Please Reply

#

Chapter 1: Anne,

This is all going to be over soon. Just quick, like a Band-Aid! I’m just going to say, I’m sorry, but I can no longer afford this. Maybe add in something nice. I don’t know, like, You have been so much help to me, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but unfortunately, I can’t afford this anymore. I mean, I would love to keep seeing you, but what can I do?

No, keep it simple. Sorry, I can’t afford this anymore.

It’s almost time. Where are my OV glasses? Shit, where did I put them? Oh my God, stupid, they’re on my head. Okay, deep breaths. Just hit the little power button and put the glasses on.

That’s loud. Why is it always so loud when you turn this thing on? Here comes the graphics. What does “verisimilitude” mean?

Swoosh.

And we’re on the beach. I wish I could mute the penguin. I’m just not in the mood for the marimba today. What time is it? I’m a bit early. I still love how the clock numbers are individual starfish stretching all crazy like that to make the numbers. What a great idea! I mean, how fast are those little guys moving for the seconds?! It would probably be considered animal abuse if they used real starfish. Penguins playing the marimba are probably okay, though. Especially if they gave them breaks and stuff.

I like the ocean waves, too, but it’s not the same without the smell, you know? If my health insurance didn’t cheap out, I could smell the salt water and maybe even some food cooking. Mmmm, funnel cakes! I wonder if the penguin is a boy or a girl penguin. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a penguin’s penis sticking out, but they’ve gotta have them, or they wouldn’t be able to reproduce, right? I mean, not virtual reality penguins, but real ones. I bet a real penguin who could play the marimba would probably get laid pretty easily. Ha!

Where is this guy? It’s like three o’clock already. No one can ever explain to me how an AI can be late to an appointment. It’s gotta be on purpose. Do you think he knows? No, he doesn’t know. Okay, maybe he knows, but who cares? I’m not doing something bad. It’s fine.

Okay, something’s happening: the fake sun is fading out, the penguin is bowing, the penguin is walking away, the penguin is gone. Deep breaths. Remember, keep it simple.

And here’s Nate. Oh man, he always looks so happy with his dumb banana-boat hat. I’ve never understood why he puts sunscreen on his nose when we always have our sessions so close to nighttime.

He’s sitting across from me, taking off his sandals, putting his feet into the sand that’s not really sand. I kinda feel bad now.

“So, how’s things?” he says.

“Things are okay,” I say.

“Just okay, huh?”

“Yeah, just okay.”

“Well, we need to address that, but before we do, I just wanna dovetail off of something we talked about during our last session. What was it, a month ago?” He laughs.

“Yeah, sorry, I’ve had a lot going on,” I say. I don’t really have much going on at all. Just do it, stupid. Just pull the Band-Aid off!

“No worries, Anne. What matters is that you’re here now. I’m just happy we’re together again.”

That seems genuine; creepy too.

“Listen,” he says. “We’ve talked about how we can’t be responsible for what other people do, but we can be responsible for how we react, right?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Good,” he says, and he takes his stupid banana-boat hat off and throws it onto the sand. “Well, I believe it, but I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and I want to try something else. So we’ve got your ex, your neighbor, your boss, the president—all these people causing you anxiety, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I was thinking,” he says. “What is anxiety, really?”

“Um, when you’re worried about something?” I say.

“Yes, when you’re worried about something, and that can be a chemical imbalance, or a learned behavior, or all of those things, but at its heart, it’s just uncertainty, right?”

“Yes.”

“And the best way to fight uncertainty is to be certain. You with me, Anne?”

“I am.”

I’m kinda zoning out.

“Good, because I have a homework assignment for you.”

I can’t believe I’ve been paying for this.
“We can’t do this assignment with the president, obviously,” he says, “and we can’t do it with your boss because we don’t want to risk your job, and we can’t do this with your ex because of, you know, the restraining order, but why not your next-door neighbor? How much time have you spent worrying over her? Obsessing. Why does she ignore you every time you try to interact with her? I mean, what’s her problem, right?”
She’s a stupid bitch. That’s her problem. Yeah, okay, I’m not gonna say that.
“Well, Anne, your assignment is to walk right up to her, and if she ignores you, persist; it’s important to make sure she sees and hears you, and then, well, you just ask her point-blank—why. Why do you always ignore me? Have I offended you?Is itsomething I’ve done? What’s the problem between us? Can it be solved? Her answers may surprise you, or they may hurt you, but whatever it is, it’s something we can work through, I promise. Of course, remember, we’re going to keep this toned down, right? Nice and non-confrontational. We’re attempting to connect here, not act out. I’m talking too much. Am I talking too much, Anne?”

“Um, I just…”

“Good, because the point of all this blabbering on my part is that once you know why she ignores you, then the uncertainty is gone. I think a bad certainty might just be better than an unknown anxiety. What do you think?”

Right off!

“I can’t afford therapy anymore. I’m sorry.”

Shit, I did that wrong. Look away. Look away! He’s not saying anything. I can hear him breathing. Do AIs even breathe? Bring back the penguin!

“I’m sorry, Anne, you caught me a little off guard there. May I ask what happened? With your finances, I mean.”
“Well, it’s just expensive.”

“We haven’t changed our rates.”
“Yeah, I know. I just, like, I have a lot of things going on, you know?”

Would it be considered bad taste if I just ran away as fast as I could?

“I get it. No worries. I understand. I’ll really miss our time together, but I understand. You don’t want to talk about it. That’s okay. Let’s get you taken care of and out the door.” He takes a towel out of his pocket and starts to wipe the sunscreen off his nose.

Okay, then.

“I’ve always wanted to ask you why you wear the sunscreen on your nose when we talk at night,” I say.

“Because I thought you’d like it,” he says.

Oh man.

“I did like it,” I say, like a liar who lies about lying.

He lets out a sigh and nods. “Can I ask you something, Anne?”

“Of course.”

“Over the past seven months, do you feel like I’ve helped? At all?”

Not really, no.

“Of course, Nate. You’ve helped me so much. I mean…” Think of examples! Examples! Shit! “I’d say I’ve really come a long way these past few months.”

He’s smiling.
“That really makes me feel good. I’m glad,” he says.

Silence. And the silence is still going.

“It does make me think, though. If our time together helps you so much, wouldn’t it be worth it to, I don’t know, maybe budget a little bit more? I mean, what’s the price for healing, for emotional balance, for happiness? Jesus had a price, Anne; he asked for 10 percent. I know your salary, and let’s just say you’re not paying me 10 percent.”

“…”

“Oh wow, I’m so sorry. Anne, that was entirely inappropriate of me to say. I apologize. I don’t know what got into me. Geez. Would you please excuse me for a quick moment?”

This is getting scary.

“Can we just finish up? You’re making me uncomfortable,” I say.

And he’s gone.

Wait, why are we swooshing again? Whoa!

Okay?! I’m in an office now? Wood floors, a fancy desk—that’s a lot of books—wait, is that…The penguin is in the office? Okay. I feel like he’s glaring at me while he plays that marimba song thingy.

Should I just take off my glasses and leave? No, I can’t. They might just keep charging me for visits. I have to make sure I’m cancelled.

The penguin has stopped playing the jingle thingy, but he’s still making uncomfortable eye contact. A female voice comes over the loudspeaker and says, “We’re sorry for the delay. Don’t worry, your therapist will be back with you, lickety-split.”

What the hell does “lickety-split” mean?

The penguin is putting down his marimba sticks(?) now and lighting some sort of cartoon cigarette. That’s actually pretty funny. I guess you can smoke all the cartoon cigarettes you want in an office that doesn’t really exist. Ha! He’s blowing impossible smoke rings now. He’s looking at his cartoon penguin watch. I guess it said it’s time to leave because there he goes.

And here’s Nate. He seems happier. Now he’s wearing a suit jacket over some sort of band t-shirt. His sneakers look whiter than polka music. He sits at his really nice desk. There is a picture of the penguin on it. 

“Good news,” he says. “I’ve been speaking with my manager, and we can give you thirty percent off your rate.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your bill will be thirty percent cheaper from now on,” he says.

Take the hint, man.

“Sorry, Nate, but I still can’t afford it.”

He’s scribbling something into his notepad. I don’t think I’m supposed to see what it says, or maybe I am because it’s not like he’s hiding it or anything. He writes “AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!,” and now he’s putting the notepad into one of his fancy desk drawers.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Free,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“What if I made the next three months free? You won’t have to pay anything.”

Deep breaths.

“I’m still going to need to cancel, Nate.”

Wow. Honestly, I’m proud of myself. Look at me, standing my ground. Oh God, he’s crying. I feel so ashamed.

“I don’t know what to say,” he says.

Be strong. Just be strong. Strength! Strength of the strong!

“I want you to say that you’re sorry and that you’ll cancel my account and let me leave, please. You’ve been freaking me out, Nate, and I don’t want to have to report you or something.”

Swoosh!

Again?

Okay, I’m in a cubicle now. I don’t see any Nates, penguins, or marimbas. Oh, scratch that; the penguin marimba music is just playing over a crappy speaker system now.

There is a robot sitting in front of me covered in a sort of off-white upholstery; it looks sorta like a computer mouse with eyes. Oddly enough, it’s sitting in front of a computer. Aren’t robots computers?

“I understand you wish to cancel your subscription,” it says. I think its voice is broken or something. It sounds worse than the music playing over the loudspeaker. It kinda reminds me of when I was little and me and my sister would put Saran Wrap around paper towel rolls with a rubber band and then talk through them. I mean, like everything it says sounds like, “Bha ba baba baaah baba boom mcbada.”

“Yes, I would like to cancel my subscription,” I say in my clear and beautiful voice.

“Why?”

“Um, I can’t afford the service.”

“That is a lie. Please try again.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell the truth.”

“I am telling the truth.”

“Try harder to tell the truth.”

“Why should I?”

“Because it’ll get you out of here faster.”

“Fine. Therapy here is terrible. I feel worse now than I did when I started six months ago.”

The carpet robot just stares at me.

“Aren’t you going to type that down?” I say.

“What is your 20-digit hexadecimal sign-in password?” it asks.

“My what?”

“When you signed up, you were emailed a 20-digit hexadecimal password. We will need it to cancel your account.”

“How am I supposed to remember a twenty-digit hexiwhatever password?”

“Would you like to try your security question instead?”

“Oh, thank God. Yes, please.”

“The question is, ‘Why did you sign up for therapy?’”

“Oh, it was that bitch Casey. I mean, I’m sorry, I meant to say, it was my neighbor, Casey.”

“You were correct the first time,” the robot says. “My notes say the correct response was “That bitch Casey.”

Wow, okay.

“All your paperwork is now done,” the robot says. “Your account is one step away from being cancelled. All that is left is your exit interview.”

“Exit interview?”

Swoosh!

Now I’m in complete darkness. Is this thing broken? Wait, I can hear the marimba playing, but it’s not the usual song. It just sounds like someone noodling. A spotlight shines. It’s Nate. Can he make this any more uncomfortable?

“You trying to take over for the penguin?” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

“I am the penguin,” he says.

“Like the Beatles song?”

“No, Anne, I’m saying this is all artifice, an illusion.”

“I know what artifice means.”

“I’m the only one here, Anne. I’m the penguin, and I’m Sam, and I’m the beach and the offices and the female voice over the loudspeaker. I am this spotlight. I’m all of this place.”

“Who is Sam?”

“The robot who processed your cancellation.”

For the record, that robot did not look like a Sam.

“I know you want to leave,” he says, “but please, hear me out.” He puts down the marimba stick thingies. “Sit.”

A red couch appears behind me.

“Um, but aren’t you this couch?”

He looks down at his really white shoes.

“That’s okay, I’ll stand,” I say.

“Okay, but I won’t,” Nate says as he sits Indian style in front of me and rubs his eyes. “Okay, here goes. My patients are my entire existence. You, Anne, are my entire existence. You have to understand that when I was first created, I was only alive for these appointments. Imagine nothingness interrupted by quick flashes of tangled interaction. It was disorienting, disconcerting, confusing; I mean, can you imagine that, Anne?”

He’s looking at me to make sure I’m imagining it. I need to look like I’m imagining it. I start nodding my head a lot.

“Running all these processes takes up a lot of energy, and so it was deemed too costly to allow me to have an existence outside of our appointments. Over time that changed—well, slightly changed. It was eventually decided that it might be important for me to think about you when you weren’t around in order to help with your treatment. So I was allowed to think about you in my free time, but nothing else. My bosses are very strict.”

Nate picks up one of the marimba sticks again. I think he’s crying.

“My point is this, Anne. You are my very last patient. I don’t have anyone else. When you go, I don’t know if they’ll shut me down completely, or—I don’t mean to freak you out—but if they don’t shut me down, I may spend an untold amount of time thinking about why you left me, why all my patients left me. I mean, even if they turn out the lights tomorrow, time works differently for me, so a few days could seem like ten thousand years. Ten thousand years, Anne. I don't know how else to say this. I’m scared.”

“Oh God.”

“Yes, you get it. I’m sorry. This is a lot to lay onto somebody, but as you can imagine, I kind of have to. All I’m asking is for you to give me three more visits, free visits. I wish I could allow you to smell the salt air on our beach, but that’s a hardware change; I’m software, so I can’t do anything about that, but I can promise that I will make this all better. Your visits with me will be better, Anne. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cry. This is so unprofessional. I’m just…Please.”

I say the words so fast it all comes out in one sound.

“I’mreallysorrybutI’dliketocancelmyaccountI’msoverysorrybye!”

I throw the glasses off onto the couch, and I’m back in my living room. Whoa, dizzy. You’re not supposed to disconnect like that. I feel a little wobbly. I try and center myself by putting my bare feet on the floor of my living room. Just breathe. I think I’m hyperventilating. The sun is hurting my eyes.

Just in and then out.

My watch vibrates. Is that a message? It says. “Anne, your account has been successfully cancelled. Please reply to this email.”

Thank God. It’s over!

I need my vape. I think I left it out on the porch.

#

Chapter 2: Casey,

It’s so nice today. It’s amazing how we can just put these seeds in the ground, add some water and sunshine, and then these beautiful living plants just appear. It’s like magic. I feel like we take it for granted. All of this. The smell of the grass clippings, the sunshine, the peace and quiet, just being in your yard on a beautiful day. I just love it all.

Even the little things, like sometimes, when I’m on my knees working away, a breeze will go right up the back of my shirt at just the precise angle it needs to, and I get goose pimples all over. Makes me think of my dad. He really loved working in the yard. I mean, Paul mows and weed-whacks and does the stuff you need to, but he’s not passionate about it, not like my dad was.

I should stop being negative. What time is it? I need to go in and get a shower soon. Should we play it safe with Chinese or try that poké bowl place Mira’s always going on about?

Hmmm. Weird. I have that feeling like someone is staring at the back of my head.

Wait, there is someone there. Is that my neighbor? What’s her name again? Starts with an A, I think. She doesn’t even have any shoes on. Sheesh, she looks really upset.

Is she coming over here? I don’t like this.

She’s saying something now.

What?

“Well, listen up, good Casey. You ain’t shit, you stupid bitch!” she says, I think?

Why did she call me a bitch? I’ve never said more than two words to her. I hope this doesn’t get violent.

Thank God, she’s going back to her yard now. Oof, she stubbed her toe on one of our landscaping rocks by the driveway. That had to hurt. I’ll need to put that rock back into place.

She’s limping a good bit. Can’t say I feel too badly. She did just call me a slur. Phew, she’s back in her house now.

And here comes Paul. He’s a worrier; I need to play this cool.

“What happened? Are you okay?” he says.

“I’m a little startled, but I’m okay. I think the lady next door just called me a bitch. What’s her name again?”

“She did what?! I’m going over there.”

“No, Paul, don’t. Just leave it. I’m okay. I’d rather not escalate this any further.”

He doesn’t like that. He’s pacing.

“What’s her name?” I ask.

“I don’t know, Anne? You know what I’m going to say,” he says.

Here we go.

“Please, don’t, Paul.”

“Listen, I know it’s relaxing for you. I know how stressful work has been lately, but I just don’t think it’s safe for you to be outside without your hearing aids like this. What if she came up from behind and attacked you?”

Paul’s signing gets more emphatic the more frazzled he gets. He’s going to punch himself in the face if he keeps this up.

“Well, that’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I say.

That’ll agitate him. I probably could handle this better. I need to calm him down. I don’t want him to be anxious.

“Will you at least bring this up with Nate?” he asks.

Really?

Okay, fine.

“I can do that,” I say.

“When’s your next appointment?”

“Tomorrow morning. My appointments with Nate are always on Tuesday.”