“It’s an experiment, thas’ all. Think about it. In today’s world, only someone who’s independently wealthy with no interdependencies could possibly pull this off. Think of it as an experiment.”
“It’s a stupid experiment.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s getting in the way of me and my once-removed relationship with Clancy.”
“No, not true,” I say. “I was done with Clancy before I decided to give up digital technology.”
“No, you weren’t. You broke off your engagement a month after Gwen attacked you.”
“Ah, okay, yeah. If you’re looking at it from a linear timeline kind of perspective, sure. But what I’m saying is, the same thing that made me want to give up dishital teshonomy is the same thing that made me want to split up with Clancy. I didn’t drop Clancy because I gave up dishital teshonomy, I dropped dishital teshonomy and Clancy because of something else that happened in my head.”
“Say digital technology again.”
“Dishital teshonomy”
“You need a water.”
“I agree, sir.”
Sluggo waves for the bartender, asks for two waters. Both for me, I assume.
“Is he okay?” the bartender asks.
“He’s got money,” Sluggo replies. The bartender shrugs and walks away. “Okay, champ. I think I got you a little too drunk to introduce you to the people I mentioned earlier. What I think we need to do is get you home. I’ll get an UBER… wait. You can take an UBER, right?”
“It’s just a car, right?” I say drowsily.
“Yes, I assume that the UBER I call will be a car. I could try BLADE, but I don’t think there’s anywhere to land a helicopter around here.”
“Yes, I can go with you in an UBER.”
“Fine, now pay the man and we’ll be on our way.”
I reach into my pocket and grab a handful of bills, stick them on the bar, fairly certain that it amounts to two or three times our actual tab, unquestionably certain that shuffling through the bills to achieve a more accurate total isn’t worth the effort.
When we pull up to my building, Sluggo reaches across the back seat and grabs my shoulder. “You’re going to remember our talk, yeah?”
“I’ll remember our talk, yeah,” I say, still drowsy but more sober than I was at the bar, “but I’m not getting back together with Clancy just so you can perv on her at close range, dude.”
“Selfish. But you’re drunk and I’m not asking for any conclusions right now. I just want you to think about it. I also want you to think about this social suicide you’re constructing by cutting yourself off from technology. You don’t want to keep going down that path, man. You’re not going to like where it leads.”
“I’ll think about it,” I reply, wondering what exactly there is to think about. We exit the car, Sluggo takes the elevator to his floor and I walk up the four flights to my apartment.
Just because I saved my double wide, double tall, brick-and-concrete box from the techno travesty that Gwen had designed, it doesn’t mean that I haven’t made some old school adjustments to support my habitation in the space. In fact, I’d bet that anyone under the age of twelve would think my living quarters are super cool. That said, anyone over the age of twelve would probably find it reminiscent of Hooverville, the make-shift shantytown built by unemployed and destitute people in Central Park during the Great Depression.
My place is huge, so it’s never going to look cluttered, but in each of the four corners there is a hodgepodge of dome tents and pillow forts, which is where I do my no-tech daily living. I have a maid service clean the place three times a week, for which I have to pay double the regular price, I think because of the creepy Howard Hughes vibe the place gives off – as opposed to the unconventional cleaning efforts necessary to address tents, sheets, sleeping bags and air mattresses. On the plus side, Clancy hasn’t asked to spend the night at my apartment even once since we’ve been broken up.
Chapter Seven
I’ve been asleep for minutes, or maybe hours, when I hear the echoing clangs of someone struggling with the crossbar handle mechanism on my enormous, unlocked, industrial steel front door. I quickly hit a button that turns on all the temporary wire-cage construction lights that still hang from my ceiling, thinking someone might be trying to break in and rob me. Instead of fear or outrage, this thought is accompanied by an amped up sense of anticipation. I would be so jacked to see the expression on a burglar’s face when he walks in on what he thinks is an ultra-lux penthouse apartment and finds this bizarro set up instead. If I still had my iPhone, I’d be positioning myself to capture a video of the intruder right now.
After about thirty seconds I realize that the person clanging around outside would have to be a fairly incompetent burglar because he still hasn’t figured out how to open the unlocked door. I walk over, grab the parallel handles, flip the latch, and swing the door inward.
“Oh, good. You’re back,” says my brother, Bill, handing me his two-year-old daughter Bitsy. His trouble opening the door obviously has less to do with coordination and more to do with the toddler in his arms. He looks shaken.
“I’m drunk,” I say, handing the toddler back to him.
“That’s okay. I’m stoned,” he says, handing the toddler back to me. Bitsy squeals, laughs like she thinks this is some kind of game. My brother gives Bitsy a look of utter disgust. I decide to hold on to Bitsy for the time being.
“It’s almost midnight,” I say, glancing at my wind-up watch. “Why’s she up?”
“She can’t sleep.”
“Why are you up?”
“She can’t sleep,” Bill snarls at his daughter, her tiny head resting on my shoulder.
“I mean, why isn’t Betsy taking care of her? You watch her all day, right?”