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It’s the third time this week that I’m taking my break. I’m reading a spare newspaper left by another staff member nice enough to not clean up after themselves.
The bustle of breakfast is over and the people coming for lunch have yet to arrive. The rest of the tables are wiped down, but a single stain remains on the one at which I’m eating.
“I’ll clean it later,” I think.
From above the upper edge of the rustling paper I notice a lady entering the diner. The doorbell jingles like it does for anybody, but I know instantly that this lady isn’t just anybody. The sound signaling her arrival is special: sharp like glass and fresh like a green apple cut into wedges with a big knife. Unlike most customers here, she is well dressed and obviously in control of herself. I look outside, expecting to see a motorbike or a range rover in the parking lot. Contrary to my expectations, the parking lot is as deserted as my thought process. Maybe she came by public transport? That would be quite unusual considering the fact that this diner is placed out of the way, meaning that only old timers know enough to pick out the correct bus in order to make it here. I feel a crushing pressure to speak to her and to ask her why she is here alone.
Unexpectedly, she is followed by a man. If not for his association with the woman, I surely wouldn’t have deemed him as special. He has brown hair and brown eyes. While he looks ordinary, something about him (perhaps the color scheme of his attire) reminds me of Geronimo Stilton.
The couple happen to settle down at the last table I wiped down before my break. Pretending to be helpful, I grab a couple of menus. Neither of them thank me as I hand them the laminated pamphlets. I take my cue to retreat back to my original spot. From here I watch them tediously, analyzing their every move.
I hold myself back until etiquette deems it acceptable to come over to them and ask for their orders. I look curiously over their shoulders. I’m surprised to find that an object is laid out on the table in front of them. Although I’m not entirely sure what it is, the best explanation I can offer would be to call it an electronic tablet. Rows and columns of green numbers circulate the field, flooding over in continuous lines of regular and strange formations. Having been opened up in this way, the tablet resembles an electronic map. The map is special because it isn’t configured based on any tangible place: it appears as if I’m looking into the inside of a computer, but I can for some reason easily make out the fact that it is a map. Both the man and the woman are so entranced by the sickly, luminescent glow that they seem to be sucking the numbers into their very beings.
Even weirder than their object of interest is the energy between the two onlookers. I just can’t make out whether they’re romantically affiliated or not. On one hand they could be, sitting close and all that, but I can tell that they make a point not to touch one another.
Despite my lingering gaze, the ones entranced don’t seem to notice me. The interaction is in this case strikingly similar to any interaction I would have with any customers. Without taking their eyes off the map, the lady orders a grilled cheese and a milkshake. The man orders a plate of ribs, a cornbread and a coke.
During my retreat back to the kitchen, I’m hit with a sense of déjà vu.
“Reminds me of a movie” I think, but I can’t say which one.
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As the doorbell jingles cheerily to signal their departure, I hurry over to the recently deserted spot to catch the last of their exhaled air. I’m surprised to find that they left their map behind. Green numbers are sprouting from one side of the screen and hustling to the other. It looks almost as if the numbers are leaping in excitement.
The issue swells in importance and I see what I want to see. There are millions of possibilities here, all important, all exciting. They want to spew out of me like ideas I’ve bottled up for years. Inspiration enlives me. I want there to be something there. I know that there is something there.
I fold up the map and store it behind the counter.
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The next day is the fourth day of the week. I’m taking my break again, but the map behind the counter is burning a hole through my heart. I can’t stop thinking about the little green numbers frolicking around the page. There are no customers in sight.
A deep sense of suspicion is entrenching itself in me, but I can’t help that I want to open the tablet to see the map again.
I look around once more. The place is deserted. I creep up to my object of interest and unfold it. From the surface of the map numbers begin to swirl around, just as they did when it was laid out in front of its owner yesterday. This time is different because the numbers seem particularly personal. I can see all the moments in my life which were distinct and at the same time sense the similarities between all the interrelating incidents. My own enormous pattern of existence is being demonstrated by this map. I understand why I’ve known it to be a map all along: the places on the map are locations in my memory. The past and the future exist here simultaneously. The doorbell jingles and I snap out of it.
“Better get back to work,” I think.
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I know the map is important and I can tell it would be a bad idea to leave it alone at the diner for another night. At the end of my shift, I slip it into the front pocket of my water resistance jacket. The walk home is as cold and dreary as ever. Soft slushy rain is falling from the sky like saliva. Darkness envelops the industrial roads. Usually, it takes me about 20 minutes to make the journey, but today it takes exactly 17 minutes and 15 seconds.
I don’t want to waste another moment, but at the same time I don’t want to ruin my own anticipation by rushing. My one cozy armchair invites me to sit on it. I plop onto its brown leathery surface, retiring myself to the sensation that this is just like any other night. A part of me wants to discard the object I found, but another part of me causes my fingers to tingle with excitement.
I flip open the map and I can see what I’ve been seeing this whole time. The experience is similar to before, but this time, something is different. This time the numbers are allowing me to be taken up by them. As I stare into the map, it becomes increasingly difficult to recognize the boundaries of myself.
“Where do I end and when does this thing begin,” I think.
The green numbers swirl around me, forming a double helix. The creases in the armchair are beginning to become hazy. Abruptly and without warning, I find myself in a beige and brown environment, sitting on the floor. I don’t recognize this place, but it feels familiar. I might’ve read about it in a book. The door is made of bamboo, and covered with a light colored fabric that I can just about see through. In the distance I hear a murmur of voices.
There is a low table in front of me, and a bowl into which someone has placed rice. The chopsticks have been positioned as though they have been used to eat it. Although I don’t remember eating, I can feel a grain of rice stuck annoyingly between some of my back teeth.
I try to stand up. It feels ok. I notice that I am wearing simple clothes. It’s a sort of tunic made up out of a comfy material of a gray hue. The bamboo door is light when I push it open. In the hallway there are some low-standing cabinets made of marble. There is also a window, from which I feel the soft breeze caressing the right side of my face. Once I have made my way down the hallway and turned to the right, I see the room from which the voices are emanating from. Carefully, I peek in.
There are women and men there, all concentrated towards something in the same way as the couple at the diner. I can see the same disgusting green glow reflecting off their faces. They are dressed simply like me. Despite feeling myself invisible, they notice me. One of the individuals huddled around the table is a man with jet black hair and a mustache. I feel he is the source of great power, so it is frightening when he notices me and turns angrily to completely face my direction. Staggering a bit, he rises from his chair. The man is muscular. His hatred is directed towards a pinpoint on my forehead. I start to back away. Suddenly, he springs forwards.
I rush out of the hallway and out of the house all together. I can still feel the eyes of the man boring into the back of my skull. On the outside there is a small yard where farming equipment is scattered. Out on the field there is grain. I keep running. The tall grain deters my vision. When I am approximately in the middle of the field, I detect energy and color radiating from above. Looking up, I see a huge time warp, inside which there are vortexes upon vortexes of the same sorts of numbers I could see inside the map. I am being sucked in.
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The next day at work, the doorbell jingles in the same way as it did that day that the man and the woman stepped into the diner. To my complete dismay, these same two individuals waltz in. They look curiously about, glancing at the space in apprehension as if it were their first time here. I am not fooled by this display. The woman walks straight up to me without hesitation, her heels clicking dramatically in her wake.
“How was your experience?” she asks.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, confused.
“The sample we left you. We recorded a log in last night at 18:23. Were there any major issues to speak of?” she probed.
“I, I, I,” I stammer.
“We can leave you with a questionnaire. It might be easier if you report your experiences in that way,” suggests the man.
“What is it?” I ask, an angry feeling wells up inside me: “You can’t just make people go through something like that!”
“What you have just experienced is a simulation of the human mind. It’s not perfect yet, but soon it will be. A lot of people would pay a lot of money to experience what you just did,” replied the lady, “It’s not like anyone forced you to use the thing. If I were you I would keep my mouth shut and fill out the questionnaire,” she continued.
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WAST WRTNG 