June, this year #2
My pulse is racing. The caffeine in my diet soda is probably not helping, but I gulp it down anyways.
What about Bonnie, and Ben? This house doesn’t belong to them, but are we still friends? The text from Evan had mentioned Bonnie being “an old friend.” So I guess we’re still in touch, but now that I’m living with a tech billionaire in California, our friendship is probably not what it was.
“Contact, please look up Bonnie Mason social media profiles in Illinois.”
A beep, and a list of “Bonnie Mason” profiles — LinkedIn, TikTok, a few Facebook and Instagram, and lots on something called Connect, presumably related to Contact — appear before me.
Some are other Bonnie Masons in the state of Illinois, but all have thumbnail headshots, so I can quickly find my Bonnie with her blonde curls.
Her LinkedIn profile is like the one where I’m married to Chris — working at Chicago City Hall, not at her store.
Her profile on Connect, which seems to be a combination of LinkedIn and Facebook and has a very smooth interface in my eye, shows her career profile as well as some personal entries — vacation photos, and some of the interior of a house I don’t recognize.
Her with Ben, him looking tanned, his arm slung round his sister’s shoulder. They’re both beaming, on a beach somewhere.
And one of the two of them with two other people I don’t recognize — a Hispanic-looking guy next to Bonnie, his hand in hers, and a beautiful, tall woman with brown hair, who is clinging to Ben’s arm.
They look so happy. Both in loving relationships, without me.
I nod, slowly.
Okay. Bonnie and Ben seem to be doing fine, and they don’t need me. And, honestly, I’m wildly jealous of these new people and I don’t feel any desire to meet them.
Stephen, then?
“Contact, give me Stephen Powell social media profiles in Illinois.”
A list of profiles pops up again, and I pull up Stephen’s Facebook page, since there’s no Connect profile. He was always a big Facebook user, and this world is clearly no different. Maybe he hasn’t moved over to the Contact ecosystem yet.
Tons of photos of him with his wife Eve and his kids — even some from today, on their camping trip. Exactly like in my world.
That’s no good to me.
I throw my head back against the tufted couch. What to do?
It doesn’t seem like this version of me is in any kind of trouble for me to help with.
This is clearly not my original world, nor a world where I’m with Stephen.
Plus it’s a weird, futuristic, sci-fi alt-reality with insane technology that will take a lot of getting used to.
And I don’t even have a home in Chicago, but instead one all the way in California, with a guy I barely remember.
Maybe I should just head out of the front door, come back in through the basement, and reset. Throw this life out entirely, and try again.
But something is giving me pause. I mean . . . this is a life where I live in presumed fabulous luxury with a tech billionaire. Who, as far as I remember, was a total hottie.
And the technology is incredible — I’m dying to find out what else it can do, now that I’m starting to get used to it.
So, my only alternative to resetting is . . . to go to California, and check out my new life? Even if only for a little while. Just for the weekend, maybe. It’s still only Friday evening.
I’ve got some time.
And presumably, a shitload of money to spend.
My guts churning with excitement and fear, I ask aloud, “Contact, when is the next flight from Chicago to San Francisco?”
“The next flight from Chicago O’Hare International Airport to San Francisco International Airport is at 23:15, arriving in San Francisco at 01:50 local time on Saturday, June 17.
There are three business-class seats available.
Would you like me to book a ticket with your Executive Traveler loyalty points? ”
Oh, crap. I guess I’m deciding right now.
“Erm, yes, please book one window seat in business class.”
“Booking flight. One moment.”
A beep. The occasional intermittent beep, for maybe a minute.
“Your business-class seat on American Airlines flight 634 from Chicago to San Francisco, departing 23:15 today, has been confirmed. Your assigned seat is 3A. Check-in begins at 21:15. Your boarding pass has been downloaded to your Contact documents. Please scan your Contact at the departure gate B16.”
Sure enough, on the main menu text in my left eye, a new line has popped up, bearing the number and time of my flight. I blink twice, and it zooms open, showing me a boarding pass with a QR code, just like on a cellphone in my reality.
I’ve got nearly three hours before check-in, which is plenty of time to get to the airport and drop off the rental car, which I presumably got from O’Hare anyways.
Okay, then. Let’s do this. I’m clearly wealthy enough to just get another plane ticket back to Chicago as soon as I’m ready to leave San Francisco. If I want to leave.
I go to the bathroom off the foyer before my journey, checking myself in the mirror.
Aside from being too skinny in Rufus’s world, this is the most different I’ve looked.
I’m wearing a lot more make-up than usual, I have long eyelashes, and my usually straight, plain bob is now a dramatic bob that’s much higher at the back, with a graded cut into the nape, and a longer angular line down to my jaw at the front. Very chic.
Some Gucci sunglasses are on top of my head, tucked behind my ears, and I’m wearing what appear to be diamond stud earrings.
Fancy.
I also have a small tattoo on the inside of my wrist, of a slim crescent moon and two stars.
I’ve never been a tattoo person, but it’s pretty.
What could it symbolize? Then it strikes me — the skinny crescent moon looks a lot like the flat C-shaped logo for Contact, which was on the earbud case. Maybe it’s related to the company.
It also confirms something I’ve been gradually becoming conscious of. That each time I step through that basement door, I’m quantum-leaping into the body of the Millie in the new life, rather than bringing my own body with me.
This theory started to coalesce when I saw how thin my wrists were in the world where I was married to Rufus — clearly not my own body — and it seems consistent with the discovery of this new tattoo.
I carry my own memories and thoughts, but I have each new world’s physical form. And everything else that comes with it.
Leaning in closer to the mirror, I can just make out a gray-bluish circle around my left iris — the Contact — and minuscule bright green dots on the side.
With a nervous laugh about this futuristic, glamorous version of myself, I let myself out of the front door and release the driveway gate.
The Tesla rental car is right out front, and there’s a small Coach overnight bag in the passenger seat, which holds some clothes, toiletries in a wash bag, a water bottle, and some tampons.
No sign of a wallet or credit cards anywhere, but if my Contact can be scanned for a boarding pass, I can probably pay for goods by looking into a scanner, too.
Kinda scary, as well as deeply convenient.
A great way for a government to keep tabs on people, that’s for sure.
I pull off and, despite the slightly distracting text in my left eye — which I could turn into a GPS to give me directions, if I didn’t know where I was going — I can’t help but enjoy the quiet, smooth, drive to the airport.
It’s only a half-hour drive, being conveniently located between Lake Bluff and the city.
It gives me tons of time to drop off the car, take the monorail transit to the terminal, and get a leisurely grain-bowl dinner at Terminal 3.
As I come to pay the check, the server asks me, “Cash, credit, or C-debit?”
Time to test my theory.
“C-debit, please.”
She holds a scanner up to my left eyeball. Immediately, the check details pop up, including an option for a tip. I blink twice, selecting 20%, and then twice again to confirm.
The server checks her scanner. “Thanks, you’re all set. Have a safe flight, Ms. MacKenzie.”
“Thanks,” I reply, my pulse racing a little from the interchange, and at her reading my name off the scanner.
This tech is unbelievable. And more than a little bit Big Brother-ish. It’s kind of incredible so many people across the Western world have adopted it so easily, given how intrusive it is to their privacy.
What’s that quote? “Give me convenience or give me death,” is that it?
I can’t remember where I heard it, maybe an old song, but it’s hitting home for me right now. Everyone has given up their personal privacy for the convenience of this new technology. Including me, evidently. Still, I’m in a relationship with its inventor, so I probably don’t have much of a choice.
He had sent me another Context while I was eating, asking where I was and if I was coming home. I reply to it as I sit at the departure gate, after having had my eye scanned once more at the gate desk for identification and to check my boarding pass.
I’M FINE. SORRY TO WORRY YOU. I WENT TO VISIT BONNIE, YES — IT WAS URGENT AND SHE NEEDED ME. SHE’S OKAY NOW, AND I’M ALREADY AT O’HARE WAITING FOR A FLIGHT BACK TO SF. IT LANDS JUST BEFORE 2AM, SO I’LL BE HOME BY 3AM. I’LL TRY NOT TO WAKE YOU WHEN I GET IN. SEE YOU IN THE MORNING.
He replies immediately.
THANK GOD! I WAS SO SCARED, MILLIE, YOU WERE ACTING SO WEIRD THIS MORNING, LIKE A ZOMBIE. I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT HAPPENED BUT YOU CAN FILL ME IN. HOPE YOU HAVE A GOOD FLIGHT HOME. MISS YOU.
Like a zombie, huh? That’s bizarre.