The nirvana effect, p.1
The Nirvana Effect, page 1
Brian Pinkerton
The Nirvana Effect
FLAME TREE PRESS
London & New York
PART ONE
A Few Years in the Future
Chapter One
Aaron Holt didn’t believe in alarm clocks. He woke up naturally with the sunrise. He kept his bedroom curtains open so light could spill across the room and declare a new day. He didn’t require electronic devices to jolt him with beeps or poke him with music. His body was synchronized with the rotation of the earth. The dawn refreshed him.
Aaron’s room was clean and orderly, a foundation of comfort before he confronted the usual spread of mess across the rest of the house. In the past twelve months, his roommates had reversed their priorities and embraced artificial reality over their true living conditions. They had mentally moved out of Los Angeles without physically relocating, reduced to grotesque, vacant shells anchored around the house, indifferent to their bodily needs and deteriorated appearances.
Aaron stripped and covered himself in a robe, an old habit that was probably no longer necessary given his privacy was almost certainly guaranteed. He stepped into the hall and walked past Scotty’s room on the way to the shower.
Scotty’s door was open, and he was sitting shirtless on his bed, fat hairy belly exposed, wearing a Dynamica eye cover illustrated with goofy, cartoony eyeballs. Creative eye cover designs had become a hot seller in recent months, one of the few physical items to see a rise in popularity as people spent more time with their ‘head in the cloud’, fulfilling Dynamica Incorporated’s marketing tagline.
The odor coming from Scotty’s room was inescapably sweat and urine. To extend consumer ‘chip time’, an enterprising company had come up with an apparatus that attached around the waist and over the groin to collect streams of piss and eliminate pesky bathroom breaks. Prior to retiring to bed, Aaron had witnessed Scotty deep into a chip adventure in essentially the same spot. It was apparent he had been on another all-night chip bender.
“Hell yeah!” shouted Scotty abruptly, as speckles of saliva flew from his lips. He was unaware of Aaron’s presence or anything else outside of his manipulated brainwave activity. His hands gripped an imaginary steering wheel, knuckles white, and Aaron concluded he was engaged in his favorite adrenaline rush: driving a supercharged race car through a twisty maze of outlandish landscapes painted in his mind.
Aaron was particularly annoyed with Scotty because Scotty wasn’t supposed to be a long-term housemate. The modest L.A. rental home initially belonged to just two tenants: Aaron and his longtime friend Desmond. When income streams decreased for both of them for different reasons (Aaron’s shrinking client list and Desmond’s deteriorating work ethic), they brought in a third roommate and mutual acquaintance, Larry, a struggling restaurant chef coming to terms with fewer people dining out. Larry then talked the others into letting his unemployed brother Scotty stay for a few weeks until he found new work, and ‘a few weeks’ became a permanent residency.
Upon securing a roof over his head, Scotty stopped looking for employment. He had twice seen his occupation replaced by automation – first as a worker at a manufacturing plant overtaken by robotics and then as a truck driver made obsolete by driverless highway transportation. Once he got hooked on the chip’s intoxicating escapism and found a way to sustain basic survival through government subsidies, Scotty placed his job-hunting efforts on an indefinite hiatus. His mental state slipped into a predominately passive mode, and his physical condition underwent a dramatic transformation; formerly physically fit and lean, his big frame now carried the droop of a soft, heavy paunch.
Aaron reached over and closed the door to Scotty’s room, gagging for a moment as he stepped too close to the authentic stink produced by artificial pleasures, a sour stimulation for those remaining in the real world.
The sloppy, messy condition of the bathroom increased Aaron’s ire. It was lazy and disrespectful, and Aaron knew that while his complaints would initially be met with a sympathetic response, no real action would ever be taken.
Aaron showered, suspecting he was also the last person to set foot in the shower. He brushed his teeth and shaved in the dirty sink. He returned to his room to slip into his gray gardener’s uniform and give a quick study to the day’s schedule of appointments.
Thankfully, he still had a decent number of wealthy clients with elaborate estates, people who remained committed to maintaining attractive properties. These people were willing to pay top dollar for the A-list treatment. They included celebrities and entrepreneurs, old money and new money. They put Aaron’s horticulture degree and landscaping artistry to good use.
While his original client base had dwindled, Aaron picked up new customers as larger competitors folded, unable to sustain themselves when interest in beautifying the physical world diminished. This allowed for an independent, sole proprietor like Aaron to survive as a niche business.
His income was crucial to the others in the house. At this time, he was the only person with a regular job, resulting in a lopsided contribution to the rent. During rare moments of real-world coherence, the other three vowed to find work and help cover costs, but these promises were left behind once they journeyed back into fantasyland.
As Aaron descended from the second floor, he encountered Larry sprawled on the steps, an obstacle to be stepped over. Scrawny with long limbs, Larry appeared to be unconscious, still wearing his designer eye cover (illustrated with a colorful fruit cornucopia). He gripped a mobile device that routed signals to the chip implanted at the base of his brain. This was typically how Aaron discovered his roommates in the morning – dropped in random places around the house, exhausted from lengthy, immersive sessions in their imagination that all but erased their awareness of their real surroundings. Sometimes they passed out while the chip was still receiving an onslaught of data, unable to turn off the feed, resulting in health risks. Heart attacks and shock-like trauma had been linked to overdoses, although the lawyers at Dynamica had skillfully avoided any direct correlation or liability. It was hard to sort out how much of the health risk was ancillary: the result of a population taking less care of its physical well-being through proper sleep, diet and exercise.
Aaron reached down to extract the thin, rectangular remote from Larry’s hand. As he did, he glimpsed the screen to see the sensation Larry had ordered up: Flavors. Chef Larry no longer indulged in the taste and aroma of real food preparation; he now fed off the simulation of these things as delivered via satellite and transmission towers to his sensory system. He had sworn to anyone who would listen that the chip experience was stronger and more pleasurable than the real thing. He could blend flavors, meticulously dial them up and down, and choose from a menu of monstrous proportions and variety.
Actual eating for sustenance had become dominated by Body Fuel bars and a selection of pills, bland intakes that were quickly and efficiently absorbed to keep the body operational, like filling a car with gas, while extravagant meal experiences primarily existed as a virtual treat.
Standing over Larry on the steps, Aaron turned off the feed to Flavors. Some of Dynamica’s feeds charged by the minute and Aaron doubted Larry had an unlimited plan – or could afford to run up his bill. He placed the remote back down near Larry’s hand. At that moment, Larry grabbed Aaron by the sleeve and shouted out loud, startling him.
“Don’t!”
Aaron pulled his arm away, irritated. “Give it a rest, Larry.”
Larry blindly scrambled to regain the remote. Aaron yanked the eye cover from his roommate’s face. Larry froze for a moment, staring at Aaron through thin, pained eyes unaccustomed to light.
“I said give it a rest,” said Aaron, tossing the eye mask down the stairs. “Get up. Go find some work. If you don’t start pulling your weight around here, I will have you evicted. Got that?”
Larry’s eyelids flickered in a mad twitch of blinking. He was still coming down from hours of stimulation high. “Banana…. Strawberries…” he said, nonsensically, still mentally consumed somewhere else.
Aaron descended the rest of the steps. Two roommates accounted for, one more to go.
Desmond was laid out on the living room couch with his pants down around his ankles. Aaron didn’t have to guess very hard at his chipfeed choice. He appeared to be sleeping, chest rising and falling gently under a wrinkled T-shirt. His hair was pulled into a man-bun. He was pale and shriveled, but not dead. Like the others in the house, he was in his late twenties, but looked older.
Desmond worked sporadically as an information technology specialist. As such, he had connections to a lot of gray market hardware and software that mimicked Dynamica’s chip sensations without requiring Dynamica’s pricey products and services. Desmond currently wore his sensory collar – a black, softshell device that circled his neck and communicated with the chip in his spine through an alternative delivery method. Desmond claimed the collar provided a boosted signal that the satellite couldn’t replicate and created superior sensations at an unrivaled strength. The collar had a small slit that accepted thin square ‘memory cards’ of stored experiences that could be purchased on the black market. While the public had been warned about ‘bootleg’ feeds, they became popular nevertheless as a lower-cost alternative that offered unregulated experiences that sometimes strayed into sick and twisted fantasies. While it was illegal to buy and sell brain feeds that simulated the act of rape or murder, thes e cards became widely available and difficult to intercept.
Aaron looked at the scattering of small black squares on the floor next to the couch. He worried about the questionable sensations they offered and the potential for underground products to have bugs and viruses that could damage the brain and nervous system. Earlier in the month, the local news had warned about black-market sensory cards that had been suspected of triggering aneurysms and strokes.
“That’s a load of crap,” Desmond had responded to the controversy. “Dynamica is a monopoly. They want to give everything else bad publicity. There’s nothing wrong with these knockoffs. They’re just cheaper, with some different offerings. If you’ve got a fetish, why not? It’s not hurting anybody.”
Aaron had long ago learned not to argue with chip users. Their numbers had grown to the majority of the U.S. population in less than eighteen months after the technology’s introduction into the marketplace.
“Unleash your imagination,” promised Dynamica. “Live your fantasies. Expand your senses.”
Aaron’s response was a firm ‘no thanks’. When everyone else was jumping on the bandwagon and having the chip installed in simple two-hour surgeries, Aaron flat out refused. Some people laughed at him and called him old-fashioned. They considered him a stubborn traditionalist, ridiculing him as they would somebody who still used a typewriter, made phone calls on a landline, or listened to compact discs.
“Get with the times,” they told him.
“It’s not how I want to live my life,” he responded.
Aaron entered the kitchen and made himself a real breakfast of pancakes with syrup, scrambled eggs and melon slices. He drank a tall, chilled glass of orange juice. He did not touch any of the smooth, tasteless Body Fuel bars or Instant Edibles nourishment pills that his three roommates gobbled for convenience. Aaron’s food, kept on designated shelves in a cabinet and in the refrigerator, was typically untouched by the others, even the former chef. They didn’t have the patience to cook, to clean dishes, to shop for groceries. They claimed flavors and tastes were far superior when experienced through the chip and that it made eating real food a stale and tedious exercise.
Sadly, as the roommates neglected to feed themselves real food, they also neglected to feed the house cat, Paddy. Aaron filled Paddy’s bowl with a generous heaping of cat food, and Paddy hungrily wolfed it down.
Aaron reached down to stroke the back of the cat’s neck, a smooth sweep of fur undisturbed by the awkward bump added to so many human necks. Paddy purred with appreciation.
* * *
Aaron and his roommates lived in a rundown twenties-era Spanish colonial- style home in Elysian Valley, a neighborhood in East Los Angeles nicknamed Frogtown after a legendary incident in the thirties where thousands of toads invaded the community following a hard rain.
While swarms of toads no longer posed a threat, slippery humans were commonplace, stealing from ignorant homeowners. Aaron kept his Ford F350 landscape truck and gardening equipment securely locked up in a detached garage on the property. Residential burglaries, often conducted brazenly in open daylight, had become an epidemic as the number of ‘zoneouts’ – people consumed in lengthy chip fantasies – skyrocketed. In some cases, items were stolen out of rooms while zoneouts lay sprawled in chairs or sofas a few feet away, unaware of anything happening in the real world.
Aaron kept his own lawn watered and neatly manicured – a compulsive routine – and it caused the house to stand out on a block of ugly, indifferent residences surrounded by dead foliage, sparse grass, uncollected litter and bald patches of dirt. Unfortunately, Aaron’s cleanliness sent the wrong signal to would-be thieves who deduced this well-maintained home must have some valuables inside. More than one burglar left the house disappointed and empty-handed. While the yard was attractive, the house’s interior remained a dump.
Aaron started up his truck. He headed to his first client of the day, a multimillionaire in Beverly Hills who still believed in preserving the beauty of the physical world. The eerily quiet Los Angeles streets continued to amaze Aaron, because he remembered a different L.A. from not that long ago, when traffic was constantly congested and everyone seemed to be on the move from one location to another. Now most work and pleasure took place inside the home, thanks to advances in technology that Aaron was convinced represented a regression in society. Everyone back to your caves!
He remembered the heavy traffic on game nights to nearby Dodger Stadium, before baseball went bankrupt from the loss of a new generation of fans. The relaxed pace of the game was intolerable for users of chip technology, accustomed to an accelerated rush of rapid-fire thrills.
Today, most of the other vehicles on the roadways belonged to transportation companies that had perfected driverless technology for home deliveries. The majority of bricks and mortar retail stores had become obsolete as most anything could be ordered online and arrive the same day. Residents only needed to step outdoors to report to a driverless truck stopped in front of their homes, punch in a code supplied during the transaction and accept packaged goods through a service window, much like an ATM withdrawal.
The autonomous vehicles were very good about not striking other vehicles, and when Aaron was younger and more mischievous, he would deliberately swerve his car in their direction to send them off the road and into palm trees.
Driving through the residential streets of Frogtown, Aaron couldn’t help reflecting on what could have been. The community had just started riding a development boom that replaced old bungalows and vacant lots with new housing and hipster restaurants, drawing a younger crowd and fresh energy. But when the chip technology took off, shifting allegiance from the physical world to a state of mind, the gentrification movement stalled, then died.
As Aaron drove by the L.A. River bike trail, which ran along the eastern edge of the neighborhood, he could remember a time when cyclists populated the community and groups of children played in the parks. These days, such sightings were rare. You were more apt to see packs of lost, wandering dogs and cats neglected by chip-addicted pet owners who no longer required a furry companion. The tactile experience of pet ownership had been efficiently recreated as a brain stimulation, without the nuisance of buying pet food and cleaning up poop.
Just before he reached Highway 101, Aaron caught a glimpse of something that caused him to do a double take. It was a common sight in his younger days but an unusual spotting in today’s Los Angeles: a jogger.
In simple shorts, T-shirt and running shoes, a cute young woman kept a steady stride on the sidewalk, arms locked in forty-five-degree angles, ponytail bouncing, cheeks red, eyes determined and focused. Aaron smiled. Here, in the flesh, was someone who still believed in the outdoors and exercise.
Dynamica offered a chipfeed that replicated the adrenaline rush of a good run, releasing many of the same endorphins, without subjecting the user to physical exertion and the side effects of blisters, shin splints, burning lungs and tired legs.
As he drove past, Aaron waved at her.
She glanced at him for a quick moment and did not wave back, facial expression unchanged.
“God bless you,” said Aaron softly, and he headed for the ramp that would take him to the highway.
Highway 101 was a breeze: open and uncluttered. Years ago, this stretch of concrete would have promised bumper-to-bumper traffic inching forward at an agonizing pace. This was one of the upsides of the chip phenomenon: fewer cars on the road, faster travel and a noticeable decline in smog and pollution. Deteriorating and faded billboards, long past their expiration date, still decorated the route, promoting forgotten movies and canceled television shows. The newest billboards mostly advertised Dynamica and the ‘mind-expanding’ selection of more than one hundred thousand experiences ‘just a finger poke away in the comfort of your own home’. With lightning speed, Dynamica had become the number one company in the world, surpassing its beginnings as ‘alternative recreation’ to become a way of life. On days when he was feeling angry and extra defiant, Aaron would flip his middle finger at the billboards, an old-fashioned physical gesture.
