Frames

The dangers of living in the information age.
  August 10, 2003

“I am a human browser,” my friend Matt told me one night.  “They use me to channel information.”

We were staying out late in a nameless bar and dim lights burned in the corners like afterthoughts.  Rings of stale smoke gathered overhead.

“What kind of information?” I asked.

“Anything.  Everything.  Mostly porn.”

“And who are 'they'?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then how do you know that there's more than one?”

“I don't.”

Our words drowned in bitter martini.  The steady waves of sound from the television (lurking under the ceiling in the corner like a big, fat one-eyed spider), music, and multiple voices straining to overcome the din crashed against the ears, pulsed in the brain.  I looked around absentmindedly and sucked my drink through the straw without noticing the taste, and thought: that's the problem with them.  You hardly ever know their faces or numbers.

“You contain multitudes then?” I asked.

“Screw you,” he said with a hint of real offense.

“Just inquiring after your well-being.”

“You think I'm crazy?”

“No.  I think you're nuts.”

“Look into my eyes,” he demanded.

And I did.  In his left, blue eye, lines of microscopic text unfolded like scrolls, inching up from below and disappearing above.  In his right, brown eye, naked bodies intertwined in orgasmic embrace.  Their image slowly rotated exposing the heaving flesh from every side.  Like your own reflection on the screen of a working television, the pictures appeared faint and fleeting, drowned out by the vision of the bar room that surrounded us.

Fascinated, I stared into the shifting pictures until Matt blinked.  Then I slumped back into my chair with a “Hmm…”.

“What do you think?”

“Interesting…”

He shook his head.  “It's horrible,” he said listlessly.  His eyes left mine and wandered aimlessly over the table; his fingers played with a paper napkin.  “I can't sleep.  I can't eat.  I drink myself dumb just to make it stop but it doesn't help.  I exist in two worlds, one real and one fake, and I can't tell which one is which any more.”

“How did it start?”

“I woke up one morning on top of a pyramid, looking down into the jungle from my bed.”  The words were coming out slightly slurred.  “Then I heard music.  Goddamn mariachi music in a MIDI file.  I thought I was going crazy.”

His head dropped on his chest in despair.  He started to rock slowly back and forth as I looked uncomfortably around to make sure we weren't attracting unwanted attention.

“Listen, my glass is empty,” I said.  “Be right back, and you can tell me all about it.”  He didn't react; I don't think he heard me.

As I made my way to the bar, muffled gasps and cries arose behind me.  Turning around, I beheld Matt's head, bifurcated into two luminous frames, each one doubtless supporting multiple visions of scrolling pages, flashing icons, moist skin and dry text.  His eyes were closed; through his open mouths simultaneously issued piteous groans and a low ominous hum.

“Is that your buddy?” the bartender asked.

“Yeah,” I said.  “He'll be all right.”

“Poor bastard,” he said.  “Give him two on the house.  Watta you havin'?”

“Hey, thanks,” I said.  “A screwdriver would do just fine, I think.”

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