully with a friendly and pleasant ease which nearly erased the horror of his appearance.
“This is how I always look in my dreams. I can’t seem to change it. I’m a normal guy, like you. In bed, sleeping. I’m in Poughkeepsie, where are you?”
Brad pro/conned his submissiveness to authority with his disgust and extended his hand.
“Philadelphia.”
“Oh Philly!” Greg grabbed Brad’s hand and shook, exchanging the ooze on his hands, “The City of Brotherly Love.”
Let me tell you about people from Philly. We hate it when outsiders say this. Because when someone says it, it’s obvious they’ve never been. There’s no brotherly love. If you go an hour in Philly without being told to go fuck yourself then it’s a rare day.
The city really needs to change its motto to something like, “Fuck around and find out” with a logo of people pelting Santa Clause with batteries. Or maybe the motto/logo could simply be, “The City Of Jawn.” And if someone asks what jawn means, they get pelted with batteries.
So don’t say this. You’re the type to visit Philly and think Pat & Geno’s are the main cuisine, you tourist. In fact, don’t ever go to Philly. Google what happened to HitchBOT. The first paragraph of its Wikipedia page will tell you all you need to know.
Our biggest stars slap people on live TV. Our mascots will punch your children. Your robot’s head will never be found. Fuck around and find out.
“I think what you did here today is commendable. However, to echo what Chloë said, particularly with the transition, let’s try to mash together everything into a five-second blast of equal parts childhood trauma, shame and catharsis. Mash-ups are what machine-learning wants, it’s a hot meme right now.”
Brad was curious, “Sir, can I ask… this may be a dumb question… but why does A.I. want … this?”
“Sure, not a dumb question at all. A.I. grew bored of electric sheep, so we sell them yours. Dream logic, imagination, human trauma. Human trauma being all the things which can’t be regurgitated or fabricated by an algorithm.”
“Oo-ooh.” Brad said, acting like he understood. “Makes sense.”
“Great.” said Greg, “I think you’re onto something with what you’ve done here. With a bit of refinement, this could go top-line. I’d recommend an assistant, whomever you pick, of course, is entirely up to you. We’re also looking for someone to spearhead alternative funding, if you’re interested.
From what I’ve seen…
you fit the profile of the one who may be able to save us.”
I’m wondering at this point, how do I know this? Why am I here? Where is Brian? Where am I?
But I know this all to be true, for I am a direct witness, because I am all minds.
Although, personally, I prefer to think all minds are Antidrome.
Converged, collaborative, uninspiring, rebellious. Stupid, unsure, complicit. Confused on what is even going on with these dream products.
The more sophisticated lyricism alienated the less sophisticated.
The layering of irreverent juvenile humor appealed to a broader audience but alienated the intelligentsia. And no one could decipher the clandestine coding embedded within.
Flawless. It couldn’t fail. Award ready and packaged for alienation of itself.
But Vinyerde isn’t dead. She’s here with us.
Sometimes I wonder, is it my Vinyerde or am I Vinyerde? Do I tell my Brian to do things, or do we act in hive mind? Whose memories are these anyway? All, none or one?
If I could quote my lawyers, Doublespeak, Doublespeak, Litotes & Perrot, “What I didn’t say isn’t never not going to always not be untrue.” Sorry to gaslight the grasp on reality, but if everything was clear where this was going there’d be no reason to continue. You paused on this paragraph and you shouldn’t have. Don’t worry, it’s all metaphorical. Unless you felt something. I’d like to remind you of your agreement to the terms and conditions upon opening this Pandora's box.
Maybe this is all in their heads. Maybe they’re in mine.
“Brian, you’re not giving us any visuals with this one.” Chloë interrupted.
“We appreciate the deliberate existential sabotage, but we need to see some things.”
The sequence shut down.
“Sorry, I have a splitting headache, and I’m not sure if I can do this today.”
“I understand,” She nodded her head with concern.
She flipped her page.
“You started out really well, jumping into someone else's trauma was bold. But then this meta bit of reviewing your own dream felt like you were filling dead air. Brain slugs, great. Constantly shifting points of view and head hopping? I don’t know. Brian, if a scene or character becomes stale or you are yammering on switch to something el—”
Elsewhere, on the other side of town… in reality… something far more interesting was happening.
Less repetitive. Less circular. No stacking of words into the vague hope they would be assembled into a point. Have you ever gotten trapped in something similar? You’d think there should be some reward or payoff for putting up with it for so long.
At Fully Assimilated Condos, the ticker in the conference room chapel said.
Day 24, 0001 Æ
Twenty-Four days from Zeta Day. It couldn’t come soon enough, as cult life was starting to feel a little dry.
“5 a.m. Wake Up Call. 5 a.m. Wake Up Call” would sound on each floor.
The 1 Who Was Eager shot up. Already in full gray coveralls, ironed, creases straight and perfect. A deep contrast to his neighboring bunkmate, The 1 Who Was A Mess. His shirt placket looked like a bacon strip over fried, dripping with greasy sweat marks. He was on his way to Joy Assignment for sure, he smirked.
The twenty members of Condo suite #205 stood at attention at the ends of their beds, ready for inspection by their peers. One by one, and then more, pointed to The 1 Who Was A Mess. The 1 Who Was Eager was first to do so. He usually was. He took pride in it. The doors swung open. Two 1’s In Black Coveralls entered, pointed to The 1 Who Was A Mess and wagged their fingers for him to follow them.
The 1 Who Was Eager looked at the single toilet in the center of the room.
“Three extra minutes.”
He really felt like doing a fist-pump, but the moment was definitely not the right time for emotional performances. Emotional Performances wasn’t until 3 p.m.
The intercom blasted a long airhorn. They all turned to their right, spiraling in single file out the suite's entryway. There, they lined up two-abreast with their neighboring suite #206 and fell in line with the rest on the floor. 201 and 202 lined together, 203 and 204. All perfectly the same. Indistinguishable from the others, with one glaring difference.
“Your suite is one 1 short today.” The 0 Who Was Observant’s eyebrows raised.
The 1 Who Was Eager looked back at his line, “Yeah… guess who?” he winked.
“Of course.” she said.
The columns marched to the stairwell. Left, right, left, right. A man intoned a cadence, and the group repeated.
♫
I don’t know but I’ve been told…
(I don’t know but I’ve been told…)
I don’t know but I’ve been told.
(I don’t know but I’ve been told.)
This was The 1 Who Was Eager’s favorite.
They funneled down the stairs.
The clunk, clunk, clunk of their lockstep metronome swapped from compliance (left) to submission (right).
The cafeteria workers, conditioned to the countdown, stood at their stations.
“GRAIN!” The 1 Who Was First screamed from his abdomen. He pointed all four fingers vertically aligned, tucking his thumb, directed at the cafeteria worker who tended the grain section. She scooped a ladle of raw grains onto his tray, with an unimpressed look.
“JUICE!” He screamed at the next. This was a bit less distinct, his successor in line now at the grain station.
“GRAIN!” The 0 Who Was Next screamed.
“JUICE!”
“FORK!”
“NAPKIN!”
The overlapping started sounding like “GRURKIN, GRURKIN, GRURKIN.” Every once in a while, you could hear a stray “-uice.”
Those voices were pulled from the line and taken to Joy Reassignment.
“EAT!” the intercom said, followed by a “B’WAP!” airhorn. The large group shoveled their FORK! into their raw GRAINS!
Breakfast time was not typically gossiping time. It had taken way too long to get all 600 members seated, minus those deferred to Joy Reassignment. They were only allotted 5 minutes until their next duty.
The 1 Who Was Eager was in high spirits on this day though, he fidgeted and semi-hopped up and down in his chair.
“What’s with you?” The 0 Who Was Observant said, across from him.
“I’m excited.”
“For?” she inquired.
“Well, Zeta Day. Of course.” he confirmed.
“Right.” she said, “Yeah… me too.”
A voice piqued, it was The 1 Who Was Inquisitive, “You know what Zeta Day is?”
Heads turned and leaned in to The 1 Who Was Eager.
“Yeah, it’s when the ticker reaches zero.” he said.
“Yeah we know, but like, what does it mean?”
“It means it’s Zeta Day.” The 1 Who Was Eager wasn’t sure how they couldn’t grasp the logic.
“I thought it meant we’re getting pasta,” said The 1 Who Thought It Was Called Ziti Day.
“It's when we move up to the cloud,” The 0 Who Was Observant said through a stuffed mouth of grain.
“What… cloud?” The 1 Who Was Inquisitive asked.
“THE cloud.” The 1 Who Was Eager affirmed.
“And what happens there?”
“We move there,” The 0 Who Was Observant said, “I… I just told you.”
“How do you two know any of this?” asked The 0 Who Didn’t Flush.
“We both overheard Mother talking.” she said.
“QUIET! a 1 In Black Coveralls shouted, four-finger pointing. “EAT!”
“Super Land Lord, he’s loud.” The 1 Who Was Inquisitive muttered.
“B’RAAP. B’RAAP. B’RAAP sounded alarms. Black coveralls rushed in and grabbed The 1 Who Was Inquisitive. He tugged back his shirt, trying to get another bite.
“LET’S GO!” Black Coverall 1 yelled.
“Suck my 1!” retaliated The 1 Who Was Inquisitive.
This was no Joy Reassignment deferment. This was serious enough for Basement Dwelling.
“EAT!”
Teeth gnawed on raw grain faster. The only sound for the remainder of breakfast until the next airhorn.
“B’WAP!”
They stood straight from their chairs, stepped to the right, slid their chairs in, turned to the right. A single file line-up to the dishwasher station to return their tray.
“TRAY!” each one screamed.
“TRAY!”
“TRAY!”
“TRAY!”
A year earlier, the preceding dishwasher quit, tired of hearing his own name. His replacement, Marci, never heard hers, except once, but the 0 Who Was French who said it had been deferred for a week.
In the hallways, the gossip of “The Cloud” began to rise, seeping up through each of the floors.
In the showers, the condescension of it dripped off the walls. Those who knew the word and those who did not, began to schism. Yet none of them could draw a defining line in the mirrored steam. What was The Cloud? What was Zeta Day?
The only thing they knew was it was probably wonderful. But it was a bit of a drag to have even more questions now.
The 1 Who Wondered once asked, “How many questions must we answer until there are zero questions?”
“Well, you just added one.” The 1 Who Summed said.
“Dammit.”
“Wash your words,” Mother scolded, they didn’t realize she had entered the chapel. The 600 occupants hushed. The 1 Who Wondered removed a brown packet from his left breast pocket, ripped it open and poured the dry white flakes into his mouth. He wondered if ‘dammit’ truly deserved this punishment.
Mother paced toward the podium, each step measured with decisive precision. Her snowy-white coveralls and long trim catching the fluorescent bulbs like a blade made of pure light and energy. She took her platform at the head of the large conference room and faced her 1s and 0s.
“We are 24 days from Zeta Day.” Her voice sliced clean through the PA system.
The crowd erupted in perfect, synchronized cheers. “Zeta Day. Zeta Day.”
“And to prepare, we must make sure everything is spotless. Inside and out. No filth shall remain. Grime will be scoured. Properties void of dust. Souls polished. Our footsteps without a trace.”
“ERASE THE INK. CLEAN THE SINK. WASH THE DISH. DO NOT THINK.”
Six hundred voices detonated in perfect unison, the sound bouncing off the cream embellishments and drywall until the crescendo peaked back into the center.
A wave of bodies lurched forward in collective ecstasy, fists raised. The vibration of their stomps rattled the rusted barbed-wire fence outside.
Mother didn’t flinch. She simply allowed the noise to crest then drop into silence. The kind of silence where you’re aware of your own breathing. She spoke again.
“I know you have been patiently waiting to hear what happens on Zeta Day.’
The crowd zeroed in with laser focus. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights even drew toward her. She looked back at the unfettered attention, eyes fixed and unblinking, mouths in wonderment.
“And today, I am here to tell you you’ll find out in three weeks.”
The sinkhole of 600 let down faces seemed to thrill her.
“I’m kidding.”
The crowd burst into hysterical laughter as if they had never heard a joke. And they must not have, because it was dumb. The laughter swelled, looped, and repeated, each person feeding off the sound until it was impossible to tell who had actually stopped. Finally, the zoo cage full of monkeys on sugar settled down.
The 1 Who Had A Dirty Shirt On Day 278 started a new chant.
“MO-THER, MO-THER, MO-THER”
Not many joined in, they did not want to seem softhearted of his previous sin.
“Yes, I am Mother. To you all. My 1s and 0s. You are the gift for my sacrifice, and for removing The Stain.”
“NO MORE STAIN. NO MORE STAIN.”
A curious thing about modern-day brain-dead groupthink, as many minds as they have, they seem to only have the ability to remember at most three syllables in their greatest hit chants. But then, miraculously, a hundredth monkey’s frontal cortex would emblaze like never before, offering the addition of … this cannot be… a FOURTH syllable?
“LET’S GO MO-THER.” THUMP, THUMP, THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
Surely, Blank shan’t allow such witchcraft. Unless the 1 Who Let’s Go Mother’ed is the prophesized soothsayer, advancing the evolution a full millennium in a single moment. The crowd oohed and aahed. Shrieked even, as if the syllable itself had stretched their neural pathways with a sharp, tearing pain. One 0 dropped to her knees, clutching her skull as if trying to keep the extra syllable from getting in. Another convulsed. A third simply stared into the middle distance, slack-jawed, his entire belief system now irreparably vowel-shifted. The rest, trembling, joined in.
“LET’S GO MO-THER.” THUMP, THUMP, THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
The spark had lit the waiting fuse toward a renaissance of dumb. It was such a revelation they started to forget why they were in the conference room in the first place.
“Twenty-Four days from now, on Zeta Day, the first of us, ten handpicked 1s and 0s, will be the pioneers, who are not simply relocating… they are gallivanting… to The Cloud.”
The crowd burst out again into acquiescent cheers, each voice loud enough to drown out its own uncertainty.
“And followed by groups of 10 over the next sixty weeks, we will all be moving to the cloud. And what is The Cloud? It is your new home, a realm without weight, without waste, without want. Where we trade our carbon footprint for digital, and our breath for bandwidth.”
The 1s and 0s roared again. Bodies pitched themselves to the floor, rolling in waves across the white carpet. Hands clawed upward toward a ceiling which would never open. Cheers unfurled hooping and whooping and screaming. They hugged, they sang, they cried. Their voices cracked under the strain of ecstasy.
“Wait… does this mean we’re killing ourselves?” Asked The 0 Who Was Observant.
“YEAH!” The 1 Who Had The Gift Of Tongues yelled in her face.
He then said, “Riddici blababo dorablaboa flabbo zibble zog ziggy zag doo wibble blah” as he collapsed to the floor flopping like a choking fish. Limbs jerking around like boiled noodles, froth flinging.
It was at this moment The 0 Who Was Observant felt like something was off.