Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [12]
Tommy skirts the cypress tree now, the mower slowly eating into the bark of the thick exposed roots—could anything test Allison’s patience more?—then he stops abruptly. Dropping the handle, he walks to the middle of the lawn. He looks at the ground and then right up at my windows. He waves. Not his usual burst of pleasure, but an almost regal motion. I raise my hand to wave back, when I realize his face is almost expressionless and his body appears to be shifting in the breeze. How can I say this? It’s not that he’s swaying from the hips or dancing to something on ear buds. It’s more like his whole image is rippling.
Then I get it.
I get the whole damn thing.
Allison is running the Living machine.
All this time I’ve been looking at a virtual man, a false father.
I sprint down to Allison’s bedroom.
She signed us up for Living a few years ago. For the cost of a movie download—equipment sold separately—we are able to invite movie stars, athletes, or even despots, famous dead despots if we want them, and a variety of Glads into our home for a bit of genuine living. That’s how the Living machine started, as a safe way to train against some of the world’s best Glads. And it’s definitely a recruitment tool: “Not every young boy has an arena, but if he has a backyard and the Living machine, he can learn the moves.”
Living is virtual reality without goggles. Caesar’s Inc. was in on the launch and has large holdings in the company that produces the equipment as well as the media that the machinery runs. Soon they realized they could add a roster of celebrities. The historical and artistic figures followed.
When Allison lost her fourth husband, Truman, there was a sizable pension, since he had been willing to fight hyenas. Most Glads prefer not to. Allison has never been one to hold on to money. The remarkably expensive equipment arrived in three large boxes with ample warning labels about the use of lasers and what they can do to wall insulation and the cerebral cortex if used improperly.
It took days to put it together and we had a couple of falling-outs over the directions. But once we had it up and running we were able to have dinner with an early Scarlett Johansson, or a projection of Scarlett or a distillation of Scar—we called her Scar—that was very lifelike. I got up from my chair and went over to where Scar was poised, her fork and knife about to dive into her new potatoes. I touched her lips and though they were without real substance, there was a distinct feeling of moisture on my fingertips. She pushed my hand away, or the equipment pushed my hand away, or something in my psyche pushed it away. It’s a powerful piece of equipment, though sometimes I wonder if Allison has the settings right.
Scar said, —I’m still eating.
That was kind of spooky.
We played Foosball with John Lennon, watched Oliver Stone’s Iraq with Condoleezza Rice, and painted Christmas gifts with Van Gogh in English translation: placemats, small wooden boxes, and découpage wall plaques.
When it was my turn, I asked for Einstein because I wanted to get a better handle on time. It wasn’t about a school assignment and I wasn’t, as Allison claimed, trying to be lofty. I had begun to feel that time would always move at an unwanted pace—too fast in good moments, too slow when Allison is in despair. But when I started to press to get Einstein, Allison discovered that her sixth husband, Diesel, had been added to the Living catalog. She moved the bulky equipment into her bedroom and only turned it on late at night when she imagined I was sleeping.
Now I throw open her bedroom door and find her at the window, the Living machine going full blast. She turns as I fly into the room.
—What are you doing? I ask.
—Shh, she says, pointing to Thad.
He’s fast asleep, bathed in anime colors streaming from the silenced TV. Thad loves anime. Allison pulls me out into the hallway.
—Where’s Tommy? I ask.
—He’s already left for the stadium.
—Don