Excerpt from Still Life

“Your call is extremely important to us. Please stay on the line and your call will be…”

The computer voice offers false hope. It’s not quite as discouraging as a six-year-old discovering tube sox under the Christmas tree, but nearly as disappointing as a nineteen-year-old woman discovering that her boyfriend had bought her an action figure on the cusp of her 20^th year. Upon Brenda’s less-than-delighted reaction, her nebbish fellow had proffered that it was: “a vintage Greedo, mint-in-box! With Star Wars action figures’ current market appreciation, this little guy could easily pay for our firstborn’s college education in 20 years!” Right then and there, she’d decided that they would never have a firstborn. She’d given the action figure to her sister’s son on his third birthday.

Kenny Loggin’s computerized rocking overwhelms the line again. She imagines a shiny, cylindrical android with overwrought, metallic 80s hair – possibly flock of seagulls-style – and a skinny tie embellished with a keyboard. It drones on about “kicking off Sunday shoes and getting Footloose,” before experiencing a cocaine-based malfunction. Yes, she decides, the robot is cocaine-powered – much like the 80s – and its owners had forsaken it in favor of their own needs.

The Post Woman sashays down the street in her officious blue shorts, stuffing various parcels into mailboxes. A sassy urban goth, her dread-laden head nods furiously along with her headphones, which lead into thin air for all Brenda can tell. Hence she assumes its source is something which plays MP3s. Shaking the dust from 20 years of memory, she watches as her older sister shuffles and weaves to her father’s Motown records; clasped by giant plastic earmuffs. A vast pig’s tail coils from her headgear into her parents chrome and wood stereo receiver. They were so proud when they brought it home from the electronics store.

Miniaturization is clearly a holdover from last century’s recent downsized tendencies. Her laptop computer contains many times the computational power of the slate gray multistory buildings full of wheezing, whirring computing power; those of her parents’ era. She assumes her next cell phone will handily overpower her laptop. It undoubtedly will make her old flip-phone jealous: likely coming standard with fully voice-activated functions, and perhaps dangling from her like an earring. Perhaps one day some mad genius will invent a phone which can be directly implanted into a person’s skull. She reconsiders, assuming it’s already in beta testing somewhere. The new owner of the cell-plant can operate it directly by thought – dialing and answering calls from their mother, sister or significant other with their mind. That’s all I need, she thinks, my mother genuinely inside my head; with rapid access to her thoughts, nagging and wheedling at her from within. Wonderful! She pictures her mother fused to a keyboard, eyes burning from monitor glare as she hacks into the central processing unit (i.e. her brain!); desperately seeking access to her innermost secrets. That train of thought also leads to images of burbling tissues around phone implant; irradiated from within and beginning their carcinogenic overhaul of her cranium. Shuddering, she’s uncertain which implication sounds more horrific – her mother inside her head or the cancer.

In the meantime, a charcoal shelf has slid underneath the sun. A moist, gloomy afternoon breeze flutters through the blinds.

“Thank you for your continued patience. Your call will be answered by the next available customer service representative…”