I could give you an exact breakdown of the chemical content of one meal here and the effect on your body, but you could do just the same in as quick a time. And it would be tailored of course. Your mites know the numbers you want and the numbers you don’t.
I remember the first human teacher I ever saw. I mean in the flesh, not on a screen. I was nine or ten. The elections were over and there hadn’t been as much violence as had been predicted. Dad was still up the morning after watching the results come in, with his friends from the Party. They looked glum.
"Pessimism of the intellect, pessimism of the will," he muttered when I asked if we’d won. I had no idea what he was on about.
I arrived at school as usual and instead of the screen there was an old man at the front of the class. Mr Griffiths. He told us that he’d be teaching us from now on. That the country had spoken. That things were going to change.
How wrong can you possibly be, whilst still being right?
I get here at seven thirty every morning and get the place set up. It’s a short crowded bus ride from the four bare walls of my studio apartment. Every day I watch the others, got up in styles spanning the decades, heading for their day at work. Each life a perfect arc, everything known, heading for a facsimile of life when nothing, comparatively, was known. A lived nostalgia for the sweet ignorance before the numbers.
I always smoke my first cig of the day on the walk from the bus stop. Routine. If I close my eyelids I can pull up the image of the smoke filling my bronchioles, overlaid with a stream of information on how the chemicals they lace these things with are destroying me. And how efficiently the mites are scrubbing them from me and repairing my broken cells. It’s an add-on to the pulmonary health, new release. Beta but pretty stable.
I choose this role as it gives me time to think.
No, that’s a lie. I choose this role because it doesn’t matter which role I choose.
Of course things changed. Nothing is permanent.
Dad was arrested six months after the election. I never saw him again. Mum wouldn’t let me go along on the visits. And then the visits stopped. He may still be alive somewhere for all I know. It was all so long ago.
The border was closed, with much rejoicing from certain sectors of society. Those of us who felt otherwise kept our heads down. Now was not the time.
To be truthful politics was only ever a reflex for me, something absorbed through listening to mum and dad and their friends, and like most reflexes it faded over time when not exercised.
Part of me knew all this could have been different. Another part of me pushed that thought deep down inside.
I lift the fryer to let the oil drain from the fries, tap it a couple of times on the frame, then tip them into a broad metal dish set below heat lamps and shake salt into them. I spill some on the floor.
I always get distracted by the light outside. This time of morning it cuts between a gap in the shops opposite, a record store circa 1982 and a mobile device shop somewhere in the late ’10s, and spreads its bright fingers all the way to the kitchen here at the back.
It reminds me of something. I’m just not sure what.
Not all technology was bad, of course. State approved tech became effectively compulsory. You didn’t have to have it, but you became a pariah if you didn’t, and with the borders closed, where were you going to go?
And it was always bundled up in a pithy rationale. Sterilisation mites to save the planet. Monitoring mites to ease the burden on the NHS. Communication mites because that’s just what the future is supposed to be like, isn’t it?
It’s late in the morning and she’s coming through the door. Her hair is blonde, long, pinned up in a bun. She’s wearing slightly too large polyester slacks and a fitted white work shirt with a black bra underneath. Her shoes are hidden beneath the flared ends of her trouser legs, but I guess they’d look worn. She’s an office temp, circa 2007–8. A little incongruous in our staunchly mid-90s establishment.
She stands in a puddle of light and scrutinises the garish menu display board. I watch the way she rubs at her eye, scratches her hip, shifts her weight as she feigns decision. I step up to the till point.
"I got this, Shirley."
Shirley jerks her head like she’s never heard anything so crazy. I realise I’ve never said anything to her before. She steps back and picks at her hair net. This isn’t part of the script. The woman steps forward, eyes still on the menu board.
"Uh, I’ll have a happy meal. I think."
She forgets to capitalise. I note my mites noting my elevated heart rate, the increased adrenaline.
"Happy Meal. You know that’s for kids, right?"
She looks straight at me, squinting in the reflected light from the deep fat fryer.
"Sure I do. I’m just feeling a little blue. Thought it might cheer me up."
Her eyes are grey. No, blue. No, grey.
"Um. It doesn’t really work like that."
She smiles. There’s a gap between her two front teeth. Small, but noticeable.
"I know."
I nod.
"OK then. One Happy Meal coming right up."
She smiles again.
"Nostalgia is an illness."
That’s what my dad always used to say. Mainly in response to the endless parade of well qualified grifters harking back to some imagined past perfection. I can see him shaking his head at what we do now, how we live our lives. Reality has become a parody of simplistic media tropes. Low budget period dramas minus the drama.
We’ll beg forgiveness from our children (optimistic) with the usual set of excuses. It happened slowly, through a series of seemingly inevitable and sensible small changes presented as a fait accompli by well-meaning rich white men in suits.
Why did we trust them? You’re referring, of course, to the several hundred years of history pointing to this particular group as being sociopathic ghouls intent on nothing less than the enslavement of the rest of the population I assume?
Well yes. I get that now. Many of us do.
We end up back at my place on my lunch break. The mites did the calculations, pinged one another, saw the match and we just went with it. Of course. Follow the numbers and it’ll all be fine.
She watches me pad to my bag to fetch my cigs. I hold the open pack out to her.
"Want one?"
She shakes her head and rolls onto her back. We lounge naked in the light from the velux, watching the smoke curl fractals against the blue, blue sky. I stub the cig in an old coffee mug and stand up to open the window a crack.
Half-hearted birdsong floats in through the gap.
"I got to get back."
She rolls on her side and watches me dress. The mites are reporting an increase in oxytocin, amongst other things. She shifts on to her elbow.
"You ever wonder about all this?"
I look down at her.
"Wonder?"
"How we can have anything and we choose this?"
She gestures with her hand to my room, my coffee mug full of cig butts. I stare at her then lift my eyes to look out the velux, across the rooftops of the city.
"The endless repeating. The roles. The mites. The numbers. I mean, who’s in charge here?"
I nod. I notice my mites noticing my heart rate climbing again.
"Yeah, I know."
And I kneel and kiss her and head back to work.
Much of what passes for dissent now is just more role play. From ‘strikes’ to re-enactments of Orgreave or the Carnival Against Capitalism. Carefully calibrated pressure valves.
Yet there are cracks. The Party was banned, members arrested, but dissent will find a way. You hear of things happening that shouldn’t happen. An underground. A loosening of the grip.