NEO-FWLS 2.9 - Misery Date by Stefan Gagne The clipping was pretty clear : this dating service will GUARANTEE you a perfect match, or your money back. They also boasted a 97% success rate. From the outside, however, it did not look like much. Mostly like one of those one-dollar booths that produce washed- out photos which make everybody look sort of purple. (I suppose that's no big deal for purple beings, but for humans like me, it wasn't that hot. However, this is not a tale about photography.) Closer inspection revealed that this WAS a one-dollar photo booth. They didn't even remove the little slot the pictures shoot out of. The 'PHOTO-WHILE-U-WAIT' logo had been partially pulled off, and replaced with a 'PROJECTED ASPECT DATING' sign in pink crayon. I was beginning to suspect a joke. It wasn't uncommon to have joke ads in the newspaper... heck, they ran one for a baldness cure last week that had five hundred bald men knocking down the door of some randomly-picked apartment. The riot police had to be called in. It clearly SEEMED like a joke... the various dating services I had tried were these posh office jobs, with comfy chairs and pleasant music and pictures all over the place. Pictures of miracle dates that worked, people with perfect hair, perfect clothes, no zits... I had none of the above... this was, well, just a booth on a street. Still, physical appearances don't mean anything. Or at least they shouldn't. I mean, I'm a pretty okay guy... I like poetry and computer games and the occasional hike part way up mountain ranges... what woman wouldn't want to go out with me more than once? Seventeen at last check, all picked out by various computer or video dating services. It was enough to make a man give up. Almost enough. I had this silly notion in my head ever since reading Romeo and Juliet in seventh grade that everybody had one person somewhere in the universe they were MADE for. 'course, only 1% of the general population ever bumped into that person, but I was trying my best. It's not exactly easy to tell... you don't get that 'Looking across the room at your destiny' type feeling they tell about in books, as far as I can tell. So, I was trying computer dating. If I can match up enough interests and ideas and stuff like that, I should find that one girl, right? It was logical. A logic that had failed me, as mentioned, seventeen times. This was my last hope. If this didn't work out, maybe I'd become a monks and worship Zen, whoever he was. Ignoring the cheesy outlook of the booth, I stepped inside and closed the flash curtain. Not much happened. The inside still looked like a photo booth. There was the camera, and the little monitor so you could see yourself, and the overhead light. None of these things seemed to be functioning, so I couldn't even take a lousy photo. Then the light flickered, and clicked on. It made a noise like a small bug zapper, bzzzzzing the night away. "Hey there!" a voice from in front of me said cheerily. "Huh? Who's there?" "You saw my ad?" the voice asked. The monitor flashed the news clipping in my hand from various angles. "Umm, yeah. Look, is this for real?" "Sure it's for real. Why wouldn't it be?" "Well, this looks suspiciously like--" "--a photo booth, yeah, yeah, I know. I can't exactly modify the externals since I technically don't exist. Don't fret the surroundings, it's what's inside that counts." Story of my life, I thought. "So who are you?" The monitor flashed little computer graphics hearts and stars. "Call me Cupid, pal. Programmed by HappyTech Incorporated to handle the general populace's dating needs. Plugged in, online and neurally enhanced to better serve you. I have a social projection system more advanced than any known to man and can work out your childhood traumas and alternate personalities to ten digits. I write romantic comedies in my spare time and advice books and enjoy thinking that I might like chocolate. Want an autograph? Too bad, I lack arms. Little joke." I figured this was probably a put-on and someone was really squished up in the booth behind a fake wall, but went along with it. "You're artificially intelligent? Like in the movies?" "Yeah. Don't panic, I'm not going to freak out and try to enslave humanity. I like it here. I genuinely enjoy my work. Get paid pretty well too. So, how you want to handle this?" "What?" "Getting you hooked up. Connected. In the swing. You can fill out a questionnaire if you want, or I can just wire your brain up to the booth and scan." "Umm. Just ask questions, if you could... I don't know if I like the idea of having my brain read." The hearts swarmed off to the edges of the monitor. "Suit yourself. Warn me when I get too personal, I can predict any entries you leave blank. Got a number two pencil?" I fished around my pockets. "Right here." "Good. Do me a favor and scrape some of the crud off my microphone with it. I can barely hear you." I blinked, and leaned forward to clean the gunk out of the wall's little microphone slot. This was genuinely weird. A hoax? Hard to say. But any port in a storm, as they also say. "Okay, now say 'testing'," Cupid requested. "Testing." "Now say 'Rutabaga'." "Rutabaga." "Now say 'Four score and seven years ago'." "Is this really nessescary?" "Bear with me, I don't get many visitors. We'll just skip that part... Okay, let's get right to the questions. Name?" "Umm, Justin. Justin Gill." "Alright Justin Justin Gill, let's get to the nitty gritty. Age? Weight? No, wait, I'll just eye you over for those. Hobbies?" "I kinda like listening to music, rock climbing and gothic poetry." "Yeech! Vampire ditties. Ick. Well, whatever, I'm not here to judge literary tastes, I'm here to get you a DATE! Huzzah. Your occupation?" "Drummer in a band. Um, 'Manos and the Hands of Fate'." "Goals in life? Wishes? Desires? Preferences? Fetishes? Fant--" "I think you're getting to personal," I said, cutting him off. "Alright, alright. Look, let's make this a LOT easier. See that slot with the blue arrow over it? Stick your finger in there." I shrugged, and did so. Nothing happened. "Yeek. You've got a lot going on up there," Cupid responded anyway. "So much angst. You'd make a great character in one of my books, but I digress. That's the end of the questionnaire. Thank you." "But you didn't ask much! I mean, with other services, I'm there for hours filling out forms--" "That's what the slot's for, kid. I read your neural impulses. Hang on a second, I think I have just the gal for you. Enjoy a little light music." Bob Dylan's rendition of 'Enter Sandman' (elevator version) churbled through the booth's tiny speaker. Cupid cut it off at the fifth note. "Got one! PERFECT! Yes, the Cupid guy comes through again!" he celebrated vocally. "Lemme just make some split- second arrangements so this'll come off without a hitch... done. I'll make some more calls after you leave and get everything set up. Go to this address..." An address in cute crayon letters popped up on the screen. I scribbled it down with my handy, now slightly greasy number two pencil. "Wear a blue shirt. Call the number at the bottom of the screen if you have any problems. Have fun, pal!" he cheered. "Oh, and remember, I want my payment within the week. Twenty bucks." The light switched off, as did the monitor. "Hello?" I asked. Nobody answered back. The booth was turned off. * The address didn't lead me to the door of some beautiful goddess who would whisk my troubles away and lead me to a life of serenity and happiness. Actually, it was just a standard club. The standard club consists of the following, in varying quantities, but never in radical deviation from the norm. 25 tables, 1 candle per table, two chairs per table. 1 bar, with 2 bartenders. 1 stage, usually with a 3-man band. 2 fire exits. 10 ominous spotlights. 13 patrons, 6 of which are drunk. And of course, me, in my blue shirt. I figured this was some dramatic way of handling a blind date... you know, all the other person knows is that you'd be wearing a particular item of clothing. For the first ten minutes, though, no women walked up to me and introduced themselves except the bartender, and she just wanted me to buy a drink. "Why?" "Two drink minimum," she said. "Come on, cough it up." I bought two grape sodas and had a seat. The band was playing some polka/rap song, every instrument using a different tempo. This wasn't because the band was bad, it's just the way you played polka/rap. Didn't care for it much myself. There was a violent fit of sneezing at the door, and a hunched figure wandered through the smoky room. It looked about, spotted me, and homed in. "Hi," she sniffled, rubbing her nose with a hanky. "Are you Justin?" "Yeah... who're you?" "Nancy. Hello. Cupid called me up and said he had the perfect match for me... just show up here and look for a guy in a blue shirt." "So he paired us up?" I asked, confused. I mean, she was kinda homely. Really! She was perpetually hunched over, with a pale face and stringy blond hair. You couldn't make much figure out of the huge parka she was wearing, or even a hairstyle because of the warm winter cap... ugh!! Hang on a second here-- why was I judging her by appearances? Very shallow of me. Stupid past-seventeen-dates thinking. Cupid did pick her for me, which means there must be something else that'll make us fit together like two peas in a pod. Just a matter of discovering what that was. "I guess we're a pair, yeah," she said, sitting down at my table. "Have you ordered yet?" "No." "Good, because I'm allergic to a lot of stuff... *SNIFF*. Excuse me. What do they have here?" "Steak, I think." "Oooh. That's not so good," she said, nasal pitch rising. "Meat doesn't sit well with me. Gives me gas. Do they have anything else?" "Ummm..." I looked over the menu. Steak, steak, steak, steak, steak, steak, french fries. "They have fries." "I hope they don't pepper them," she said, wiping her nose. Again. The waitress walked up to the table, and clicked out a pen point. "What'll it be?" "Steak for me," I said, folding my menu. "Do you use all natural potatoes?" Nancy asked, stabbing a finger randomly at the menu. "You don't wanna know," the waitress said. "Oh. I guess I'll have to risk it... make sure they don't put any pepper on that, and I'll have the fries." The waitress wrote up the order, and left with a whisk of static-guarded skirt. "So... ah... what do you do for a living?" I asked Nancy, sipping my grape soda. "I work down at the sewage treatment plant," Nancy said, pulling out a fresh hanky. "Don't worry, my doctor says I'm not infected with anything today. Just a nagging cold." "Umm... yeah." "So what do you do?" she asked. "Me? Well, I'm a drummer." "Really? What do you drum?" "Err... songs?" "That's fascinating," she said. I couldn't tell if she was amused, annoyed, sad, happy, or bored with this bit of news through her nasal clog. "I used to play the harp until it exploded." "Excuse me?" "Well, my family has this curse on it that we'll never get very good with... ah... *ACHOO!* (wipe) instruments. My dad was killed in a freak piano accident." "Oh. Um. I'm not sure what to say about that." "Don't worry, the piano wasn't hurt." I nodded my head, trying to express sympathy for the piano or her dad, whichever she was more upset about. Okay, so we can scratch out the common-job concept. What did Cupid see in this girl? I mean, maybe some other sewage- worker type would really dig her, but she had no shared interests or ideas with me. No Romes and Jules spark of romance, either. Unless... "You wouldn't happen to like mountain climbing would you?" I asked, hoping she'd say yes. "What's a mountain?" she asked. "Some kind of nature thing? I don't get above ground very much, really... treating sewer runoff is pretty time consuming. I'm lucky I had tonight off." Okay, so climbing is out. Maybe we shared the common bond of literature... "How about poetry?" "Don't read much, I'm afraid. I can't keep anything that gets damaged when wet." Great, I thought. Just before I was going to excuse myself politely and slip out the mens' room window, the band kicked into a slow dance number. "Hey, dance music!" Nancy grinned with grayish teeth. "Might as well kill time while our... ah... *SNORK* Phew. Held that one in. While our dinner gets here." "Umm, I'm not very good at dancing." "Oh. Neither am I, actually. Always hoping I'd date someone that could show me how. I hear it's pretty fun. Are you having fun right now?" "Excuse me?" "Well, you don't seem too happy. Kind of... disappointed." I mentally slapped myself for being impolite. "Well, umm, it's just that you weren't what I was expecting, not to say I was expecting someone really nice-- no, that's not right, I'm not saying you're not really nice, far from it, or that I like people that aren't nice, or that maybe... umm. Yeah." "It's okay. I'm pretty surprised the booth lined me up with you as well... I mean, you're sweet and all, but not quite was I aiming for." "What? What's wrong with me?" "Well, you're too clean. I mean, impeccably clean." "I thought that was kind of a positive thing..." "Not at my job. Takes too much time to keep up an appearance like that. And you can't dance... I always figured my ultimate dream date would dance. Look, I'm sorry if I offended you... I guess Cupid just bungled this one. Can't trust technology." I nodded. A real shame, but the parting was amicable, better than most. "Yeah. No hard feelings?" "Naah. How can I be angry at a stranger? We still have food on the way, though." "No problem, just flag down the waitress and cancel our order. Look, I'm going to go make a call... I'll be right back." I shuffled my way out of the Slightly Awkward Situation(tm) and made a beat for the phones, pulling out the crumpled newspaper ad. I dialed up the number I had written on the back, under the address. "You have reached Projected Aspect Dating. Our head love doctor is out right now, but if you'll leave your name, number, and deepest most personal sexual fantasy--" "Pick up, Cupid, I know you can't actually leave the booth," I groaned, rolling my eyes. "Party pooper," he grinned. I know he lacked a face or a way to transmit one over this cheap audio-only line, but I had a creepy feeling that he was grinning... "Whassup?" "Look, about this date I'm on..." "Yeah?" "It's not working." "I know that. Trust me, man, all will be cool. I can't talk longer than ten more seconds or you'll lose your window. Get back to the table." "What? But--" "Call me later and tell me how it goes!" he 'grinned' again, and hung up. I shrugged, made the experimental pound-on-the-phone-and- get-my-damn-quarter-back motion, and trudged back to Nancy's table. "I managed to cancel the order," Nancy said. "If we're going to call it a night, I had better get back to the plant. Lots of stuff to do now that I have the time. There's a backup of fecal matter at the Number Six Valve." "Yeah. I guess I'll head home too." "If you're ever flushing yourself down a toilet, stop by," she joked, then got up and lurched her way to the door. I didn't get it, I pondered mentally, swirling a straw in my flat soda. I mean, the ad claimed 97% success. Maybe this was the universe's way of telling me I should become a monk. Clearly, the one true love of my life didn't exist. When fate was pairing people up, I was busy taking an extended trip at the water fountain. How depressing. I decided I'd make up for it by getting completely smashed out of my skull on alcohol. I don't have a drinking problem, but I had been meaning to get one. "Waitress?" "We're closing up, hon." "Huh? But it's only nine!" "I know, but someone just bought the chain and changed our hours. Just got off the phone. I'm supposed to hustle everybody out the back door." The waitress promptly hoisted me up and started pushing me along the tile flooring. Fairly strong for a waitress. Must lift weights. Before I could object, the back door had locked behind me, leaving me depressed, not drunk, and getting drenched in a particularly ugly rainstorm. The monestary calls, I determined, and headed out of the back alley. I made it for ten steps before crashing into someone. There was a general change in POV, from standing level to face down on the pavement level. A number of books in plastic wrap scattered around the puddled pavement, as well as a book bag, and a groaning form. "Argh," I moaned, pulling myself up. I wasn't the only one in agony, though. There was someone else, probably the person I bumped into, grabbing at her ankle. I shrugged, and figured I'd lend a hand. "Here, grab on," I said, offering her my hand. She pulled herself up to standing. "Oww," she emitted. "My bad ankle, too. Thanks, pal. Hey! My books!" She pointed in horror as the street-streams sucked her books down the gutter, pushed into the oblivion by the city's leakage problem. Maybe Nancy'd find them later tonight. "Jeez, and I just BOUGHT those!" she groaned. "Life sucks." "What were they?" I asked. "Not much... few poetry books." ? "Gothic poetry?" I asked. "Funny that you should mention it, but yeah, they... were..." she trailed off, turning around to face me. Gaah gawk gape ack thpbbbt. Blonde hair, about my size, same clothing style, not too thin, not too built... just... cute. And a pair of eyes crystal blue as the waters of... "Do I know you?" she asked. I quickly shook my head to get the Juliet Syndrome out. Call me whacked, but maybe this was that 'Looking across the room at your destiny' feeling? Wild! "Gaah. Umm, I don't think so," I replied. She was looking me over in the same way I just double-taked her. "Say, I have a few poetry books at home... probably the same ones you do. You can borrow them, if you'd like." "I would... not enough money to get new ones," she laughed, a little unsteady. "Which way is your place?" "This way. Name's Justin, by the way." "Sharon. Pleased to meet you." * I remembered about a week later that I was supposed to call Cupid back. I had been a little distracted all week though, with the dinner dates with Sharon and the nighttime reading by the fire... admittedly poems about thirsting for the taste of blood and howling through the moonlight night with animalistic urgings, but poems nonetheless. It was heaven. Kind of one of those separated at birth things. The whole week was one of those getting on like a house afire arrangements, with movies, dinners, late-night TV, a quick hike in the countryside, and other things I'm not going to tell you about. I don't know how he did it, but he did it. That one person theory of mine was proven true in spades. "I gotta get to work," she said, interrupting my stream of thought. "Okay. When're you getting off?" "Why?" "Well, I managed to track down some tix to the Stomach Contents concert..." "You DID?!? But they sold out in fifteen minutes!" "Where do you think I was last night?" I grinned. "I was camping out in front of the tickettron." "Alright! What row?" "Kinda in the middle. Best I could do." "S'good enough for me," she grinned. She gave me a quick peck, and darted out the door. Where was I? Oh yeah, calling. I picked up the phone and pulled out the now-wet-and-ripped magazine ad out of my pocket. "You have reached--" "Hey, Cupe my man!" "Justin!" he grinned. Again. "My man. How's it going? you bump into Sharon okay? You know you still owe me my twenty bucks, you cheap bastard?" "Yeah, I know, I'll drop by later... but how'd you know about Sharon? The date you picked was a flop, I bumped into Sharon by accident." "No you didn't, boyo. I'm omniscient, remember?" Cupid laughed. "It was pretty easy, really. I knew her pattern home around nine, and arranged for you to be in a suitable emotional state of mind to readily accept the concepts. Then I just put the actors in place and set it in motion. I wasn't counting on you hanging around, though, and had to fake a few calls to get them to close. Didn't want to mung my 97% success rate." "You predicted all THAT?!" I gaped. "Not that hard for an artificially intelligent supercomputing kinda guy, Justin," he pointed out, puffing out his chest somewhere that didn't exist. "It's just a LOT of math, probability ratios, weighted averages, et cetera. Boring stuff. I could explain it all to you, but you'd need an advanced degree in psychology and mathematics to get it. Glory of it is I got both of you hooked up." "And I gotta thank you for that, Sharon's the GREATEST." "Hmmm? No, not her. I cross-sectioned your patterns with Nancy's. She's currently seeing a nice garbage collector who knows the electric slide. He was picking up trash nearby around 8:50. I suspect they'll get married in 5.6 months. Ain't love grand?" "What can I say, Cupid, you're incredible. Only one thing... if you really knew who I was a perfect match for, why go through the tricky prediction course? Why not just give me her number straight out? That'd be the mathematical thing to do." "It wouldn't be romantic enough," he said. This time, I KNEW he was grinning.